refully
furnished, and was very clean.

There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger's weary
feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which
matched in colour the flock-paper on the walls.

A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior
lodging-house keeper.

"You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir," she said gently. "And just
now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband
and me, sir."

Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too
good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a
lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which
recalled to the poor woman her happy, far-off days of youth and
of security.

"That sounds very suitable," he said. "Four rooms? Well, perhaps
I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see
all four before I make my choice."

How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the
gas! But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed
them by.

She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation
that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom
she already in her mind described as "the lodger," who turned and
rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry you should have
had the trouble."

For a moment their eyes met. "It's not safe to leave a front door
open in London," he said, rather sharply. "I hope you do not often
do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in."

Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken
courteously, but he was evidently very much put out.

"I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open," she answered
hastily. "You needn't be at all afraid of that!"

And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the
sound of Bunting coughing--it was just a little, hard cough, but
Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started violently.

"Who's that?" he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm.
"Whatever was that?"

"Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes
ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose."

"Your husband--?" he looked at her intently, suspiciously. "What
--what, may I ask, is your husband's occupation?"

Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's
occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do
for her to show offence. "He goes out