Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a good thing.
When Daisy wasn’t there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. After all, he was a detective—it was his job to be always nosing about, trying to find out things. And, though she couldn’t fairly say to herself that he had done much of that sort of thing in her house, he might start doing it any minute. And then—then—where would she, and—and Mr. Sleuth, be?
She thought of the bottle of red ink—of the leather bag which must be hidden somewhere—and her heart almost stopped beating. Those were the sort of things which, in the stories Bunting was so fond of reading, always led to the detection of famous criminals. . . .
Mr. Sleuth’s bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it later than it was.
When she went up, “I would like a cup of tea now, and just one piece of bread-and-butter,” the lodger said wearily. “I don’t feel like having anything else this afternoon.”
“It’s a horrible day,” Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice than usual. “No wonder you don’t feel hungry, sir. And then it isn’t so very long since you had your dinner, is it?”
“No,” he said absently. “No, it isn’t, Mrs. Bunting.”
She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay.
Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to put on.
“You’re never going out this afternoon, sir?” she asked falteringly. “Why, the fog’s awful; you can’t see a yard ahead of you!”