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Updated: May 24, 2025
Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that was in him against the wall, and let the other pass him. There was a pause, and then "Good-night," returned Mr. Sleuth, in a hollow voice. Bunting waited until the lodger had gone upstairs, and then, lighting the gas, he sat down there, in the hall. Mr. Sleuth's landlord felt very queer queer and sick.
She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of the top front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he had asked her eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was only to find it safely lodged at his feet! As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, for, strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again.
It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth's arrival. "I've time to go out with that telegram," she said briskly somehow she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days "and then it'll be done.
When you hear me hit the asphalt, send out for a chocolate ice cream soda and drown your sorrow." Then I turns down a page in "Old Sleuth's Revenge" and goes to the slaughter. 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.
Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last night, or rather this morning. Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food.
Sleuth's money the sovereigns, as the landlady well knew, would each and all gradually pass into her's and Bunting's possession, honestly earned by them no doubt but unattainable in act unearnable excepting in connection with the present owner of those dully shining gold sovereigns. At last she went downstairs to await Mr. Sleuth's return.
"I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's luncheon," she said quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger's dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot her lodger was a gentleman. "After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I can manage all right.
After waiting for two hours in the anteroom of the great detective's apartment, Meeks was shown into his presence. Jolnes sat in a purple dressing-gown at an inlaid ivory chess table, with a magazine before him, trying to solve the mystery of "They." The famous sleuth's thin, intellectual face, piercing eyes, and rate per word are too well known to need description. Meeks set forth his errand.
"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil. Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East th Street, care of Mrs. McComus." "Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr.
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