She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back.
"Good-night, sir," she said at last.
Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn.
"I hope you’ll sleep well, sir."
"Yes, I’m sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been studying all day I require a little exercise."
"Oh, I wouldn’t go out to-night," she said deprecatingly. "’Tisn’t fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold."
"And yet—and yet"—he looked at her attentively—"there will probably be many people out in the streets to-night."
"A many more than usual, I fear, sir."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a strange thing, Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse themselves should carry their revels far into the night?"
"Oh, I wasn’t thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking"—she hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the words, "of the police."
"The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or three times with a nervous gesture. "But what is man—what is man’s puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over whose feet God has set a guard?"
Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shud-
