And she obeyed him. “Where’s Daisy?” she asked suddenly. “I thought the girl would be back by the time I got home.”
“She ain’t coming home to-day”—there was an odd, sly, smiling look on Bunting’s face.
“Did she send a telegram?” asked Mrs. Bunting.
“No. Young Chandler’s just come in and told me. He’s been over there and,—would you believe it, Ellen?—he’s managed to make friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain’t it? He went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this evening—she and Daisy—to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o’ such a thing?”
“Very nice for them, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bunting absently. But she was pleased—pleased to have her mind taken off herself. “Then when is that girl coming home?” she asked patiently.
“Well, it appears that Chandler’s got to-morrow morning off too—this evening and to-morrow morning. He’ll be on duty all night, but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early dinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?”
“Yes. That’ll be all right,” she said. “I don’t grudge the girl her bit of pleasure. One’s only young once. By the way, did the lodger ring while I was out?”
Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to see the kettle boil. “No,” he said. “Come to think of it, it’s rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened while you was out, Ellen.”
“Something else happened?” she said in a startled voice. Getting up from her chair she came towards her husband: “What happened? Who came?”
“Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a young lady’s birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter—one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing—fell out just at the last minute and so they had to send for me.”