fruit.

His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his
nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think.
But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him
feel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found himself
starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke
to him suddenly.

Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting
didn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only
one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly
slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going
out.

In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above
all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his
acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that
they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his
mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the
knowledge--no, not knowledge, rather the--the suspicion--that
dwelt within him.

But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing
for human companionship--companionship, that is, other than that
of his wife and of his daughter.

This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small,
populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more
people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the