Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck,
and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that.

As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first
time, what the lodger's departure would mean. It would almost
certainly mean ruin; just as his staying meant all sorts of good
things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth
stayed on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, it
meant respectability, and, above all, security.

Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He never received a
letter, and yet he must have some kind of income--so much was
clear. She supposed he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out
of a bank as he required it.

Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr.
Sleuth.

The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that
there would come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel
satiated; when he would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged.

To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so
pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady
--indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish
to leave such nice lodgings.

******

Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook
off her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the
handle of the door giving into the passage she turned it, and then,
with light, firm steps, she went down into the kitchen.

When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by
her care, if not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very
clean place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still
white walls the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron
and bright steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one
pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in
the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement.
Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that
kind of business. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for
what she consumed after she had consumed it.

Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she
turned up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle.

Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the
stove, and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself,
to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting
gentleman