Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door.

Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it
possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door
open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had
crept in behind them?

Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it
was only Mr. Sleuth--Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall
hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but
he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape.

"I heard you come in"--he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high,
whistling, hesitating voice--"and so I've come down to ask you if
you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's now. I have
never seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the place
all my life."

As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden
doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to
Mr. Sleuth's landlord.

Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered
gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting
had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be!

He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away,
staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and
cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy
was already putting on her hat and coat.