Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the
seaside.

How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to
London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately
respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible
underworld of men and women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen
better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of
petty fraud.

"I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean
towels," she said, going to the door.

And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. "Mrs. Bunting"--and as
he spoke he stammered a little--"I--I don't want you to interpret
the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off
your feet for me. I'm accustomed to look after myself."

And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed--even a
little snubbed. "All right, sir," she said. "I'll only just let
you know when I've your supper ready."



CHAPTER III

But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy
of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune
which had fallen their way?