ll my cords are broken . . .
There is none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my
curtains."

At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and
as she opened the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her
stepmother.

"I'll go down and start getting the lodger's supper ready for you,"
said the girl good-naturedly. "He's certain to come in when he gets
hungry. But he did look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad--
that he did!"

Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy
to go down.

"Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she said sombrely, and
then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which
came over her husband's face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief,
of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add,
"That's to say, I don't suppose he will."

And Bunting's face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look,
the look it had worn the last few days, returned.

"What makes you think he mayn't come back?" he muttered.

"Too long to tell you now," she said. "Wait till the child's gone
to bed."

And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity.

And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where
she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her
husband to follow her upstairs.

Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the
door. And about this they had a few sharp whispered words.

"You're never going to shut him out?" she expostulated angrily,
beneath her breath.

"I'm not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps
walking in any minute."

"Mr. Sleuth won't hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt
me," and she gave a half sob.

Bunting stared at her. "What do you mean?" he said roughly.
"Come upstairs and tell me what you mean."

And then, in what had been the lodger's sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting
told her husband exactly what it was that had happened.

He listened in heavy silence.

"So you see," she said at last, "you see, Bunting, that 'twas me
that was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for
his actions. I never thought he was, for my part."

And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. "Depends on what you call
responsible--" he began argumentatively.

But she would have none of that. "I heard the gentleman say myself
that he was a lunatic," she said fiercely. And then, dropping her
voice, "A religious maniac--that's what h