"A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men."
She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, sing-song voice, "Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death."
It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up courage, knocked, and walked in.
"I’d better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said.
And Mr. Sleuth nodded.
Then he got up and closed the Book. "I think I’ll go to bed now," he said. "I am very, very tired. I’ve had a long and a very weary day, Mrs. Bunting."
After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. Sleuth. Each left an unsightly mark on the wall—but that, after all, could not be helped.
Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried them down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed.
