“Daisy’ll stay here just as long as she can,” he said shortly. “It’s too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, ’twould be cruel—cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that even you would see the justice o’ that!” But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill—ill and wizened. He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn’t saying anything. She had never been one to grouse about herself. “The lodger and me came in together last night,” he observed genially. “He’s certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn’t the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he must ’a been out a long time if what he said was true.” “I don’t wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded streets,” she said slowly. “They gets worse every day—that they do! But go along now; I want to get up.” He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No doubt Mr. Sleuth’s nose had bled—that was what had happened; though, come to think of it, he _had_ mentioned brushing up against a dead animal. Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn’t do for one to be always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It made one go dotty—that’s what it did. And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl. “I’ll go,” she cried breathlessly. “I’ll go, Bunting; don’t you trouble.” He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the telegram from the invisible boy. “You needn’t wait,” she said. “If there’s an answer we’ll send it out ourselves.” Then she tore the envelope open—“Oh!” she said with a gasp of relief. “It’s only from Joe Chandler, to say he can’t go over to fetch Daisy this morning. Then you’ll have to go.” She walked back into their sitting-room. “There!” she said. “There it is, Bunting. You just read it.” “Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.—CHANDLER.”