CHAPTER XXI
It was a very cold night--so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was theatmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors.
Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved areally pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his waythis evening, all the more welcome because it was quite unexpected!The young lady at whose birthday party he had been present incapacity of waiter had come into a fortune that day, and she had hadthe gracious, the surprising thought of presenting each of the hiredwaiters with a sovereign!
This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had goneto Bunting's heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservativeprinciples; only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet,old-fashioned, respectable, gentlefolk, the sort of people of whomthose nasty Radicals know nothing and care less!
But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been.Slackening his footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern ofhow queer his wife had seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous,so "jumpy," that he didn't know what to make of her sometimes. Shehad never been really good-tempered--your capable, self-respectingwoman seldom is--but she had never been like what she was now. Andshe didn't get better as the days went on; in fact she got worse.Of late she had been quite hysterical, and for no reason at all!Take that little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. Ellen knewquite well he often had to go about in some kind of disguise, and yethow she had gone on, quite foolish-like--not at all as one wouldhave expected her to do.
There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in moresenses than one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had takento talking in her sleep. "No, no, no!" she had cried out, only thenight before. "It isn't true--I won't have it said--it's a lie!"And there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her usuallyquiet, mincing voice.
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Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves.
He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walkingmore quickly.
As he tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sightof his lodger walking along the opposite side of the solitary street--one of those short streets leading off the broad road whichencircles Regent's Park.
Well! This was a funny time o' night to be taking a stroll forpleasure, like!
Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth's tall, thin figurewas rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. Hisleft arm was thrust into his long Inverness cape, and so was quitehidden, but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodgerwere carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung down straight.
Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talkedaloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who livemuch alone. It was clear that he had not yet become aware of theproximity of his landlord.
Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger wascertainly a most eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not,that that odd, luny-like gentleman should have made all thedifference to his, Bunting's, and Mrs. Bunting's happiness andcomfort in life?
Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not forthe first time, of this perfect lodger's one fault--his odd disliketo meat, and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food.
But there, you can't have everything! The more so that the lodgerwas not one of those crazy vegetarians who won't eat eggs and cheese.No, he was reasonable in this, as in everything else connected withhis dealings with the Buntings.
As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife.Indeed, he had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr.Sleuth had been with them, and when his landlord had had occasionto wait on him the lodger had remained silent. Indeed, theirgentleman had made it very clear that he did not like either thehusband or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitelyasked to do so.
Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genialconversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increasedhis general comfortable sense of satisfaction.
So it was that the butler, still an active man for his years,crossed over the road, and, stepping briskly forward, began tryingto overtake Mr. Sleuth. But the more he hurried along, the more theother hastened, and that without ever turning round to see whosesteps he could hear echoing behind him on the now freezing pavement.
Mr. Sleuth's own footsteps were quite inaudible--an odd circumstance,when you came to think of it--as Bunting did think of it later,lying awake by Mrs. Bunting's side in the pitch darkness. What itmeant of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes.Now Bunting had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down tohim to clean. He had always supposed the lodger had only one pair ofoutdoor boots.
The two men--the pursued and the pursuer--at last turned into theMarylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home.Plucking up courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshlyon the still air:
"Mr. Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!"
The lodger stopped and turned round.
He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physicalcondition, that the sweat was pouring down his face.
"Ah! So it's you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, andI hurried on. I wish I'd known that it was you; there are so manyqueer characters about at night in London."
"Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have businessout of doors would be out such a night as this. It is cold, sir!"
And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there suddenly creptthe query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth's own business out could beon this bitter night.
"Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his wordscame out sharp and quick through his thin lips. "I can't say thatI find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air alwaysbecomes milder."
"Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind. Why, itfreezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, there's nothing likewalking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found,sir."
Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strangeway; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it,on the wall side, to his landlord.
"I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over Primrose Hill tosee a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad,and then, coming back, I lost my way."
Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on theshabby, paved court in front of the house--that gate which now wasnever locked.
Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flaggedpath, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, steppingaside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the frontdoor for him.
As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left handbrushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger waswearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth againstwhich his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe fromstray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet--wet andgluey.
Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the otherthat he placed the key in the lock of the door.
The two men passed into the hall together.
The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-uproad outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by thelodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation ofmortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightfulimmediate danger.
A stuffless voice--the voice of his first wife, the long-deadgirl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays--uttered intohis ear the words, "Take care!"
And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating,though not loud.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty,foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but Ibrushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery somethoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on PrimroseHill."
"No, sir, no. I didn't notice
nothing. I scarcely touched you,sir."
It seemed as if a power outside himself compelled Bunting to utterthese lying words. "And now, sir, I'll be saying good-night to you,"he said.
Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that was in himagainst the wall, and let the other pass him. There was a pause,and then--"Good-night," returned Mr. Sleuth, in a hollow voice.Bunting waited until the lodger had gone upstairs, and then,lighting the gas, he sat down there, in the hall. Mr. Sleuth'slandlord felt very queer--queer and sick.
He did not draw his left hand out of his pocket till he heard Mr.Sleuth shut the bedroom door upstairs. Then he held up his lefthand and looked at it curiously; it was flecked, streaked withpale reddish blood.
Taking off his boots, he crept into the room where his wife layasleep. Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, anddipped a hand into the water-jug.
"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came avoice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily.
"I'm just washing my hands."
"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of sucha thing--putting your hand into the water in which I was going towash my face to-morrow morning!"
"I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away.You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?"
She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Buntinglay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even moreuncomfortable than he was already.
At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silenceby telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him,but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than ifit had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside.
Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shookthe bed.
"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning inthe hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly.
He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was asshe had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money--or,rather, Mr. Sleuth's good money. Since he had come to be their lodgerthey had not had to touch their rent money.
Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, andso to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband andwife lay awake till dawn.
The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he feltcuriously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes.
Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seveno'clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled theblind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is theway when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely,curiously still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage.As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was alreadylying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being pushedthrough the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestfulsleep.
He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then,shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaperwide open on the table, and bent over it.
As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expressionof intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news hehad felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheetwas not there.