“Gone?” And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly laugh. “Gone, Bunting?” she repeated. “Why, he’s out o’ sight—right, out of sight!”
Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:—“I suppose he’ll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or—or d’you think he’ll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?”
“Inquest? What inquest?” He looked at her puzzled.
“Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King’s Cross.”
“Oh, no; he’d have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o’ that, I know he’s going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night—just when you went up to the lodger.”
“That’s just as well.” Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable satisfaction. “Otherwise I suppose you’d ha’ had to go. I wouldn’t like the house left—not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be upset if there came a ring at the door.”
“Oh, I won’t leave the house, don’t you be afraid, Ellen—not while you’re out.”
“Not even if I’m out a good while, Bunting.”
“No fear. Of course, you’ll be a long time if it’s your idea to see that doctor at Ealing?”
He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow nodding didn’t seem as bad as speaking a lie.