Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting didn’t quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going out. In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the knowledge—no, not knowledge, rather the—the suspicion—that dwelt within him. But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing for human companionship—companionship, that is, other than that of his wife and of his daughter. This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generally bought his tobacco. Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two fell into desultory talk, but to his customer’s relief and surprise the man made no allusion to the subject of which all the neighbourhood must still be talking. And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer’s shop just opposite. Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across the road. “Ellen!” he gasped hoarsely, “you’ve never gone and left my little girl alone in the house with the lodger?” Mrs. Bunting’s face went yellow with fear. “I thought you was indoors,” she cried. “You _was_ indoors! Whatever made you come out for, without first making sure I’d stay in?” Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew. They turned and scurried down the crowded street. “Don’t run,” he said suddenly; “we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. People are noticing you, Ellen. Don’t run.” He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in front of his wife. After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn’t know how he was feeling. He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment with his latchkey. Opening wide the door, “Daisy!” he called out, in a wailing voice, “Daisy, my dear! where are you?” “Here I am, father. What is it?” “She’s all right.” Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. “She’s all right, Ellen.”