"Ah! So it's you, Mr.Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and I hurried on.I wish I'd known that it was you; there are so many queer characters about at night in London.""Not on a night like this, sir.Only honest folk who have business out of doors would be out such a night as this.It is cold, sir!"And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there suddenly crept the query as to what on earth Mr.Sleuth's own business out could be on this bitter night.
"Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words came out sharp and quick through his thin lips."I can't say that I find it cold, Mr.Bunting.When the snow falls, the air always becomes milder.""Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind.Why, it freezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, there's nothing like walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, sir."Bunting noticed that Mr.Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, on the wall side, to his landlord.
"I lost my way," he said abruptly."I've been over Primrose Hill to see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, and then, coming back, I lost my way.
Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the shabby, paved court in front of the house - that gate which now was never locked.
Mr.Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, stepping aside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front door for him.
As he passed by Mr.Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left hand brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth against which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet - wet and gluey.
Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other that he placed the key in the lock of the door.
The two men passed into the hail together.
The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful immediate danger.
A stuffless voice - the voice of his first wife, the long-dead girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays - uttered into his ear the words, "Take care!"And then the lodger spoke.His voice was harsh and grating, though not loud.
"I'm afraid, Mr.Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but Ibrushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill.""No, sir, no.I didn't notice nothing.I scarcely touched you, sir."It seemed as if a power outside himself compelled Bunting to utter these lying words."And now, sir, I'll be saying good-night to you,"he said.
Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that was in him against the wall, and let the other pass him.There was a pause, and then - "Good-night," returned Mr.Sleuth, in a hollow voice.
Bunting waited until the lodger had gone upstairs, and then, lighting the gas, he sat down there, in the hall.Mr.Sleuth's landlord felt very queer - queer and sick.
He did not draw his left hand out of his pocket till he heard Mr.
Sleuth shut the bedroom door upstairs.Then he held up his left hand and looked at it curiously; it was flecked, streaked with pale reddish blood.
Taking off his boots, he crept into the room where his wife lay asleep.Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and dipped a hand into the water-jug.
"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came a voice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily.
"I'm just washing my hands."
"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such a thing - putting your hand into the water in which I was going to wash my face to-morrow morning!""I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away.
You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?"She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs.Bunting lay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more uncomfortable than he was already.
At last he got into bed.He wanted to break the oppressive silence by telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if it had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside.
Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook the bed.
"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning in the hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly.
He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage.It was as she had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money - or, rather, Mr.Sleuth's good money.Since he had come to be their lodger they had not had to touch their rent money.
Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and so to bed.Without speaking again to each other, both husband and wife lay awake till dawn.
The next morning Mr.Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he felt curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes.
Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven o'clock.Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the blind a little to one side.It was snowing heavily, and, as is the way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, curiously still.After he had dressed he went out into the passage.
As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already lying on the mat.It was probably the sound of its being pushed through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful sleep.
He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper wide open on the table, and bent over it.
As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression of intense relief shone upon his stolid face.The item of news he had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet was not there.
