The Lodger by Marie Belloc Lowndes (color ebook reader txt) 📕

side by others exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, keep any secret closely hidden.

For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger’s victims receded from her mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were concentrated on Bunting—Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what had happened during her absence—whether the lodger had rung his bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with him?

She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door.

“I was getting quite anxious about you,” he exclaimed. “Come in, Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now—and you out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all right?” He looked at her with affectionate anxiety.

And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. “No,” she said slowly, “Doctor Evans wasn’t in. I waited, and waited, and waited, but he never came in at all. ‘Twas my own fault,” she added quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her years ago. “I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night,” she said. “Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance of finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they’ve got to go out to people at all times of day.”

“I hope they gave you a cup of tea?” he said.

And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained she’d known him a long time.

She compromised. “I was offered some,” she said, in a weak, tired voice. “But there, Bunting, I didn’t feel as if I wanted it. I’d be very grateful for a cup now—if you’d just make it for me over the ring.”

“‘Course I will,” he said eagerly. “You just come in and sit down, my dear. Don’t trouble to take your things off now—wait till you’ve had tea.”

And she obeyed him. “Where’s Daisy?” she asked suddenly. “I thought the girl would be back by the time I got home.”

“She ain’t coming home to-day”—there was an odd, sly, smiling look on Bunting’s face.

“Did she send a telegram?” asked Mrs. Bunting.

“No. Young Chandler’s just come in and told me. He’s been over there and,—would you believe it, Ellen?—he’s managed to make friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain’t it? He went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this evening—she and Daisy—to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o’ such a thing?”

“Very nice for them, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bunting absently. But she was pleased—pleased to have her mind taken off herself. “Then when is that girl coming home?” she asked patiently.

“Well, it appears that Chandler’s got to-morrow morning off too— this evening and to-morrow morning. He’ll be on duty all night, but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early dinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?”

“Yes. That’ll be all right,” she said. “I don’t grudge the girl her bit of pleasure. One’s only young once. By the way, did the lodger ring while I was out?”

Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to see the kettle boil. “No,” he said. “Come to think of it, it’s rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened while you was out, Ellen.”

“Something else happened?” she said in a startled voice. Getting up from her chair she came towards her husband: “What happened? Who came?”

“Just a message for me, asking if I could go tonight to wait at a young lady’s birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter —one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing—fell out just at the last minute and so they had to send for me.”

His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his old friend’s business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very badly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for ever so long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this new man had never employed him—no, not once.

“I hope you didn’t make yourself too cheap?” said his wife jealously.

“No, that I didn’t! I hum’d and haw’d a lot; and I could see the fellow was quite worried—in fact, at the end he offered me half-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!”

Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long time.

“You won’t mind being alone, here? I don’t count the lodger—he’s no good—” Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been so in the days when he got more jobs.

She stared at him, a little suspiciously. “I be afraid?” she echoed. “Certainly not. Why should I be? I’ve never been afraid before. What d’you exactly mean by that, Bunting?”

“Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone on this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door.”

“I shouldn’t have been frightened if he’d just been an ordinary stranger,” she said shortly. “He said something silly to me—just in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I feel better now.”

As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers.

“I’ll just run out,” said Bunting apologetically, “and see what happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it— when he wasn’t talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He’s on tonight, luckily not till twelve o’clock; plenty of time to escort the two of ‘em back after the play. Besides, he said he’ll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto’ goes on too long for him to take ‘em home.”

“On tonight?” repeated Mrs. Bunting. “Whatever for?”

“Well, you see, The Avenger’s always done ‘em in couples, so to speak. They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again tonight. However, even so, Joe’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. Then he’ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, Fine thing to be young, ain’t it, Ellen?”

“I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as this!”

“What do you mean?” said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone.

“What do I mean?” she repeated—and a great fear clutched at her heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud.

“Why, by saying he won’t go out. Of course, he has to go out. Besides, he’ll have been to the play as it is. ‘Twould be a pretty thing if the police didn’t go out, just because it was cold!”

“I—I was thinking of The Avenger,” said Mrs. Bunting. She looked at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter those true words.

“He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold,” said Bunting sombrely. “I take it the man’s dead to all human feeling—saving, of course, revenge.”

“So that’s your idea about him, is it?” She looked across at her husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. “D’you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?”

“Let me see,” he said slowly. “I thought that ‘twas from the bedroom window a woman saw him?”

“No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband’s breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most respectable-looking woman of the two,” said Mrs. Bunting impatiently.

And then, seeing her husband’s look of utter, blank astonishment, she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. “There, now,” she said; “here I am gossiping all about nothing when I ought to be seeing about the lodger’s supper. It was someone in the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The Avenger.”

Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous discussion.

As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite unnaturally cold even for the time of year.

She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going to be out tonight. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and she didn’t like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn’t suit her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to cheer her up after he had gone.

Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little ease, listening—listening… .

She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth’s supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so.

Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his wont at this time of the evening.

She knocked, and then waited a moment.

There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard—or so Mr. Sleuth’s landlady could have sworn.

There was a pause—she knocked again.

“Come in,” said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and carried in the tray.

“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?” he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.

“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ve been out. Perhaps I lost count of the time. I thought you’d like your breakfast early, as you had dinner rather sooner than usual.”

“Breakfast? Did you