There lay Mr. Sleuth’s money—the sovereigns, as the landlady well knew, would each and all gradually pass into her’s and Bunting’s possession, honestly earned by them no doubt, but unattainable—in fact unearnable—excepting in connection with the present owner of those dully shining gold sovereigns.
At last she went downstairs to await Mr. Sleuth’s return.
When she heard the key turn in the door, she came out into the passage.
"I’m sorry to say I’ve had an accident, sir," she said a little breathlessly. "Taking advantage of your being out, I went up to dust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the chiffonnier it tilted. I’m afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that was inside may have got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, sir. But I hope there’s no harm done. I wiped it up as well as I could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked."
Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now than she had felt before he came in. Then she had been so frightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to the pavement, for company.
"Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there."
She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger’s brow cleared.
"I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went on, "for I have seen you marking that book of yours—I mean the book you read together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you another bottle, sir?"
