“That I’m sure they do, sir”—­she spoke heartily, sincerely.  Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously.

And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger’s one hot dish upon it, she went towards the door.  “Wouldn’t you like me to bring up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it’s bitterly cold—­getting colder every minute.  A fearful night to have to go out in—­” she looked at him deprecatingly.

And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much.  Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full height.

“What d’you mean?” he stammered.  “Why did you say that, Mrs. Bunting?”

She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted.  Again there came an awful questioning look over his face.

“I was thinking of Bunting, sir.  He’s got a job to-night.  He’s going to act as waiter at a young lady’s birthday party.  I was thinking it’s a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, too”—­she brought out her words jerkily.

Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down.  “Ah!” he said.  “Dear me—­I’m sorry to hear that!  I hope your husband will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting.”

And then she shut the door, and went downstairs.

******

Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire.

Then in some triumph she called Bunting in.

“Time for you to dress,” she cried out cheerfully, “and I’ve got a little bit of fire for you to dress by.”

As he exclaimed at her extravagance, “Well, ’twill be pleasant for me, too; keep me company-like while you’re out; and make the room nice and warm when you come in.  You’ll be fair perished, even walking that short way,” she said.

And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs and cleared away Mr. Sleuth’s supper.

The lodger said no word while she was so engaged—­no word at all.

He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him to do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees.

Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn.  Somehow, a great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting’s heart.  He was such a—­a—­she searched for a word in her mind, but could only find the word “gentle”—­he was such a nice, gentle gentleman, was Mr. Sleuth.  Lately he had again taken to leaving his money about, as he had done the first day or two, and with some concern his landlady had seen that the store had diminished a good deal.  A very simple calculation had made her realise that almost the whole of that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, had passed through her hands.

Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay.  And Mrs. Bunting’s conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly ever used that room upstairs—­that room for which he had paid extra so generously.  If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty man in Baker Street,—­and now that the ice had been broken between them it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a very well-trained, experienced waiter—­then she thought she would tell Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was now doing.