Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang again.
Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at once. But when there came the second imperative tinkle—for electric bells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned house—she made up her mind to go upstairs.
As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wife stepping heavily under the load of the well-laden tray.
“Wait a minute!” he called out. “I’ll help you, Ellen,” and he came out and took the tray from her.
She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room floor landing.
There she stopped him. “Here,” she whispered quickly, “you give me that, Bunting. The lodger won’t like your going in to him.” And then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she added in a rather acid tone, “You might open the door for me, at any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on my hands?”
She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised—rather put out. Ellen wasn’t exactly what you’d call a lively, jolly woman, but when things were going well—as now—she was generally equable enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder.
However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked into the room.
And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, of lightness of heart.
As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible.