Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over his worn, gaunt face.
"Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that’s a good idea, Miss Bunting. I’ve always wanted to see the Chamber of Horrors."
They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were then kept, and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks.
Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband’s old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting the public to the Chamber of Horrors.
"Well, you are a stranger," the man observed genially. "I do believe that this is the very first time I’ve seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, since you was married!"
"Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my husband’s daughter, Daisy; I expect you’ve heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this"—she hesitated a moment—"is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth."
But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her stepmother’s side, joined him.
Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none.
Mrs. Bunting put down three sixpences.
"Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can’t go into the Chamber of Horrors just yet. But you won’t have to wait more than four or five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It’s this way, you see; our boss is in there, showing a party round." He lowered his voice. "It’s Sir John Burney—I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?"
