The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ never Mr. Sleuth going out?” He turned on his wife, startled. “Why, the poor gentleman’ll come to harm—that he will! One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn’t taken any of his money out with him.”

      “‘Tisn’t the first time Mr. Sleuth’s been out in a fog,” said Mrs. Bunting sombrely.

      Somehow she couldn’t help uttering these over-true words. And then she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken what she said.

      But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. “We don’t get the good old fogs we used to get—not what people used to call ‘London particulars.’ I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley—I’ve often told you about her, Ellen?”

      Mrs. Bunting nodded.

      Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting’s ladies, one of those he had liked best—a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated her kind thought.

      “Mrs. Crowley used to say,” went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way, “that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. Fog never kept her from going out—no, that it didn’t. She wasn’t a bit afraid. But—” he turned round and looked at his wife— “I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a timid kind of gentleman—”

      He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him.

      “I wouldn’t exactly call him timid,” she said, in a low voice, “but he is very quiet, certainly. That’s why he dislikes going out when there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don’t suppose he’ll be out long.”

      She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon —that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom.

      Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She got up, and went over to the farthest window.

      The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops.

      At last to his wife’s relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to the cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one out.

      “I think I’ll read a bit,” he said. “Seems a long time since I’ve looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, but now there’s nothing in ’em.”

      His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had very little to say about them that they hadn’t said in different language a dozen times before.

      She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing.

      Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not had much time for that sort of work.

      It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or—or the lodger, in it.

      At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. Sleuth’s return home.

      And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any kind of—well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he had lived during the last few weeks.

      No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, until, perhaps—God, what a horrible thought—a picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting’s knowledge.

      But if that happened—if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding revelation.

      Chapter 14

       Table of Contents

      “There he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

      Bunting’s voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the evening paper he held in his hand.

      He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his nice arm-chair. He looked very well—well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bunting.

      “You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself all right.”

      Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. “I can’t think why he wanted to go out in such weather,” he said impatiently.

      “Well, it’s none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?”

      “No, that’s true enough. Still, ’twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a terrible long time, Ellen.”

      Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious to be worth answering. Also she was listening, following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet progress— “stealthy” she called it to herself—through the fog-filled, lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What was that Bunting was saying?

      “It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—no, that it ain’t, not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till tomorrow.” The speaker was looking straight into his wife’s narrow, colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I’ve a good mind to speak to him about it, that I have! He ought to be told that it isn’t safe—not for the sort of man he is—to be wandering about the streets at night. I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster ‘ull soon be at his work again—”

      “Monster?” repeated Mrs. Bunting absently.

      She was trying to hear the lodger’s footsteps overhead. She was very curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, or straight upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always called it.

      But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up trying to listen to what was going on above.

      “It wouldn’t be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that in the fog, eh, Ellen?” He spoke as if the notion had a certain pleasant thrill in it after all.

      “What stuff you do talk!” said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then СКАЧАТЬ