One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. “The fog’s lifting a bit,” she said in an ill-assured voice. “I hope that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it.” But the other shook his head silently. “No such luck!” he said briefly. “You don’t know what it’s like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I expect ’twill soon be just as heavy here as ’twas half an hour ago!” She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. “Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway,” she observed. “There’s a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking of asking if you wouldn’t like to go along there with me.” “No,” she said dully. “I’m quite content to stay at home.” She was listening—listening for the sounds which would betoken that the lodger was coming downstairs. At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact when the front door shut to. “That’s never Mr. Sleuth going out?” He turned on his wife, startled. “Why, the poor gentleman’ll come to harm—that he will! One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn’t taken any of his money out with him.” “’Tisn’t the first time Mr. Sleuth’s been out in a fog,” said Mrs. Bunting sombrely. Somehow she couldn’t help uttering these over-true words. And then she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken what she said. But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. “We don’t get the good old fogs we used to get—not what people used to call ‘London particulars.’ I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley—I’ve often told you about her, Ellen?” Mrs. Bunting nodded. Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting’s ladies, one of those he had liked best—a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated her kind thought.