notice how disappointed they both
were when you was so set on going along with them to that horrid
place."

"D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked upset. "I understood
Joe to say he liked my company."

"Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect he liked it just
about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go
out with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how
the woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her."

"But I'm Daisy's father; and an old friend of Chandler," said Bunting
remonstratingly. "I'm quite different from that cook. She was
nothing to us, and we was nothing to her."

"She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt," observed
his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little
foolishly.

By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and
a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs.
Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit.
The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and
she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very
unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You might
just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, only
that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. "No, that I won't!
He's a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes,
and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even your
father's hardly seen him."

But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr.
Sleuth.

There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her
stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence young
Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken
to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to
her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe
Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be human nature
--at any rate, not girlish human nature--not to do so, even if
Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret.

Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings,
would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a
good thing.

When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs.
Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. After all, he was a
detective--it was his job to be always nosing about, trying to
find out things. And, though she couldn't fairly say to herself
that he had do