The ex-butler waited--waited quite a long time, not only until Mr.
Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had
time to get well away, upstairs.

Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in
the door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and
coat up in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out
to him. Then he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table,
he said sullenly: "There it is! You can see it all for yourself--
not that there's very much to see," and groped his way to the fire.

His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. "Whatever have you done to
yourself?" she exclaimed. "You're ill--that's what it is, Bunting.
You got a chill last night!"

"I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered. "'Twasn't last night,
though; 'twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus.
Margaret keeps that housekeeper's room o' hers like a hothouse--
that's what she does. 'Twas going out from there into the biting
wind, that's what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in
such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler,
can stand the life--being out in all weathers like he is."

Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what
was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table.

"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm,"
said his wife testily. "But if you felt so bad, whatever was you
out so long for, Bunting? I thought you'd gone away somewhere!
D'you mean you only went to get the paper?"