“Gone?” And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly laugh. “Gone, Bunting?” she repeated. “Why, he’s out o’ sight—right, out of sight!” Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:—“I suppose he’ll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or—or d’you think he’ll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?” “Inquest? What inquest?” He looked at her puzzled. “Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King’s Cross.” “Oh, no; he’d have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o’ that, I know he’s going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night—just when you went up to the lodger.” “That’s just as well.” Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable satisfaction. “Otherwise I suppose you’d ha’ had to go. I wouldn’t like the house left—not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth _would_ be upset if there came a ring at the door.” “Oh, I won’t leave the house, don’t you be afraid, Ellen—not while you’re out.” “Not even if I’m out a good while, Bunting.” “No fear. Of course, you’ll be a long time if it’s your idea to see that doctor at Ealing?” He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow nodding didn’t seem as bad as speaking a lie. CHAPTER XVIII. Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely novel. Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for a fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of those sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the serenity, the apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household. The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles to the strange lady’s maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, and it was during the conversation the two women had had together that the girl had threatened to take her own life. As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair, and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, unfortunate creature had been held. The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl’s fate had aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid.