Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. And Mrs. Bunting’s conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly ever used that room upstairs—that room for which he had paid extra so generously. If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty man in Baker Street,—and now that the ice had been broken between them it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a very well-trained, experienced waiter—then she thought she would tell Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was now doing. She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. “Good-night, sir,” she said at last. Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. “I hope you’ll sleep well, sir.” “Yes, I’m sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been studying all day I require a little exercise.” “Oh, I wouldn’t go out to-night,” she said deprecatingly. “’Tisn’t fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold.” “And yet—and yet”—he looked at her attentively—“there will probably be many people out in the streets to-night.” “A many more than usual, I fear, sir.” “Indeed?” said Mr. Sleuth quickly. “Is it not a strange thing, Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse themselves should carry their revels far into the night?” “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking”—she hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the words, “of the police.” “The police?” He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or three times with a nervous gesture. “But what is man—what is man’s puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over whose feet God has set a guard?” Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then she had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, that—was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? “Very true, sir,” she said respectfully. “But Providence means us to take care o’ ourselves too.” And then she closed the door behind her and went downstairs. But Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She came into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think the next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger’s meal on her table. Having done that, and having turned out the gas in the passage and the sitting-room, she went into her bedroom and closed the door. The fire was burning brightly and clearly. She told herself that she did not need any other light to undress by. What was it made the flames of the fire shoot up, shoot down, in that queer way? But watching it for awhile, she did at last doze off a bit.