saw with horrified surprise that Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer’s shop just opposite.
Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across the road.
"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you’ve never gone and left my little girl alone in the house with the lodger?"
Mrs. Bunting’s face went yellow with fear. "I thought you was indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come out for, without first making sure I’d stay in?"
Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew.
They turned and scurried down the crowded street.
"Don’t run," he said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. People are noticing you, Ellen. Don’t run."
He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking.
At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in front of his wife.
After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn’t know how he was feeling.
He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment with his latchkey.
Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice, "Daisy, my dear! where are you?"
"Here I am, father. What is it?"
"She’s all right" Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She’s all right, Ellen."
