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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.

Then he got up and closed the Book. "I think I’ll go to bed now," he said. "I am very, very tired. I’ve had a long and a very weary day, Mrs. Bunting."