Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it.
There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a great effort to appear unconcerned.
“And where did it happen?” he asked. “Close to the other one?”
She hesitated, then: “I don’t know. He didn’t say. But hush!” she added quickly. “Here’s Daisy! Don’t let’s talk of that horror in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I’d be mum.”
And he acquiesced.
“You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away the lodger’s breakfast.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried upstairs.
Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. “I don’t feel well to-day,” he said fretfully. “And, Mrs. Bunting? I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, but I should like to do so now.”
She flew downstairs. “Bunting,” she said a little breathlessly, “the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun.”
Bunting handed it over to her. “I’ve read it through,” he observed. “You can tell him that I don’t want it back again.”
On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in rather large characters: