—brought the broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner.
Then she sat down.
"I think I’ll make breakfast up here," she said. "I—I feel cold, Bunting." And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of perspiration were glistening on her forehead.
He got up. "All right. I’ll go down and bring the eggs up. Don’t you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if you like."
"No," she said obstinately. "I’d rather do my own work. You just bring them up here—that’ll be all right. To-morrow morning we’ll have Daisy to help see to things."
"Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair," he suggested kindly. "You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see’d such a woman!"
And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room with languid steps.
He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably.
She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took two steps towards her.
"I’ll show you the most interesting bit," he said eagerly. "It’s the piece headed, ‘Our Special Investigator.’ You see, they’ve started a special investigator of their own, and he’s got hold of a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man who writes all that—I mean the Special Investigator—was a famous ’tec in his time, and he’s just come back out of his retirement o’ purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You read what he says—I shouldn’t be
