and just one piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don’t feel like having anything else this afternoon."
"It’s a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice than usual. "No wonder you don’t feel hungry, sir. And then it isn’t so very long since you had your dinner, is it?"
"No," he said absently. "No, it isn’t, Mrs. Bunting."
She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay.
Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to put on.
"You’re never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly. "Why, the fog’s awful; you can’t see a yard ahead of you!"
Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting’s voice had risen almost to a scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way—to erect between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living barrier.
"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and he looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him.
"It’s very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered, "but—but, Mrs. Bunting, you must ex-
