just had to put up with what he called "those half-human monsters."
Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth's
odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her
long-gone youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so
strange as he appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did
not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told herself
that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the
pictures in the drawing-room herself.

But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's landlady
went upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the
sound of--was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she
waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then
she realised that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself.
There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on
her listening ears:

"A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for
a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men."

She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door,
and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high,
sing-song voice, "Her house is the way to hell, going down to
the chambers of death."

It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up
courage, knocked, and walked in.

"I'd better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said. And Mr. Sleuth
nodded.