ave--you have!" he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone.
"But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing
what I wish to do--indeed, what I have to do. For years I have
been misunderstood--persecuted"--he waited a moment, then in
a hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not tell me that
you are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs.
Bunting?"

She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid I'll ever be
that, sir. I only spoke as I did because--well, sir, because I
thought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out this
afternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so near
Christmas."

He walked across to the window and looked out. "The fog is clearing
somewhat; Mrs. Bunting," but there was no relief in his voice, rather
was there disappointment and dread.

Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right.
The fog was lifting--rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in
which local fogs sometimes do lift in London.

He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversation has made me
forget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you
would just leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for
me this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for
after my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through
a very difficult experiment."

"Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger.

But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it
had drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing
Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing
--a thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. She
pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass let
into the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" she
moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"

But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming
intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery
never occurred to Mrs. Bunting.

In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that
a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The
timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human
being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not
revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost
be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betray