CHAPTER XIII
Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door,watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness.
A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe hadcome a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining, ratherlamely, that it was the fog which had brought him so soon.
"If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, 'twouldn't have beenpossible to walk a yard," he explained, and they had accepted,silently, his explanation.
"I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that?" Bunting lookeddeprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than oncethat he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he waslike an old hen with her last chicken.
"She's safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn't havea smarter young fellow to look after her."
"It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner," said Bunting. "It'salways worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I'd 'a takenher by the Underground Railway to Victoria--that 'ud been the bestway, considering the weather 'tis."
"They don't think anything of the weather, bless you!" said hiswife. "They'll walk and walk as long as there's a glimmer left for'em to steer by. Daisy's just been pining to have a walk with thatyoung chap. I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they bothwere when you was so set on going along with them to that horridplace."
"D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked upset. "I understoodJoe to say he liked my company."
"Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect he liked it justabout as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would goout with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me howthe woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her."
"But I'm Daisy's father; and an old friend of Chandler," said Buntingremonstratingly. "I'm quite different from that cook. She wasnothing to us, and we was nothing to her."
"She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt," observedhis Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a littlefoolishly.
By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, anda feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs.Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit.The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, andshe had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a veryunseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You mightjust let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, onlythat morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. "No, that I won't!He's a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes,and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even yourfather's hardly seen him."
But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr.Sleuth.
There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that herstepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence youngChandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had takento doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said toher husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask JoeChandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be human nature--at any rate, not girlish human nature--not to do so, even ifJoe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret.
Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings,would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be agood thing.
When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs.Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. After all, he was adetective--it was his job to be always nosing about, trying tofind out things. And, though she couldn't fairly say to herselfthat he had done much of that sort of thing in her house, he mightstart doing it any minute. And then--then--where would she, and--and Mr. Sleuth, be?
She thought of the bottle of red ink--of the leather bag whichmust be hidden somewhere--and her heart almost stopped beating.Those were the sort of things which, in the stories Bunting wasso fond of reading, always led to the detection of famouscriminals. . . .
Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier thanusual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think itlater than it was.
When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, and just onepiece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don'tfeel like having anything else this afternoon."
"It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voicethan usual. "No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir. And then itisn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it?"
"No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting."
She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then,as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharpdismay.
Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his longInverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table,ready for him to put on.
"You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly."Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!"
Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to ascream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood betweenthe door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way--to erectbetween Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a livingbarrier.
"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and helooked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that,slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticedfor the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his righthand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had beenon his way there when her coming in had disturbed him.
"It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered,"but--but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I donot welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I--Icannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings arewatched--spied upon."
She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, sir," shesaid, with considerable dignity. "I've done my best to satisfyyou--"
"You have--you have!" he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone."But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doingwhat I wish to do--indeed, what I have to do. For years I havebeen misunderstood--persecuted"--he waited a moment, then ina hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not tell me thatyou are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs.Bunting?"
She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid I'll ever bethat, sir. I only spoke as I did because--well, sir, because Ithought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out thisafternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so nearChristmas."
He walked across to the window and looked out. "The fog is clearingsomewhat; Mrs. Bunting," but there was no relief in his voice, ratherwas there disappointment and dread.
Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right.The fog was lifting--rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way inwhich local fogs sometimes do lift in London.
He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversation has made meforget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if youwould just leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter forme this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, forafter my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry througha very difficult experiment."
"Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger.
But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for ithad drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeingDaisy off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing--a thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. Shepressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass letinto the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" shemoaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"
But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becomingintolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her miserynever occurred to Mrs. Bunting.
In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened thata woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. Thetimorous and cautious wo
man has not infrequently hunted a humanbeing fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has notrevealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almostbe said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayerhas been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for revenge. Sofar, perhaps because she is subject rather than citizen, her dutyas a component part of civilised society weighs but lightly onwoman's shoulders.
And then--and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had becomeattached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up hissad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals, and whenthis happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased--pleased and vaguelytouched. In between those--those dreadful events outside, whichfilled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense,she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth.
Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned overthe strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must havelived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She did noteven know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters; friends sheknew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he was, he hadevidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kindof life, till--till now.
What had made him alter all of a sudden--if, that is, he hadaltered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfullywith herself; and, what was more, and very terribly, to the point,having altered, why should he not in time go back to what heevidently had been--that is, a blameless, quiet gentleman?
If only he would! If only he would!
As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all thesethoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed throughher brain.
She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day--thatthere had never been, in the history of the world, so strange amurderer as The Avenger had proved himself to be.
She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated,on Joe's words, as he had told them of other famous series ofmurders which had taken place in the past, not only in England butabroad--especially abroad.
One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind,respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in orderto get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible taleof an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who,living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellerswho took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and anyvaluables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer ormurderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, inalmost every case, a wicked lust for gold.
At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, shewent into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe.
"The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. "I hopethat by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it."
But the other shook his head silently. "No such luck!" he saidbriefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde Park, Ellen. Iexpect 'twill soon be just as heavy here as 'twas half an hour ago!"
She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back."Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she observed.
"There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinkingof asking if you wouldn't like to go along there with me."
"No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at home."
She was listening--listening for the sounds which would betokenthat the lodger was coming downstairs.
At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soledshoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the factwhen the front door shut to.
"That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on his wife,startled. "Why, the poor gentleman'll come to harm--that he will!One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn'ttaken any of his money out with him."
"'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog," said Mrs.Bunting sombrely.
Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true words. And thenshe turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had takenwhat she said.
But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. "Wedon't get the good old fogs we used to get--not what people usedto call 'London particulars.' I expect the lodger feels like Mrs.Crowley--I've often told you about her, Ellen?"
Mrs. Bunting nodded.
Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of those he hadliked best--a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give herservants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treatthey would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciatedher kind thought.
"Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmaticway, "that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, solong as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he likedthe country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there.Fog never kept her from going out--no, that it didn't. She wasn'ta bit afraid. But--" he turned round and looked at his wife--"I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him atimid kind of gentleman--"
He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him.
"I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a low voice, "buthe is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes going out whenthere are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don'tsuppose he'll be out long."
She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon--that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom.
Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. Shegot up, and went over to the farthest window.
The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights onthe other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; andshadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towardsthe Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops.
At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over tothe cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took oneout.
"I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I'velooked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit,but now there's nothing in 'em."
His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many dayshad gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers hadvery little to say about them that they hadn't said in differentlanguage a dozen times before.
She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing.
Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her soengaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had nothad much time for that sort of work.
It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or--orthe lodger, in it.
At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambricslipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr.Sleuth's return home.
And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painfulwonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what sheknew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into anykind of--well, trouble outside, he would never betray where hehad lived during the last few weeks.
No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a wayas he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know,until, perhaps--God, what a horrible thought--a picture publishedin some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting'sknowledge.
But if that happened--if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass,she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She alsowould pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at theastounding revelation.