CHAPTER XIV
"There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't a night you would wish a dog to be out in."
Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the evening paper he held in his hand.
He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his nice arm-chair. He looked very well—well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bunting.
"You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself all right."
Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. "I can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather," he said impatiently.
"We
