Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth's bell rang. For
awhile no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife.

"Did you hear that?" he said. "I think, Ellen, that was the lodger's
bell."

She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs.

"I rang," said Mr. Sleuth weakly, "to tell you I don't require any
supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump
of sugar in it. That is all I require--nothing more. I feel very
very far from well"--and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on
his face. "And then I thought your husband would like his paper
back again, Mrs. Bunting."

Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze
of which she was quite unconscious, answered, "Oh, no, sir!
Bunting don't require that paper now. He read it all through."
Something impelled her to add, ruthlessly, "He's got another paper
by now, sir. You may have heard them come shouting outside. Would
you like me to bring you up that other paper, sir?"

And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. "No," he said querulously. "I much
regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it
disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it--
there never is in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers
years ago, and I much regret that I broke though my rule to-day."

As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more
conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in