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Updated: June 3, 2025
The bunting's nest is in a low elm bush close to the fence where a wee brown bird sits listening to the strains of the bright little bird above and the little dickcissels have just hatched out in the nest at the base of a tussock not very far away. Now the evening primrose at the side of the road has folded all its yellow petals, marking the near approach of noon.
"The son of one of Bunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did give such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak to him about it." "Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of the kind. It was just a passing annoyance nothing more!" She waited a moment. How strange that Mr.
He was wearing his long Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to put on. "You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly. "Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!" Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a scream.
"Indeed, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Mrs. Bunting's heart was going thump thump thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy with relief and joy. "Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things I managed to bring away with me." His voice dropped suddenly. "I shouldn't have said that," he muttered. "I was a fool to say that!"
Bunting, credited the police with almost supernatural powers, especially since he had paid that visit to Scotland Yard. But to Bunting's amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who suddenly loomed up in the dim light. Mr.
And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, until, perhaps God, what a horrible thought a picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting's knowledge. But if that happened if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything.
Strange, was it not, that that odd, luny-like gentleman should have made all the difference to his, Bunting's, and Mrs. Bunting's happiness and comfort in life? Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for the first time, of this perfect lodger's one fault his odd dislike to meat, and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food.
And then there came a pause. "My name is Sleuth," he said suddenly, "S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I am quite willing to pay you well, shall we say a month in advance?" A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She felt sick with relief nay, with a joy which was almost pain.
Sleuth went out, and that same evening there came two parcels addressed to his landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But it was quite clear to Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new clothes. In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for a real gentleman like Mr. Sleuth to do!
But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting's point of view, almost any alternative would have been preferable to that which to some, nay, perhaps to most, householders would have seemed the only thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners of Bunting's class have an uneasy fear of the law.
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