Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger's bedroom and opened the
drawer of the looking-glass.

Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he
had taken his money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he
had enough on his person to secure a good night's lodging, and then
suddenly she remembered that which brought relief to her mind. The
lodger had given something to that Hopkins fellow--either a sovereign
or half a sovereign, she wasn't sure which.

The memory of Mr. Sleuth's cruel words to her, of his threat, did
not disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake--all a mistake.
Far from betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him--kept his awful
secret as she could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly
suspected, the horrible fact with which Sir John Burney's words had
made her acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no
temporary aberration, but that he was, and had been for years, a
madman, a homicidal maniac.

In her ears there still rang the Frenchman's half careless yet
confident question, "De Leipsic and Liverpool man?"

Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room,
and taking a black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the
leaves of the Bible. Then she opened the Book, and looked at the
page the pin had marked:--

"My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . .
There is none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my
curtains."