Bunting began moving about the room restlessly.He would go to the window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past;then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down.
But he could not stay long quiet.After a glance at his paper, up he would rise from his chair, and go to the window again.
"I wish you'd stay still," his wife said at last.And then, a few minutes later, "Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and go out?" she exclaimed.
And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat and coat and go out.
As he did so be told himself that, after all, he was but human; it was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, extraordinary thing which had just happened close by.Ellen wasn't reasonable about such things.How queer and disagreeable she had been that very morning - angry with him because he had gone out to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her to hear about it!
Meanwhile, Mrs.Bunting forced herself to go down again into the kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her.She turned and did what she had never in her life done before, and what she had never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen.She bolted the door.
But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread.She felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns.
Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days?
Daisy, at any rate, was company - kind, young, unsuspecting company.
With Daisy she could be her old sharp self.It was such a comfort to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say nothing.When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame.She was the man's wedded wife - in his stolid way he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something he certainly had a right to know.
Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful suspicion - nay, of her almost certainty.
At last she went across to the door and unlocked it.Then she went upstairs and turned out her bedroom.That made her feel a little better.
She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved by his absence.She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house.
And as Mrs.Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what was going on upstairs.
What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only natural.Mr.Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last night, or rather this morning.
******
Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang.But Mr.Sleuth's landlady did not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined.Instead, she went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food.
Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and just outside the sitting-room - for she felt sure that Mr.Sleuth had got up, that he was there already, waiting for her - she rested the tray on the top of the banisters and listened.For a few moments she heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice with which she had become so familiar:
"'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.But he knoweth not that the dead are there, and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'"There was a long pause.Mrs.Bunting could hear the leaves of her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr.
Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer voice:
"'She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men have been slain by her.'" And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone came the words: "'I applied my heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.'"And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of spiritual oppression, came over Mrs.Bunting.For the first time in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and strangeness, of human life.
Poor Mr.Sleuth - poor unhappy, distraught Mr.Sleuth! An overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the loathing, she had been feeling for her lodger.
She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray.
"Come in, Mrs.Bunting." Mr.Sleuth's voice sounded feebler, more toneless than usual.
She turned the handle of the door and walked in.The lodger was not sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round table on which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of his bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window.On it were placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance.But as his landlady came in, Mr.Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and began staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying crowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road.
"There seem a great many people out today," he observed, without looking round.
"Yes, sir, there do."
Mrs.Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and putting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized with a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there.
At last Mr.Sleuth got up and turned round.She forced herself to look at him.How tired, how worn, he looked, and - how strange!
Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands together with a nervous gesture - it was a gesture he only made when something had pleased, nay, satisfied him.Mrs.Bunting, looking at him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he had first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained a large gas-stove and a convenient sink.
