ten during their dangerous
discussion.

As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl,
Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite
unnaturally cold even for the time of year.

She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed
by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that
stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going
to be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and
she didn't like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suit
her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here,
in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to
cheer her up after he had gone.

Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little
sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste,
at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little
ease, listening--listening. . . .

She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth's
supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so
as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so.

Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she
listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good
fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table!
But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was
moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his
wont at this time of the evening.

She knocked, and then waited a moment.

There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in
the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard--or so Mr. Sleuth's landlady
could have sworn.

There was a pause--she knocked again.

"Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and
carried in the tray.

"You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?"
he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.

"I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I lost count of
the time. I thought you'd like your breakfast early, as you had
dinner rather sooner than usual."

"Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." He looked at
her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible
questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes.

"Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look well, Mrs.
Bunting."

"No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went