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Updated: May 28, 2025
And this is my husband's daughter, Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this" she hesitated a moment "is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth." But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her stepmother's side, joined him. Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. Bunting put down three sixpences.
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.
If you can't entangle the Government that fed you so long in some trouble, you won't play." "You've been reading some of the red-covered detective stories, and think you're a sleuth!" snarled the Captain. "You may as well tell me all about it," Ned urged. "I have told you all I know about the condition of the wreck." "And the packet?"
She thought he ought to be able to find the violin if he really made the effort. Allen began to take notice. The sleuth in him pricked up its ears. Why, sure, certainly, Flechter was the one man who knew what Bott's violin was really worth the one man who could sell it to advantage and he had been done out of five hundred dollars by the old musician's stupidity.
No, during those long hours of darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had fallen on Mrs. Bunting's ears. And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined effort to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts.
It was his good fortune to escape. Pursued by the sleuth hounds of intolerance he fled to Geneva for protection. A dove flying from hawks, sought safety in the nest of a vulture. This fugitive from the cruelty of Rome asked shelter from John Calvin, who had written a book in favor of religious toleration.
"He's certain to come in when he gets hungry. But he did look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad that he did!" Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy to go down. "Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she said sombrely, and then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which came over her husband's face.
I'm glad I've never fallen to bad eggs!" "Sleuth," echoed Bunting, staring at her. "What a queer name! How d'you spell it S-l-u-t-h?" "No," she shot out, "S-l-e u t h." "Oh," he said doubtfully. "He said, 'Think of a hound and you'll never forget my name," and Mrs. Bunting smiled.
They meant the shot for her husband, who was with her. They don't make many mistakes. They bide their time, avoid hurry, and do the work both nately an' complately. They track down their victims like sleuth hounds, an' there's one thing they never go in for, that's executions. Mrs.
Sleuth kept his money in the centre drawer. The glass had only cost seven-and-sixpence, and, after the auction a dealer had come and offered her first fifteen shillings, and then a guinea for it. Not long ago, in Baker Street, she had seen a looking-glass which was the very spit of this one, labeled "Chippendale, Antique. £21 5s 0d." There lay Mr.
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