And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth’s face. “Doctors are a maligned body of men,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you speak well of them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable to err, but I assure you they do their best.”
“That I’m sure they do, sir”—she spoke heartily, sincerely. Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously.
And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger’s one hot dish upon it, she went towards the door. “Wouldn’t you like me to bring up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it’s bitterly cold—getting colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in—” she looked at him deprecatingly.
And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full height.
“What d’you mean?” he stammered. “Why did you say that, Mrs. Bunting?”
She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an awful questioning look over his face.
“I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He’s got a job to-night. He’s going to act as waiter at a young lady’s birthday party. I was thinking it’s a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, too”—she brought out her words jerkily.
Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. “Ah!” he said. “Dear me—I’m sorry to hear that! I hope your husband will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting.”
And then she shut the door, and went downstairs.
Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire.