CHAPTER XXV
Daisy's eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gaveher what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenthbirthday--a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, whichBunting had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy--it seemed a long, long time ago now.
Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present butshe was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, totrouble much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generallyhad the good sense not to interfere between her husband and hischild.
In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buyhimself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in thelast four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed onhis leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisitepleasure which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbiddenfruit.
His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on hisnerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think.But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made himfeel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found himselfstarting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoketo him suddenly.
Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Buntingdidn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there was onlyone pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietlyslipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was goingout.
In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; aboveall, he had avoided even passing the time of day to hisacquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, thatthey would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled hismind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray theknowledge--no, not knowledge, rather the--the suspicion--thatdwelt within him.
But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longingfor human companionship--companionship, that is, other than thatof his wife and of his daughter.
This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small,populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were morepeople there than usual just now, for the housewives of theneighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. Theex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generallybought his tobacco.
Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the twofell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief and surprisethe man made no allusion to the subject of which all theneighbourhood must still be talking.
And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, andbefore he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand,Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise thatEllen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shopjust opposite.
Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and acrossthe road.
"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and left my littlegirl alone in the house with the lodger?"
Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I thought you wasindoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come outfor, without first making sure I'd stay in?"
Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other inexasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew.
They turned and scurried down the crowded street. "Don't run," hesaid suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast.People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run."
He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fearand by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking.
At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past infront of his wife.
After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know how he wasfeeling.
He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a momentwith his latchkey.
Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice,"Daisy, my dear! where are you?"
"Here I am, father. What is it?"
"She's all right." Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She'sall right, Ellen."
He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. "Itdid give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly, "Don't frightenthe girl, Ellen."
Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiringherself in the glass.
"Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round, "I've seen thelodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, though, to be sure, he doeslook a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn't like to go up; and sohe came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nicelittle chat--that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and heasked me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him thisafternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of course,I could see he was 'centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily.'And who be you?' he says, threatening-like. And I says to him,'I'm Mr. Bunting's daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunategirl'--that's what he says, Ellen--'to 'ave such a nicestepmother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look sucha good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit of the PrayerBook. 'Keep innocency,' he says, wagging his head at me. Lor'!It made me feel as if I was with Old Aunt again."
"I won't have you going out with the lodger--that's flat."
Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his foreheadwith one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed thelittle packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he hadforgotten to pay.
Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treaton my birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn't a very good day--at least, so I'd heard--for Madame Tussaud's. Then he said wecould go early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners."She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He particularlysaid you was to come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you,Ellen; if I was father, I'd feel quite jealous!"
Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door.
Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was itpossible that, in their agitation, they had left the front dooropen, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, hadcrept in behind them?
Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that itwas only Mr. Sleuth--Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tallhat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, buthe was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape.
"I heard you come in"--he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high,whistling, hesitating voice--"and so I've come down to ask you ifyou and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's now. I havenever seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the placeall my life."
As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a suddendoubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came toMr. Sleuth's landlord.
Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-manneredgentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Buntinghad now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be!
He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away,staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet andcloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisywas already putting on her hat and coat.
"Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemedto his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. "Well?"
"Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said dully.
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