for the first time the lodger looked frightened—frightened and cowed.
"I heard a noise downstairs," he said fretfully, "and I wanted to know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me."
"It was just a friend of ours, sir. I’m sorry you were disturbed. Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting ’ll be pleased to do it if you don’t like to hear the sound of the knocks."
"Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you to such trouble as that." Mr. Sleuth looked quite relieved. "Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. Bunting? He made a great deal of noise."
"Just a young fellow," she said apologetically. "The son of one of Bunting’s old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did give such a great big double knock as that before. I’ll speak to him about it."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of the kind. It was just a passing annoyance—nothing more."
She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of the hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam every hour or two throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at his reading.
"I thought maybe you’d like to have supper a little earlier to-night, sir?"
"Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting—just when it’s convenient. I do not wish to put you out in any way."
