oing out--no, that it didn't. She wasn't
a bit afraid. But--" he turned round and looked at his wife--
"I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a
timid kind of gentleman--"

He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him.

"I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a low voice, "but
he is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes going out when
there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don't
suppose he'll be out long."

She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon
--that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom.

Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She
got up, and went over to the farthest window.

The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on
the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and
shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards
the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops.

At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to
the cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one
out.

"I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I've
looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit,
but now there's nothing in 'em."

His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days
had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had
very little to say about them that they hadn't said in different
language a dozen times before.

She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing.

Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so
engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not
had much time for that sort of work.

It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or--or
the lodger, in it.

At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric
slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr.
Sleuth's return home.

And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful
wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she
knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any
kind of--well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he
had lived during the last few weeks.

No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way
as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know,
until, perhaps--God, what a horrible thought--a pic