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"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.

When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: "We’ll now be able to pay young Chandler back some o’ that thirty shillings. I am glad."

She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words.

And then each went about his and her business—Bunting out into the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen.

The lodger’s tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman.

Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly remembered Mr. Sleuth’s request for a Bible. Putting the tray down in the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; but when back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it was worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase.