 CHAPTER I COVERIN FRIEND HAS THOUGHT PUT FAR FROM ME AND MINE Acquaintance into Darkness. Psalm 88-18. Robert Bunting and Ellen, his wife, sat before their dolly-burning, carefully banked-up fire. The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid London thoroughfare, was exceptionally clean and well cared for. A casual stranger, more particularly one of a superior class to their own, on suddenly opening the door of that sitting-room, would have thought that Mr. and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant, cozy picture of comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep leather armchair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance what he had been for many years of his life, a self-respecting manservant. On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable, straight-back chair, the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same, in her neat black stuffed dress and in her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid. But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time, how long ago it now seemed, both husband and wife had been proud of their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. Thus, the red-damask curtains, which now shut out the fog-laden, drizzling atmosphere of the Mar-la-Bone Road, had cost a mere song, and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. A great bargain also had been the excellent axmenster carpet, which covered the floor, as again the armchair in which Bunting now sat forward staring into the dull small fire. In fact, that armchair had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve shillings and six pints for it. So for the present they were keeping their armchair. But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed, if now rather faded photographs, photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former employers and of the pretty country houses in which they had separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not unhappy servitude. But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than usually deceitful with regard to these unfortunate people. In spite of their good furniture, that substantial outward sign of respectability, which is the last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to dispose of, they were almost at the end of their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry and they were beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting, prim, prudent, careful woman as she was in her way, had realised what this must mean to him. So well indeed had she understood that some days back she had crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia. Bunting had been touched, touched as he had not been for years by any woman's thought and love for him. But his little tears had forced themselves into his eyes and husband and wife had both felt in their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart. Fortunately he never guessed, how could he have guessed with his slow, normal, rather dull mind, that his poor Ellen had since more than once bitterly regretted that four pence half-penny, for they were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell on the safe table-land of security, those that is who are sure of making a respectable, if not a happy living, and the submerged multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the conditions under which our strange civilization has become organised, struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital or prison. Had the Bunting's been in a class lower than their own, had they belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbors ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative folk whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving. There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived daisy, Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort with a cruel, sharp rebuff. As to their few acquaintances, former fellow servants and so on, they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone into service. He was attached to the police, in fact not to put too fine a point upon it. Young Chandler was a detective. When they had first taken the house, which had brought them, so they both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to. Quite exciting at times. But now poor Bunting didn't want to hear that sort of stories. Stories of people being cleverly nabbed, or stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from Chandler's point of view, richly deserved. So Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing his calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him, nay more he had done that which showed him to have a good and feeling heart. He had offered his father's old acquaintance alone, and Bunting at last had taken thirty shillings. Very little of that money now remained. Bunting still could jingle a few coppers in his pocket, and Mrs. Bunting had two shillings nine pence. That and the rent they would have to pay in five weeks was all they had left. Everything of the light, portable sort that would fetch money had been sold. Mrs. Bunting had a fierce horror of the pawn-shop. She had never put her feet in such a place, and she declared she never would. She would rather starve first. But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been given to him after the death of his first master. A master he had nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin and a large mourning ring, both gifts of former employers. When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure from the insecure, when they see themselves creeping closer and closer to its dread edge, they are apt, however loquacious by nature, to fall into long silences. Bunting had always been a talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but then she had always been a silent woman, and that was perhaps one reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment he had seen her. It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as butler, and he had been shown by the man whose place he was to take into the dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he had discovered Ellen Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port wine which her then mistress always drank at eleven-thirty every morning. And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he had watched her carefully stop her the decanter and put it back into the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, That is the woman for me. But now her stillness, her dumbness, had got on the unfortunate man's nerves. He no longer felt like going into the various little shops close by, patronized by him in more prosperous days, and Mrs. Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases which still had to be made every day or two if they were to be saved from actually starving to death. Suddenly across the stillness of the dark November evening there came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud shrill shouting outside, boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening papers. Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation, and the paper was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants or great readers of newspapers. As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind-hunger fall upon him. It was a shame, a damn shame, that he shouldn't know what was happening in the world outside. Only criminals were kept from hearing news of what is going on beyond their prison walls, and those shouts, those horse-sharp cries must portend that something really exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for the moment his own intimate gnawing troubles. He got up, and going towards the nearest window, strained his ears to listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused babble of horse-shouts, the one clear word, murder. Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud and distinct cries into some sort of connected order. Yes, that was it. Horrible murder. Murder at St. Pancras. Bunting remembered vaguely another murder which had been committed near St. Pancras, that of an old lady by her servant made. It had happened a great many years ago, but was still vividly remembered as a special and natural interest among the class to which he had belonged. The news boys, for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual thing on the Merlebonne Road, were coming nearer and nearer. Now they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly the Avenger, the Avenger at his work again, broke on his ear. During the last fortnight, four very curious and brutal murders had been committed in London and within a comparatively small area. The first had aroused no special interest. Even the second had only been awarded, and the paper Bunting was still then taking in quite a small paragraph. Then had come the third, and with that a wave of keen excitement, for pinned to the dress of the victim, a drunken woman, had been found a three-cornered piece of paper on which was written in red ink and imprinted characters the words, the Avenger. It was then realized, not only by those whose business it is to investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world of men and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister mysteries, that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes, and before that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into the public mind, there took place yet another murder, and again the murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some obscure and terrible lust for vengeance possessed him. Now everyone was talking of the Avenger and his crimes, even the man who left their half-worth of milk at the door each morning had spoken to Bunting about them that very day. Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild excitement. Then seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him, he felt he could have shaken her. Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had come back to bed that morning and told her what the milkman had said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that she didn't like hearing about such horrid things. It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to the tales of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories of immorality or physical violence. In the old happy days, when they could afford to buy a paper, I, and more than one paper daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some exciting case or mystery, which was affording him pleasant mental relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen. But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she felt. Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards the door. When there he turned half round, and there came over his close shaven round face the rather sly, pleading look with which a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent. But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still. Her thin, narrow shoulders just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy. Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into the dark hall. They had given up lighting the gas there some time ago, and opened the front door. Walking down the small, flagged path outside, he flung open the iron gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunken number, and he remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, being sorely tempted, fell. Give me a sun, he said roughly, sun or echo. But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. Only penny papers left, he gasped. What do you have, sir? With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny out of his pocket and took a paper. It was the evening standard from the boy's hand. Then very slowly he shut the gate, and walked back through the raw, cold air up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful anticipation. Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass a happy hour, taken for once out of his anxious despondent miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments of respite from parking care would not be shared with his poor wife with care-worn, troubled Ellen. A hot wave of unease, almost every more, swept over Bunting. Ellen would never have spent that penny on herself. He knew that well enough, and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so drizzly, he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving, light blue eyes. That glance would tell him that he had no business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well he knew it. Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he heard a familiar voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, What on earth are you doing out there, Bunting? Come in, do. You'll catch your death of cold. I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else. Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays. He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. I went out to get a paper, he said sullenly. After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money as she had. For the matter of that the money on which they were now both living had been lent, nay pressed on him, not on Ellen, by that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. When he, Bunting, had done all he could, he had ponded everything he could pond, while Ellen, so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring. He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a very mild oath, Ellen had very early made it clear she would have no swearing in her presence. He lit the hog-ass full flair. How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card? He shouted angrily. And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the gas, the oblong card, though not the word apartments printed on it, could be plainly seen outlined against the old-fashioned fan-light above the front door. Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little-banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. A little color came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. She was not used to be flouted in this way, for Bunting, when not thoroughly upset, was the mildest of men. She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. But her hands trembled. They trembled with excitement, with self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful—dreadful to have to worry about a penny. But they had come to the point when one has to worry about pennies—strange that her husband didn't realize that. Bunting looked around once or twice. He would have liked to ask Ellen to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace and, perhaps by now, a little bit ashamed of himself. So he refrained from remark, and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, irritated her and made her long to get away from him. Opening the door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind and, shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting, sitting comfortably by the now brightly burning fire, with the evening standards spread out before him, she sat down in the cold darkness and pressed her hands against her temples. Never had she felt so hopeless, so broken as now. Where was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter degrading poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age, was gentle folk think proper and a married couple seeking to enter service together, unless that is, the wife happens to be a professed cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation, but Mrs. Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any lodgers she might get would require, but that was all. Lodgers, how foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers, for it had been her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands. Yet they had begun well with a lodging-house in a seaside place. There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still pretty well, and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever and that had meant ruin for them and for dozens, nay, hundreds of other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment which had proved even more disastrous and which had left them in debt, and debt to an extent they could never hoped to repay to a good-natured former employer. After that, instead of going back to service as they might have done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over with the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house and the Marilobone Road. In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered impersonal and above all financially easy existence which is the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately take upon themselves the oak of domestic service, they had both lived in houses overlooking Regent's Park. It had seemed a wise plan to settle in the same neighborhood, the more so that Bunting, who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private parties. But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Bunting's. Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress-clothes. He had not asked his wife's permission to do this, as so good a husband ought to have done. He had just gone out and done it. And she had not had the heart to say anything. Nay, it was with part of the money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that she had bought that last packet of tobacco. And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock. End of Chapter 1, Recording by Leanne Howlett. CHAPTER II Mrs. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment listening in the darkness. A darkness made the blacker by the line of light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock. Not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boated any good. Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident wraps. No, this must be some kind of beggar. The quearest people came at all hours and asked, whining or threatening, for money. Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and women, especially women, drawn from that nameless, mysterious class made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every great city. But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the passage unlit at night, she had been very little troubled with that kind of visitors, those human bats which are attracted by any kind of light, that leave alone those who live in darkness. She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting's place to go to the front door. But she knew far better than he did how to deal with difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she would have liked him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed in his newspaper. All he did at the sound of the bedroom door opening was to look up and say, didn't you hear a knock? Without answering his question she went out into the hall. Solely she opened the front door. On the top of the three steps which led up to the door there stood the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an invernous cape and an old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. Bunting's trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with whom her former employment had brought her in contact. Is it not a fact that you let lodgings, he asked, and there was something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating in his voice? Yes, sir, she said uncertainly. It was a long, long time since anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone that is that they could think of taking into their respectable house. Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger walked past her and so into the hall. And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag made of strong, brown leather. I am looking for some quiet rooms, he said. Then he repeated the words, quiet rooms, in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered them he looked nervously round him. Then his shallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully furnished and was very clean. There was a neat hat and umbrella stand, and the stranger's weary feet fell soft on a good, serviceable, dark red drug it, which matched in color the flock paper on the walls. A very superior lodging-house, this, and evidently a superior lodging-house keeper. You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir, she said gently, and just now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband and me, sir. Mrs. Bunting spoken a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too good to be true, the sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which recalled to the poor woman her happy far-off days of youth and of security. That sounds very suitable, he said. Four rooms? Well, perhaps I ought only to take two rooms, but still I should like to see all four before I make my choice. How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the gas. But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed them by. She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation that the front door was still open, and it was a stranger whom she already in her mind described as the lodger, who termed and rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it. Oh, thank you, sir, she exclaimed. I'm sorry you should have had the trouble. For a moment their eyes met. It's not safe to leave a front door open in London, he said rather sharply. I hope you do not often do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in. Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open, she answered hastily. You needn't be at all afraid of that. And then, through the closed door of the sitting room, came the sound of Bunting coughing. It was just a little hard cough, but Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started violently. Who's that, he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. Whatever was that? Only my husband, sir, he went out to buy a paper a few minutes ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose. Your husband? He looked at her intently, suspiciously. But what may I ask as your husband's occupation? Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do for her to show offence. He goes out waiting, she said stiffly. He was a gentleman's servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you should you require him to do so. And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting to herself called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a sitting-room in front and a bedroom behind. She opened the door of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier. This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green carpet simulating moss. Four chairs were placed round the table which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, old-fashioned chiffonere. On the dark green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits of early Victorian bells, clad in lace and Tarleton ball-dresses, clipped from an old book of beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these pictures. She thought they gave the drawing-room a note of elegance and refinement. As she hurriedly turned up the gas, she was glad, glad indeed, that she had summed up sufficient energy two days ago to give the room a thorough turn-out. It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been scared into going away by Bunting's rough threats of the police. But now it was an apple-pie order with one paramount exception of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied if this gentleman really took the lodgings. But what was this? The stranger was looking round him rather dubiously. "'This is rather too grand for me,' he said at last. "'I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. Bunting,' she said softly. "'Bunting, sir.'" And as she spoke, the dark, heavy load of care again came down and settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken after all. Or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman, too poor, that is, to afford the rent of more than one room, say, eight or ten shillings a week. Eight or ten shillings a week would be very little use to her in Bunting, though better than nothing at all. "'Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?' "'No,' he said. "'No. I think I should like to see what you have farther up the house, Mrs.,' and then, as if making a prodigious mental effort, he brought out her name, Bunting, with a kind of gasp. The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the drawing-room floor, but they looked poor and mean owing to the fact that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had been taken over their arrangement. In fact, they had been left in much the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features are a sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove of an obsolete pattern was fed by a tiresome shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. It had been the property of the people from whom the Buntings had taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they had left behind. What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry that she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sensitive, hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. Capital. Capital, he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he held at his feet and robbing his long, thin hands together with a quick, nervous movement. This is just what I have been looking for. He walked with long, eager strides towards the gas stove. First rate. Quite first rate. Only what I wanted to find. You must understand, Mrs. Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of experiments, and I often require the—well, the presence of great heat. He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the stove. This, too, will be useful—exceedingly useful to me—and he touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing touch. He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare forehead. Then, moving towards a chair, he sat down, wearily. I'm tired, he muttered in a low voice. Tired, tired. I've been walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting. Indeed, sir, she said civilly, and then, after a nervous glance, she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her. Then you mean to take my room, sir? This room, certainly, he said, looking round. This room is exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last few days. And then hastily he added, I mean this kind of place is what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would be surprised if you knew how difficult it is to get anything of the sort. But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief, a very, very great relief to me. He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And then, where's my bag, he asked suddenly, and there came a note of sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman standing before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of fright shoot through her. It seemed to pity that Bunting was so far away, right down the house. But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a perquisite, as it were, the special luxury of the well-born and of the well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like other people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. Surely I had a bag when I came in, he said in a scared, troubled voice. Here it is, sir, she said soothingly, and stooping picked it up and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the bag was not at all heavy. It was evidently by no means full. He took it eagerly from her. I beg your pardon, he muttered, but there is something in that bag which is very precious to me, something I procured with infinite difficulty in which I could never get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. That must be the excuse for my late agitation. About terms, sir, she said a little timidly, returning to the subject which meant so much, so very much to her. About terms, he echoed. And then there came a pause. My name is Sleuth, he said suddenly, S-L-E-U-T-H. Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I could provide you with a reference. He gave her what she described to herself as a funny sideways look. But I should refer you to dispense with that, if you don't mind. I am quite willing to pay you, well, shall we say, a month in advance? A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She felt sick with relief, nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known till that moment how hungry she was, how eager for a good meal. That would be all right, sir, she murmured. And what are you going to charge me? There had come a kindly, almost a friendly note into his voice. With attendance, mind, I shall expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if you can cook, Mrs. Bunting. Oh, yes, sir, she said. I am a plain cook. What would you say to twenty-five shillings a week, sir? She looked at him deprecatingly, and as he did not answer, she went on falteringly. You see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best of attendance and careful cooking, and my husband, sir, he would be pleased to valet you. I shouldn't want anything of that sort done for me, said Mr. Sleuth hastily. I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used to waiting on myself. But Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to sharing lodgings. She interrupted eagerly. I could let you have the use of the two floors for the same price. That is, until we get another lodger. I shouldn't like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It's such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir. Do your work and your experiments up here and then have your meals in the drawing-room. Yes, he said hesitatingly. That sounds a good plan. And if I offered you two pounds, or two guineas, might I then rely on your not taking another lodger? Yes, she said quietly. I'd be very glad only to have you to wait on, sir. I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting. I don't like to be disturbed while I'm working. He waited a moment and then said again, rather urgently. I suppose you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting. Oh yes, sir, there's a key, a very nice little key. The people who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door. She went over and throwing the door open, showed him that a round disk had been fitted above the old keyhole. He nodded his head and then, after standing silent a little, as if absorbed in thought. Forty-two shillings a week. Yes, that will suit me perfectly. And I'll begin now by paying my first month's rent in advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is... He jerked his head back and stared at his new landlady for the first time he smiled. A queer, wry smile. Why, just eight pounds, eight shillings, Mrs. Bunting? He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long, cape-like coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began putting these down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in the center of the room. Here is five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten pounds. You'd better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, for I shall want you to do some shopping for me tomorrow morning. I met with a misfortune today. But the new lodger did not speak as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. Indeed, sir, I'm sorry to hear that. Mrs. Bunting's heart was going thump, thump, thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy with relief and joy. Yes, a very great misfortune. I lost my luggage, the few things I managed to bring away with me. His voice dropped suddenly. I shouldn't have said that, he muttered. I was a fool to say that. Then more loudly. Someone said to me, you can't go into a lodging house without any luggage. They wouldn't take you in. But you have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I'm grateful for—for the kind way you have met me. He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly towards her new lodger. I hope I know a gentleman when I see one, she said, with a break in her staid voice. I shall have to see about getting some clothes tomorrow, Mrs. Bunting. Again he looked at her appealingly. I expect you'd like to wash your hands now, sir, and would you tell me what you'd like for supper? We have it much in the house. Oh, anything will do, he said hastily. I don't want you to go out for me. It's a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a little bread and butter and a cup of milk, I shall be quite satisfied. I have a nice sausage, she said hesitatingly. It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning for Bunting's supper. As to herself, she had been going to content herself with a little bread and cheese. But now, a wonderful, almost intoxicating thought, she could send Bunting out to get anything they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort and good cheer. A sausage? No, I feel that will hardly do. I never touch fleshmeat, he said. It is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, Mrs. Bunting. Is it indeed, sir? She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly. And will you be requiring any beer or wine, sir? A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth's pale face. Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. I had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer. So I am, sir, life long, and so has Bunting been since we married. She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such confidences, that she had made Bunting abstain very quickly in their acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing that first made her believe that he was sincere in all the nonsense that he talked to her in those faraway days of his courting. Glad she was now that he had taken the pledge as a younger man. But for that nothing would have kept him from the drink during the bad times they had gone through. And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom which opened out of the drawing room. It was a replica of Mrs. Bunting's own room just underneath, excepting that everything up here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better in quality. The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of content and peace stealing over his worn face. A haven of rest, he muttered, and then he bringeth them to their desired haven. Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting. Yes, sir. Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day, but it seemed to set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth's respectability. What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one lodger and that a gentleman instead of with a married couple. Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, not only here in London, but at the seaside. How unlucky they had been, to be sure, since they had come to London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible underworld of men and women, who, having as the phrase goes, seen better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of petty fraud. I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean towels, she said, going to the door. And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. Mrs. Bunting, and as he spoke, he stammered a little. I—I don't want you to interpret the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off your feet for me. I'm accustomed to look after myself. And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed, even a little snubbed. I'll write, sir, she said. I'll only just let you know when I've your supper ready. End of Chapter 2, Recording by Leanne Howlett Chapter 3 of The Lodger This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett The Lodger. By Marie Bellock-Lowns. Chapter 3 But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune which had fallen their way? Stade Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. In the hall, however, she pulled herself together and tried to still her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of emotion. She called such betrayal of feeling, making a fuss. Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment looking at her husband's bent back, and she realized, with a pang of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him. Bunting suddenly looked round, and seeing his wife stood up. He put the paper he had been holding down onto the table. Well, he said. Well, who was it then? He felt rather ashamed of himself. It was he who ought to have answered the door and done all that parlaying of which he had heard murmurs. And then, in a moment, his wife's hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns fell in a little clinking heap on the table. Look there, she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her voice. Look there, Bunting. And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled frowning gaze. He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion that his wife had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this ten pounds represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that were so, then it was the beginning of the end. That furniture in the first floor front had cost, Ellen had reminded him of the fact bitterly only yesterday, 17 pounds, nine shillings, and every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she had only got ten pounds for it. Yet he hadn't the heart to reproach her. He did not speak as he looked across at her and meeting that troubled, rebuking glance. She guessed what it was that he thought had happened. We've a new lodger, she cried. And—and Bunting? He's quite the gentleman. He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance at two guineas a week. No, never. Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, fascinated by the little heap of gold. But there's ten sovereigns here, he said suddenly. Yes, the gentleman said I'd have to buy some things for him to-morrow. And, O Bunting, he's so well spoken. I really felt that—I really felt that—and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step or two sideways, sat down and throwing her little black apron over her face, burst into gasping sobs. Bunting patted her back timidly. Ellen, he said, much smooth by her agitation. Ellen, don't take on so, my dear. I won't, she sobbed. I—I won't. I'm a fool. I know I am. But, oh, I didn't think we was ever going to have any luck again. And then she told him, or rather tried to tell him, what the lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing she did impress on her husband's mind, namely that Mr. Sleuth was eccentric, as so many clever people are eccentric, that is, in a harmless way, and that he must be humored. He says he doesn't want to be waited on much, she said at last, wiping her eyes. But I can see he will want a good bit of looking after, all the same, poor gentleman. And just as the words left her mouth, there came the unfamiliar sound of a loud ring. It was that of the drawing room bell being pulled again and again. Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. I think I'd better go up, eh, Ellen, he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. For the matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something again. Yes, she answered, you go up, don't keep him waiting. I wonder what it is he wants. I said I'd let him know when his supper was ready. A moment later, Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on his face. Whatever do you think he wanted, he whispered mysteriously, and as she said nothing, he went on. He's asking for the loan of a Bible. Well, I don't see anything so out of the way in that, she said hastily, especially if you don't feel well. I'll take it up to him. And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, Mrs. Bunting took off at a large Bible, which had been given to her as a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had lived for several years. He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper, said Bunting, and then, Ellen, he's a queer-looking cove, not like any gentleman I ever had to do with. He is a gentleman, said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. 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 foe could 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 do 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 of that thirty shillings. I am glad. She nodded, her heart, as a 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. The lodger's tray was soon ready, everything upon it nicely and daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly remembered Mr. Sleuth's request for a Bible. Putting the tray down in the hall, she went into her sitting room and took up the book. But when back in the hall, she hesitated a moment as to whether it was worthwhile to make two journeys. But no, she thought she could manage. Clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm and taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. But a great surprise awaited her. In fact, when Mr. Sleuth's landlady opened the door of the drawing room, she very nearly dropped the tray. She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy thud to the ground. The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud with their faces to the wall. For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the tray down on the table, she stooped and picked up the book. It troubled her that the book should have fallen to the ground. But really, she hadn't been able to help it. It was mercy that the tray hadn't fallen too. Mr. Sleuth got up. I have taken the liberty to arrange the room as I should wish it to be, he said awkwardly. You see, Mrs. or Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women's eyes followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation and gave me quite an eerie feeling. The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the table. She made no answer to her lodger's remark, for the good reason that she did not know what to say. Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a long pause, he spoke again. I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting, he spoke with some agitation. As a matter of fact, I had been used to seeing bare walls about me for a long time. And then, at last his landlady answered him in a composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. I quite understand, sir, and when Bunting comes in he shall take the pictures all down. We have plenty of space in our own rooms for them. Thank you. Thank you very much. Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understand you wanted the loan of it. Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment. And then rousing himself he said, Yes, yes I do. There is no reading like the book. There is something there which suits every state of mind, eye and of body, too. Very true, sir. And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what really looked a very appetizing little meal, turned round and quietly shut the door. She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen to clear her up. And as she did so there came to her a comfortable recollection, an incident of her long past youth, in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had made it a dear old lady. The old lady had a favorite nephew, a bright jolly young gentleman who was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. Algernon, that was his rather peculiar Christian name, had had the impudence to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings done by the famous Mr. Lanzeer. Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only occurred yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. It was quite early, she had come down, for in those days maids weren't thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the upper housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid's duty to be down very early. And there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. Algernon engaged in turning each engraving to the wall. Now his aunt thought all the world of those pictures, and Ellen had felt quite concerned, for it doesn't do for a young gentleman to put himself wrong with a kind aunt. Oh, sir, she had exclaimed in dismay, whatever are you doing? And even now she could almost hear his merry voice as he had answered. I am doing my duty, fair Helen. He had always called her fair Helen when no one was listening. How can I draw ordinary animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all the time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner? That was what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what he repeated in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt when that dear old lady had come downstairs. In fact, he had declared, quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted by Mr. Lancere put his eye out. But his aunt had been very much annoyed. In fact, she had made him turn the pictures all back again, and as long as he stayed there he just had to put up with what he called those half-human monsters. Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth's odd behavior over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her long-gone youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so strange as he appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told herself that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the pictures in the drawing room herself. But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's landlady went upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the sound of, was it talking in the drawing room? Startled, she waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then she realized that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on her listening ears. A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increases the transgressors among men. She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, sing-song voice. Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death. It made the listener feel quite queer, but at last she summoned up courage, knocked and walked in. I'd better clear away, sir, had I not, she said. And Mr. Sleuth nodded. Then he got up and closed the book. I think I'll go to bed now, he said. I'm very, very tired. I've had a long and a very weary day, Mrs. Bunting. After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. Sleuth. Each left an unsightly mark on the wall, but that, after all, could not be helped. Bunting softly so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried them down two by two and stood them behind her bed. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 4 of The Lodger. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Lodger. By Marie Bellock Lownes. Chapter 4. Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning, feeling happier than she had felt for a very, very long time. For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different, and then she suddenly remembered. How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, lay, and the well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction that an auction held in a Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two guineas a week. Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would be a permanency. In any case, it wouldn't be her fault if he wasn't. As to his, his queerness, well, there's always something funny in everybody. But after she had got up, and as the morning wore itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there came no sound at all from the new lodger's rooms. At twelve, however, the drawing-room bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. She was painfully anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His coming had only been in the nick of time to save them from terrible disaster. She found her lodger up and fully dressed. He was sitting at the round table which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his landlady's large Bible lay open before him. As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see how tired and worn he seemed. You did not happen, he asked, to have a concordance, Mrs. Bunting. She shook her head. She had no idea what a concordance could be, but she was quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he desired her to buy for him. She had supposed the bag he had brought with him to contain certain little necessaries of civilized life. Such articles, for instance, as a comb and brush, a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say nothing of a couple of night-shirts. But no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth required all these things to be bought now. After having cooked him a nice breakfast, Mrs. Bunting hurried out to purchase the things of which he was an urgent need. How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse again. Not only someone else's money, but money she was now on the very act of earning so agreeably. Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber's shop close by. It was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It was a funny, rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as she could, the more so that the foreigner who served her insisted on telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours before and in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn't want to think of anything painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. Sleuth was pleased with everything and thanked her most courteously, but when she suggested doing his bedroom he frowned and looked quite put out. "'Please wait till this evening,' he said hastily. "'It is my custom to stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when the lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting. If I seem a little, just a little unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed to, and I must ask you to understand that I must not be disturbed when thinking out my problems,' he broke off short, sighed, then added solemnly, for mine are the great problems of life and death. And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth's landlady was a true woman. She had, that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries and oddities. When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth's landlady met with a surprise, but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had been upstairs, talking to the lodger, Bunting's young friend, Joe Chandler, the detective, had come in, and as she walked into the sitting-room she saw that her husband was pushing half a sovereign across the table towards Joe. Joe Chandler's fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction. Not at seeing his money again, Mark you, but at the news Bunting had evidently been telling him that news of the sudden wonderful change in their fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. Mr. Sleuth don't want me to do his bedroom till he's gone out, she exclaimed, and then she sat down for a bit of a rest. It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good breakfast, and there was no need to think of him for the present. In a few minutes she would be going down to make her own in Bunting's dinner, and she told Joe Chandler that he might as well stop and have a bite with them. Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood which seldom surprised her, a mood to be pleased with anything and everything. Nay, more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler about the last of those awful Avenger murders, she even listened with a certain languid interest to all he had to say. In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that very day three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery which was now beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London, West and East, North and South. Bunting had read out little bits about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. They do say, observed Bunting cautiously, they do say, Joe, that the police have a clue they won't say nothing about. He looked expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police invested the young man with a kind of sinister glory, especially just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amazing and terrifying the town. Them who says that says wrong, answered Chandler slowly, and the look of unease, a resentment came over his fair, stolid face, to make a good bit of difference to me if the yard had a clue. And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. Why that, Joe, she said, smiling indulgently, the young man's keenness about his work pleased her, and in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen and took his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. Well, tis this way, he explained. From today I'm on this business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the yards nettle'd. That's what it is, and we're all on our metal. That we are. I was right down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty in the street where the last one happened. No, said Bunting incredulously. He don't mean there was a policeman there within a few yards. That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper. Chandler nodded. That's exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting. The man is near off his head, so I'm told. He did hear a yell, so he says, but he took no notice. There are a few good yells in that part of London, as you can guess. People always quarreling and rowing at one another in such low parts. Have you seen the bits of gray paper on which the monster writes his name, inquired Bunting eagerly? Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those three cornered pieces of gray paper pinned to the victim's skirts, on which was roughly written in red ink and it printed characters the words, The Avenger. His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his elbows on the table and stared across expectantly at the young man. Yes, I have, said Joe briefly. A funny kind of visiting card, A, Bunting laughed. The notion struck him as downright comic. But Mrs. Bunting colored. It isn't a thing to make a joke about, she said reprovingly. And Chandler backed her up. No, indeed, he said feelingly, I'll never forget what I've been made to see over this job. And as for that gray bit of paper, Mr. Bunting, or rather those gray bits of paper, he corrected himself hastily, you know they have three of them now at the yard. Oh, they give me the horrors. And then he jumped up. That reminds me that I ought to be wasting my time in pleasant company. Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner? Said Mrs. Bunting solicitously. But the detective shook his head. No, he said, I had a bite before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you know. A lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't leave us much time for lazing about, I can tell you. When he reached the door he turned round and with the elaborate carelessness he inquired. Any chance of Mrs. Daisy coming to London again soon? Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very fond of his only child. The pity was he saw her so seldom. No, he said, I'm afraid not, Joe. Old aunt, as we call the old lady, keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron string. She was quite put about that week the child was up with us last June. Indeed. Well so long. After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen? But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting's daughter was being managed by that old aunt of hers. An idol good for nothing way, very different from the fashion in which she herself had been trained at the foundling, for Mrs. Bunting as a little child had known no home, no other family than those provided by good Captain Corum. Joe Chandler's too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls yet a while, she said tartly. No doubt you're right, Bunting agreed. The times be changed. In my young days, chaps always had time for that. This was just a notion that came into my head, hearing him asking anxious like after her. About five o'clock after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. Sleuth went out, and that same evening there came two parcels addressed to his landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But it was quite clear to Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new clothes. In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good secondhand clothes shop. A funny thing for a real gentleman like Mr. Sleuth to do, it proved that he had given up all hope of getting back his lost luggage. When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him. Of that, Mrs. Bunting was not finding the place where Mr. Sleuth kept it. And at last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed woman with a good memory, she would have been disposed to think that the bag had never existed, saving her imagination. But no, she could not tell herself that. She remembered exactly how it had looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange queer-looking figure of a man on her doorstep. She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of the top front room, and then forgetting what he had asked her eagerly, and a tone of angry fear, where the bag was, only to find it safely lodged at his feet. As time went on, Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag. For a strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again. But, of course, she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. The brown leather bag, which had formed Mr. Sleuth's only luggage at the afternoon of his arrival, was almost certainly locked up Mr. Sleuth evidently always carried the key of the little corner cupboard about his person. Mrs. Bunting had also had a good hunt for that key, but, as was the case with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never saw either the one or the other again. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Leanne Howlett Chapter 5 Of The Lodger This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Leanne Howlett The Lodger By Marie Bellock-Lowns Chapter 5 How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly sped the next few days. Already, life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. Bunting could at once become clear that the Lodger preferred to be waited on only by one person, and that person, his landlady. He gave her very little trouble. Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the Lodger. It even did her good that he was not like other gentlemen, for the fact occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. The more so that whatever his oddities, Mr. Sleuth had none of those tiresome, disagreeable ways with which human beings who also happened to be lodgers. To take but one point, Mr. Sleuth did not ask to be called unduly early. Bunting and as Ellen had fallen into the way of lying rather late in the morning, and it was a great comfort not to have to turn out to make the Lodger a cup of tea at seven, or even half past seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom required anything before eleven. But odd, he certainly was. The second evening he had been with them, a book of which the queer name was Crudon's Concordance. That and the Bible, Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a relation between the two books, seemed to be the lodger's only reading. He spent hours each day, generally after he'd eaten the breakfast, which also served for luncheon, pouring over the Old Testament and over that strange kind of index to the book. As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, Mr. Bunting never had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman. On the very first day he had been with them, he had allowed his money, the considerable sum of one hundred and eighty-four sovereigns, to lie about wrapped up in little pieces of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing table. That had quite upset Mrs. Bunting. She had allowed herself respectfully to point out to him that what he was doing was foolish. Indeed wrong. But his men startled when the loud, unusual and discordant sound had issued from his thin lips. I know those I can trust, he had answered stuttering rather as was his way when moved, and I assure you Mrs. Bunting, that I hardly have to speak to a human being, especially to a woman, and he had drawn in his breath with a hissing sound before I know exactly what manner of person is before me. It hadn't taken the landlady a dislike of women. When she was doing the staircase and landings, she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading aloud to himself passages in the Bible that were very uncomplimentary to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very great opinion of her sister woman, so that didn't put her out. Besides, where one's lodger is concerned, a dislike of women is better than well, than the other thing. In any case, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he hadn't been, as Bunting funnily styled it, just a little touched upstairs, he wouldn't be here, living this strange solitary life and lodgings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way with some of his relatives or with a friend of his own class. There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back as even the most wondered how soon it was that she had discovered that her lodger was given to creeping out of the house at a time when almost all living things prefer to sleep. She brought herself to believe, but I am inclined to doubt whether she was right and so believing, that the first time she became aware of this strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth happened to be during the night which preceded the day on which she had observed a very curious circumstance. It always passes my comprehension how people can remember over any length of time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is natural enough, but the day, the hour, the minute when these happenings took place. Much as she thought about it afterwards, even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind whether it was during the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth's stay under her roof that she became aware of but that there did come such a night as certain as is the fact that her discovery coincided with various occurrences which were destined to remain retrospectively memorable. It was intensely dark, intensely quiet, the darkest, quietest hour of the night when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, dreamless sleep by sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She knew at once first coming down the stairs and walking on tiptoe. She was sure it was on tiptoe, passed her door and finally softly shutting the front door behind him. Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to sleep again. There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting should awaken up too till she heard Mr. Sleuth three hours later creep back into the house and so up to bed. Then and not till then she slept again. But in the morning she felt very tired. So tired indeed that she had been very glad when Bunting good naturally suggested that he should go out and do their little bit of marketing. The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of catering it was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth and that though he always tried to appear pleased. This perfect lodger had one serious fault from the point that he was a vegetarian. He would not eat meat in any form. He sometimes however condescended to a chicken and when he did so condescended he generously intimated that Mr. Mrs. Bunting were welcome to a share in it. Now today this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. Bunting's mind so very long and to remain so very vivid it had been knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour for he was a gregarious soul and like to have a gossip in the shops he frequented Mrs. Bunting rose and dressed in a leisurely manner then she went and did her front sitting room. She felt languid and dull as one is apt to feel after a broken night and it was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Bunting was in the front doorbell. Mrs. Bunting frowned no doubt the ring betokened one of those tiresome people who come round for old bottles and such like fallalls. She went slowly reluctantly to the door and then her face cleared for it was that good young chap Joe Chandler who stood up and said Mrs. Bunting is out but he won't be very long now you've been quite a stranger these last few days. Well you know why Mrs. Bunting. She stared at him for a moment wondering what he could mean then suddenly she remembered why of course Joe she led the way to the sitting room it was a good thing Bunting had insisted on lighting the fire before he went out for now the room was nice and warm and it was just horrible outside. She had felt a chill go right through her as she had stood even for that second at the front door and she hadn't been alone to feel it for I say it is jolly to be in here out of that awful cold exclaimed Chandler sitting down heavily in Bunting's easy chair and then Mrs. Bunting was tired as well as cold he was pale almost pallid under his usual healthy tanned complexion the complexion of the man who lives much out of doors wouldn't you like me just to make you a cup of tea she said solicitously well to tell truth I should be right down thankful for one Mrs. Bunting then he looked round yes what is it joe she asked and then in sudden terror you've never come to tell me that anything's happened to Bunting he's not had an accident goodness no whatever made you think that but but Mrs. Bunting there's been another of them his voice dropped almost to a whisper he was staring at her with unhappy moment flashed across her another of them meant another of these strange mysterious awful murders but her relief for the moment was so great for she really had thought for a second that he had come to give her ill news of Bunting that the feeling that she did experience on hearing this piece of news was actually pleasurable though she would have been much shocked had that fact occupying the imagination of the whole of London's netherworld even her refined mind had busied itself for the last two or three days with a strange problem so frequently presented to it by Bunting for Bunting now that they were no longer worried took an open unashamed intense interest in the Avenger and his doings she took the kettle off the gas ring it's a pity as she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot but Chandler said nothing and she turned in glanced at him why you do look bad she exclaimed and indeed the young fellow did look bad very bad indeed I can't help but he said with a kind of gasp it was your saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn queer you see this time I was one of the first there it was too awful Mrs. Bunting don't talk of it he began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made she looked at him with sympathetic interest why Joe she said I never would have thought with all the horrible sights you see that anything could upset you like that this isn't like anything there's ever been before he said and then then oh Mrs. Bunting twas eye that discovered you then it is true she cried eagerly it is the avengers bit of paper Bunting always said it was he never believed in that practical joker I did said Chandler reluctantly you see there are some queer fellows even even he lowered his voice and looked round him as if the walls had ears even in the force Mrs. Bunting did you think that a Bobby might do a thing like that he nodded impatiently as if the question wasn't worth answering then it was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while the poor soul was still warm he shuddered that brought me out west this morning one of our bosses lives close by in Prince Albert Terrace and I had to go and tell them all about it they never offered me a bit or a sup I think they might have done that don't you Mrs. Bunting really yes I do think so but there I don't know that I ought to say that went on Chandler he had me up in his dressing room was very considerate liked me while I was telling him have a bit of something now she said suddenly oh no I couldn't need anything he said hastily I don't feel as if I could ever eat anything anymore that will only make you ill Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly with a slice of bread and butter she had cut for him I expect you're right he said and I'm a goodish heavy day in front of me been up since four or two four she said was it then they found she hesitated a moment and then said it he nodded it was just a chance I was nearby if I'd been half a minute sooner either I thought three people do think they saw him slinking away what was he like she asked curiously well that's hard to answer you see there was such an awful fog but there's one thing they all agree about he was carrying a bag a bag repeated Mrs. Bunting in a low voice whatever sort of bag might have been this kind of tremor or fluttering she was at a loss to account for it just a handbag said Joe Chandler vaguely a woman I spoke to cross-examining her like who was positive she had seen him said just a tall thin shadow that's what he was a tall thin shadow of a man with a bag at all he asked to carry the thing he does the deed with in something Mrs. Bunting we've always wondered how he hit it they generally throws the knife or firearms away you know do they indeed Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent wondering way she was thinking that she really must try and see what the lodger had done with his bag it was possible in fact the days he had gone out as she knew he was fond of doing into the regents park there will be a description circulated at an hour or two when on Chandler perhaps that'll help catch him there isn't a London man or woman I don't suppose who wouldn't give a good bit to lay that chap by the heels while I suppose I must be going now won't you wait a bit longer for Bunting she said hesitatingly no I can't do that but I'll do any more that's happened thanks kindly for the tea its main a man of me Mrs. Bunting well you've had enough to unman you Joe I that I have he said heavily a few minutes later Bunting did come in and he and his wife had quite a little tiff the first tiff they had had since which had taken place that morning out of Chandler you don't mean to say that you can't even tell me where it happened he said indignantly I suppose you put Chandler off that's what you did why whatever did he come here for accepting to tell us all about it he came to have something to eat and drink snapped out Mrs. Bunting in the room and sat down he told me quite enough didn't he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had written his name was square or three cornered demanded Bunting no he did not and that isn't the sort of thing I should have cared to ask him the more fool you and then he stopped abruptly the news boys were coming down the Marilabone Road shouting out the awful discovery which had been made that morning went out to buy a paper and his wife took the things he had brought in down to the kitchen the noise the newspaper sellers made outside had evidently wakened Mr. Sleuth for his landlady hadn't been in the kitchen ten minutes before his bell rang end of chapter 7 recording by Leanne Howlett chapter 6 of the lodger this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are for information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Leanne Howlett the lodger by Marie Bellock Lownes chapter 6 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 of 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 parlor 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 here she whispered quickly you give me that Bunting the lodger won't like you're going into 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 heavy tray on my hands she spoke in a queer jerky way and Bunting felt surprised rather put out knowing well as now she was generally equal 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 she could not have told you why she would not willingly have told herself she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking different but no he appeared to be exactly the same in fact as he glanced up at her a pleasant or smile unusual lighted up his thin pallid face well Mrs. Bunting he said genially I overslept myself this morning but I feel all the better for the rest I'm glad of that sir she answered in a low voice one of the ladies with used to say rest is an old fashioned remedy but it's the best remedy of all Mr. Sleuth himself removed the bible and prudence concordance off the table out of her way and then he stood watching his landlady laying the cloth suddenly he spoke again he was not often so talkative in the morning I think Mrs. Bunting that there was someone with you outside the door just now I was afraid I give you a good deal of trouble he said hesitatingly but she answered quickly oh no sir not at all sir I was only saying yesterday that we've never had a lodger that gave us as little trouble as you do sir I'm glad of that I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar he looked at her fixedly as if expecting her to give some sort of denial to this observation in his statement Mr. Sleuth's habits were somewhat peculiar take that going out at night or rather in the early morning for instance so she remained silent after she had laid the lodger's breakfast on the table she prepared to leave the room I suppose I'm not to do your room till you goes out sir and Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply no no he said I never want my room done when I am engaged in a day I should be carrying out a somewhat elaborate experiment upstairs if I go out at all he waited a moment and again he looked at her fixedly I shall wait till night time to do so and then coming back to the matter in hand he added hastily perhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs about five o'clock if that time is convenient to you that is to yourself wordlessly ruthlessly to task but she did not face even in her in most heart the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken her she only repeated to herself again and again I've got upset that's what I've done and then she spoke aloud I must get myself a dose at the chemist next time I'm out that's what I must do I'm not gonna defy I can knock but the postman was an unfamiliar visitor in that house and Mrs. Bunting started violently she was nervous that's what was the matter with her so she told herself angrily no doubt this was a letter for Mr. sleuth the larger must have real be qaintance you." She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy-chair, reading a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing nothing—in fact, doing worse than nothing, wasting his time reading all about those hard crimes. She sighed, a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years, but how could she prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man when they had first made acquaintance. She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 9 De Cumberland Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a good, out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking fellow, who was standing over by the window. How superior he had appeared, even then, to the man she already hoped he would succeed as Butler. Today, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed the door softly and went down into the kitchen. There were various little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to cook. And all the time she was down there, she fixed her mind obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting. She wondered what she'd better do to get him into good ways again. Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A week ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if nothing could save them from disaster. But everything was now changed. Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor of that registry office in Baker Street, which had lately changed hands. It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an occasional job. For the matter of that he could now take up a fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has acquired those ways. When at last she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of what she had been thinking. For Bunting had laid the cloth and laid it very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. Ellen, he cried eagerly, here's news. Daisy's coming tomorrow. There's scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she'd better come away for a few days. So you see she'll be here for her birthday. Eighteen, that's what she'll be on the nineteenth. It do make me feel old, that it do. Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. I can't have the girl here just now, she said shortly. I've just as much to do as I can manage. The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for. Rubbish, he said sharply. I'll help you with the lodger. It's your own fault you haven't had help with them before. Of course Daisy must come here. Whatever other place could the girl go to? Bunting felt pugnacious, so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. But as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction vanished. Ellen's face was pinched and drawn today. She looked ill. Ellen horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and behave like this, just when they were beginning to get on nicely again. For the matter of that, he said suddenly, Daisy will be able to help you with the work, Ellen, and show Briskess both up a bit. Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. And then she said languidly, you might as well show me the girl's letter. He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. Your father, it ran. I hope this finds you as well as it leaves me. Mrs. Puttle's youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks I'd better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few days. Please tell Ellen I won't give her no trouble. I'll start at ten if I don't hear nothing. Your loving daughter. Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here, Mrs. Bunting said slowly. It'll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life. And with that ungraciously worded permission, Bunting had to content himself. Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell, Mr. Sleuth's landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She remembered that this was a signal for her to go and do his room. He was a tidy man, was the lodger. He did not throw his things about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes and the various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first two days he had been there were carefully arranged in the chest of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he had arrived in were peculiar looking foot gear, buff leather shoes with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first day that he never wished them to go down to be cleaned. A funny idea, a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after midnight in weather so cold and foggy, that all other folk were glad to be at home snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman. After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the sitting room and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept quite as nice as she would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting longed to give the drawing room something of a good turnout. But Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself was in his bedroom and went up he sat there almost all the time. Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he only used it when making his mysterious experiments and never during the daytime. And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonere with longing eyes. She even gave that pretty little piece of furniture a slight shake. If only the doors would fly open as the locked doors of old cupboard sometimes do even after they have been securely fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more comfortable somehow she would feel. But the chiffonere refused to give up its secret. About eight o'clock on that same evening, Joe Chandler came in just for a few minutes' chat. He had recovered from his agitation in the morning, but he was full of eager excitement and Mrs. Bunting listened in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself while he and Bunting talked. Yes, he said, I'm as right as a trivet now. I've had a good rest, laid down all this afternoon. You see, the yard thinks there's going to be something on tonight. He's always done them in pairs. So he has, exclaimed Bunting, wonderingly, so he has. Now, I never thought of that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster will be on the job again tonight. Chandler nodded. Yes, and I think there's a very good chance of his being caught, too. I suppose there'll be a lot on the watch tonight, eh? I should think there will be. Many of our men do you think there'll be on night duty tonight, Mr. Bunting? Bunting shook his head. I don't know, he said helplessly. I mean extra, suggested Chandler in an encouraging voice. A thousand ventured Bunting? Five thousand, Mr. Bunting? Never, exclaimed Bunting, amazed, and even Mrs. Bunting echoed, never incredulously. Yes, that there will. You see, the boss has got his monkey up. Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. Just listen to this. The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any surprise at the information that a popular attack has been organized on the chief commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even talk of an indignation mass meeting. What do you think of that? That's not a pleasant thing for a gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh? Well it does seem queer that the police can't catch him now, doesn't it, said Bunting, argumentatively. I don't think it's queer at all, said young Chandler crossly. Now you just listen again. Here's a bit of the truth for once in a newspaper, and slowly he read out. The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind man's buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes bandaged, thus as he turned loose to hunt the murderer through the slums of a great city. Whatever does that mean, said Bunting, your hands aren't tied and your eyes aren't bandaged, Joe. It's metaphorical like that it's intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven't got the same facilities. No, not a quarter of them that the French techs have. And then for the first time Mrs. Bunting spoke. What was that word, Joe, perpetrators? I mean that first bit you read out. Yes, he said, turning to her eagerly. Then do they think there's more than one of them, she said, and a look of relief came over her thin face? There's some of our chaps, thinks it's a gang, said Chandler. They say it can't be the work of one man. What do you think, Joe? Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don't know what to think. I'm fair puzzled. He got up. Don't you come to the door. I'll shut it all right. So long. See you tomorrow, perhaps. As he had done the other evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's visitor stopped at the door. Any news of Miss Daisy, he asked casually. Yes, she's coming tomorrow, said her father. They've got scarlet fever at her place, so old aunt thinks she's better clear out. The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, the half hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old church close by. And then, just as she was dozing off, it must have been about one o'clock. She heard the sound she had half unconsciously been expecting to hear. That of the lodger's stealthy footsteps coming down the stairs just outside her room. He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. Oddly enough she was the first to wake the next morning. Odd or still it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed and going out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been pushed to the letterbox. But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into her bedroom. Instead she let the gas in the passage and leaning up against the wall to steady herself. For she was trembling with cold and fatigue. She opened the paper. Yes, there was the heading she sought. The Avenger Murders. But oh how glad she was to see the words that followed. Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing and indeed staggering, not only London, but the whole civilized world, in which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating, teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the last of these dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator or perpetrators has been obtained. The several arrests were made in the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested were able to prove a satisfactory alibi. And then, a little lower down, the excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that even a stranger to London would know that something very unusual was in the air, as for the place where the murder was committed last night. Last night, thought Mrs. Bunting startled, and then she realized that last night in this connection meant the night before last. She began the sentence again. As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of traces of the tragedy. Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the mat where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going back into bed, she lay down by her still sleeping husband. Anything the matter, Bunting murmured and stirred uneasily. Anything the matter, Ellen? She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange gladness. No, nothing, Bunting, nothing the matter. Go to sleep again, my dear. They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's coming, and even Daisy's stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl about the house to help her a bit. About ten o'clock, Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought back with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy's dinner and three minced pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the sauce. End of Chapter 6, Recording by Leanne Howlett.