There was a pause—she knocked again.
“Come in,” said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and carried in the tray.
“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?” he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.
“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ve been out. Perhaps I lost count of the time. I thought you’d like your breakfast early, as you had dinner rather sooner than usual.”
“Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure! I meant supper.” He looked at her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes.
“Aren’t you well?” he said slowly. “You don’t look well, Mrs. Bunting.”
“No, sir,” she said. “I’m not well. I went over to see a doctor this afternoon, to Ealing, sir.”
“I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting”—the lodger’s voice had become softer, kinder in quality.
“It always does me good to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Bunting evasively.