LITMIR.BIZ

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by, it’s just upset me—upset me altogether today.”

      “Enough to upset anyone—that was,” acknowledged the young man ruefully. “I’ve only come in for a minute, like. I haven’t no right to come when I’m on duty like this—”

      Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were still on the table.

      “You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup,” said Bunting hospitably; “and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We’re right in the middle of everything now, ain’t we?” He spoke with evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact.

      Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He waited a moment, and then: “Well I have got one piece of news—not that I suppose it’ll interest you very much.”

      They both looked at him—Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her breast still heaved from time to time.

      “Our Boss has resigned!” said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively.

      “No! Not the Commissioner o’ Police?” exclaimed Bunting.

      “Yes, he has. He just can’t bear what’s said about us any longer —and I don’t wonder! He done his best, and so’s we all. The public have just gone daft—in the West End, that is, today. As for the papers, well, they’re something cruel—that’s what they are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You’d never believe the things they asks us to do—and quite serious-like.”

      “What d’you mean?” questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to know.

      “Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-house investigation—all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to let the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, just to see if The Avenger isn’t concealed there. Dotty, I calls it! Why, ’twould take us months and months just to do that one job in a town like London.”

      “I’d like to see them dare come into my house!” said Mrs. Bunting angrily.

      “It’s all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to work a different way this time,” said Chandler slowly.

      Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was eagerly listening. “How d’you mean?” he asked. “I don’t take your meaning, Joe.”

      “Well, you see, it’s this way. The newspapers was always saying how extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar time to do his deeds—I mean, the time when no one’s about the streets. Now, doesn’t it stand to reason that the fellow, reading all that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, ‘I’ll go on another tack this time’? Just listen to this!” He pulled a strip of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket:

      “‘AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE AVENGER

      “‘Will the murderer be caught? Yes,’ replied Sir John, ‘he will certainly be caught—probably when he commits his next crime. A whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community against him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered that he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes.

      “‘Londoners are now in such a state of nerves—if I may use the expression, in such a state of funk—that every passer-by, however innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and three in the morning.’

      “I’d like to gag that exLord Mayor!” concluded Joe Chandler wrathfully.

      Just then the lodger’s bell rang.

      “Let me go up, my dear,” said Bunting.

      His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had.

      “No, no,” she said hastily. “You stop down here, and talk to Joe. I’ll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a bit earlier than usual today.”

      Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, and then went in.

      “You did ring, sir?” she said, in her quiet, respectful way.

      And Mr. Sleuth looked up.

      She thought—but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have been just her idea, and nothing else—that for the first time the lodger looked frightened—frightened and cowed.

      “I heard a noise downstairs,” he said fretfully, “and I wanted to know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me.”

      “It was just a friend of ours, sir. I’m sorry you were disturbed. Would you like the knocker taken off tomorrow? Bunting’ll be pleased to do it if you don’t like to hear the sound of the knocks.”

      “Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you to such trouble as that.” Mr. Sleuth looked quite relieved. “Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. Bunting? He made a great deal of noise.”

      “Just a young fellow,” she said apologetically. “The son of one of Bunting’s old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did give such a great big double knock as that before. I’ll speak to him about it.”

      “Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of the kind. It was just a passing annoyance—nothing more!”

      She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of the hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam every hour or two throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at his reading.

      “I thought maybe you’d like to have supper a little earlier to-night, sir?”

      “Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting—just when it’s convenient. I do not wish to put you out in any way.”

      She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door.

      As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed —Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow.

      Chapter 17

       Table of Contents

      Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came to her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow.

      Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought her, she got up and dressed.

      She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase required a thorough “doing down,” and she did not even wait till they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading his morning paper—the paper which was again of such absorbing interest—he called out, “There’s no need for so much hurry, Ellen. Daisy’ll be back today. Why don’t you wait till she’s come home to help you?”

      But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, his wife’s voice came back: “Girls ain’t no good at this sort of work. Don’t you worry about me. I feel as if I’d enjoy doing an extra bit of cleaning today. I don’t like to feel as anyone could come in and see my place dirty.”

      “No fear of that!” Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck him. “Ain’t you afraid of waking the lodger?” he called out.

      “Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night,” she answered quickly. “As it is, I study him over-much; it’s a long, long time since I’ve done this staircase down.”

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