The Buntings went to bed early that night.But Mrs.Bunting made up her mind to keep awake.She was set upon knowing at what hour of the night the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry through his experiment, and, above all, she was anxious to know how long he would stay there.
But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she fell asleep.
The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs.Bunting awoke.She felt put out sharply annoyed with herself.How could she have dropped off like that? Mr.Sleuth must have been down and up again hours ago!
Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid odour in the room.Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass her and the snoring man by her side, almost as a vapour might have done.
Mrs.Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the cold, she quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and crawled along to the bottom of the bed.When there, Mr.Sleuth's landlady did a very curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail and put her face close to the hinge of the door giving into the hall.Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor was coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage.
As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard herself saying, "Bunting, get up! There's something strange and dreadful going on downstairs which we ought to know about."But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening with painful intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she would do nothing of the sort.
What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess - a certain amount of smell - in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not - was he not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, where could they ever hope to get another like him?
Three o'clock struck before Mrs.Bunting heard slow, heavy steps creaking up the kitchen stairs.But Mr.Sleuth did not go straight up to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do.Instead, he went to the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain.Then he came past her door, and she thought - but could not be sure - that he sat down on the stairs.
At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage again.Very softly he closed the front door.By then she had divined why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion.He wanted to get the strong, acrid smell of burning - was it of burning wool?
- out of the house.
But Mrs.Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get rid of the horrible odour.
Mrs.Bunting felt herself to be all smell.
At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream.Hoarse voices seemed to be shouting in her ear: "The Avenger close here!
The Avenger close here!" "'Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!""The Avenger at his work again"'
And even in her dream Mrs.Bunting felt angered - angered and impatient.She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare! It was because of Bunting - Bunting, who could think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders, in which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest.
Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her about it:
"Ellen " - so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear - "Ellen, my dear, I'm just going to get up to get a paper.It's after seven o'clock."The shouting - nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on her shrinking ears.Pushing back her hair off her forehead with both hands, she sat up and listened.
It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse -reality.
Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been easier to bear than this awakening.
She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller.Then he came back.There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the sitting-room.
Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning.He had promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet broken his word.It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs.Bunting's pale blue eyes.
This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job.
When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his wife lying with her face to the wall.
"Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, nay happy, excitement in his voice.
She turned herself round and sat up."Well?" she asked."Well?
Why don't you tell me about it?"
"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out."I thought, Ellen, you never heard nothing.""How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard.
Why don't you tell me?"
"I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly.
"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the rustling.You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring.Don't tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?""Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you.The Avenger's moving West - that's what he's doing.Last time 'twas King's Cross - now 'tis the Edgware Road.I said he'd come our way, and he has come our way!""You just go and get me that paper," she commanded."I wants to see for myself."Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet.
