“Oh, yes, that’s all right.” But still he looked at her doubtfully. “I asked him if he’d like me to just put away his clothes. But, Ellen, he said he hadn’t got any clothes!”
“No more he hasn’t;” she spoke quickly, defensively. “He had the misfortune to lose his luggage. He’s one dishonest folk ’ud take advantage of.”
“Yes, one can see that with half an eye,” Bunting agreed.
And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting put down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband to go out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with a sovereign. “Be as quick as you can,” she said, “for I feel a bit hungry. I’ll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth’s supper. He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I’m glad I’ve never fallen to bad eggs!”
“Sleuth,” echoed Bunting, staring at her. “What a queer name! How d’you spell it—S-l-u-t-h?”
“No,” she shot out, “S-l-e—u—t—h.”
“Oh,” he said doubtfully.
“He said, ‘Think of a hound and you’ll never forget my name,’” and Mrs. Bunting smiled.
When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: “We’ll now be able to pay young Chandler back some o’ that thirty shillings. I am glad.” She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words.
And then each went about his and her business—Bunting out into the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen.