And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. “No,” he said querulously. “I much regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it—there never is in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers years ago, and I much regret that I broke through my rule to-day.” As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in his landlady’s presence. He went over to the fireplace and deliberately turned his back on her. She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of sugar he had asked for. Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the Book. When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting merrily. She did not notice that the merriment was confined to the two young people. “Well?” said Daisy pertly. “How about the lodger, Ellen? Is he all right?” “Yes,” she said stiffly. “Of course he is!” “He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself—awful lonely-like, I call it,” said the girl. But her stepmother remained silent. “Whatever does he do with himself all day?” persisted Daisy. “Just now he’s reading the Bible,” Mrs. Bunting answered, shortly and dryly. “Well, I never! That’s a funny thing for a gentleman to do!” And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed—a long hearty peal of amusement. “There’s nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Bunting sharply. “I should feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected with the Bible.” And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he answered very humbly, “I beg pardon. I know I oughtn’t to have laughed at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy said it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a queer card, Mrs. Bunting.” “He’s no queerer than many people I could mention,” she said quickly; and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. CHAPTER XXIV. Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed of aching fear and suspense. The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he should pursue, and, according to his mood and to the state of his mind at any particular moment, he would waver between various widely-differing lines of action. He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the most awful thing about it all was that _he wasn’t sure_. If only he could have been _sure_, he might have made up his mind exactly what it was he ought to do.