e the sensation of knowing that there was only
one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly
slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going
out.

In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above
all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his
acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that
they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his
mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the
knowledge--no, not knowledge, rather the--the suspicion--that
dwelt within him.

But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing
for human companionship--companionship, that is, other than that
of his wife and of his daughter.

This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small,
populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more
people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the
neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The
ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generally
bought his tobacco.

Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two
fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief and surprise
the man made no allusion to the subject of which all the
neighbourhood must still be talking.

And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and
before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand,
Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that
Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shop
just opposite.

Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across
the road.

"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and left my little
girl alone in the house with the lodger?"

Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I thought you was
indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come out
for, without first making sure I'd stay in?"

Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in
exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew.

They turned and scurried down the crowded street. "Don't run," he
said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast.
People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run."

He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear
and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking.

At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed