The Lodger quotes

but they were there all the same—in her neat black stuff dress, and in her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid.

But peculiarly true of average English life is the timeworn English proverb as to appearances being deceitful.

Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time—how long ago it now seemed!—both husband and wife had been proud of their carefully chosen belongings.

then, moving towards a chair, he sat down—wearily. “I’m tired,” he muttered in a low voice, “tired—tired! I’ve been walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down upon.

They do not put benches for tired men in the London streets.

They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting.”

“About terms?” he echoed. And then there came a pause. “My name is Sleuth,” he said suddenly—“S-l-e-u-t-h.

Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you’ll never forget my name.

I could provide you with a reference—” (he gave her what she described to herself as a funny, sideways look), “but I should prefer you to dispense with that, if you don’t mind.

A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting’s cheeks. She felt sick with relief—nay, with a joy which was almost pain.

She had not known till that moment how hungry she was⁠—how eager for⁠—a good meal.

“That would be all right, sir,” she murmured.

Mr. Sleuth got up. “I—I have taken the liberty to arrange the room as I should wish it to be,” he said awkwardly. “You see, Mrs.—er—Bunting,

I felt as I sat here that these women’s eyes followed me about.

It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave me quite an eerie feeling.”

Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing himself, he said, “Yes, yes, I do.

There is no reading like the Book.

There is something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of body too—”

And though the thousands of men belonging to the Metropolitan Police—to say nothing of the smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force—were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that there was nothing to be alert about.

Familiarity, even with horror, breeds contempt.

But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked.

Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. “What nonsense you do talk!” she said angrily. “Not but what it’s a good thing if these murders have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit.

England’s drink is England’s shame⁠—I’ll never depart from that!

Now, Daisy, child, get up, do! Put down that paper. We’ve heard quite enough. You can be laying the cloth while I goes down the kitchen.”

“Ellen is right,” Bunting said heavily. “

Money does matter⁠—a terrible deal

—though I never thought to hear Ellen say ’twas the only thing that mattered. But ’twould be foolish—very, very foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It’ll only be two days after all—two days isn’t a very long time.”

It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe had said only last evening, it was full time that he should again turn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself.

Mrs. Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre of a bright blinding light⁠—but the shadow had no form or definite substance.

Sometimes he looked like one thing, sometimes like another …

But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery never occurred to Mrs. Bunting.

In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her.

The timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not revealed the fact that he was ever there.

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!”

And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting.

For the first time in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and strangeness, of human life.

Poor Mr. Sleuth—poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the loathing, she had been feeling for her lodger.

Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely novel.

Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory.

I know I oughtn’t to have laughed at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy said it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a queer card, Mrs. Bunting.”

“He’s no queerer than many people I could mention,” she said quickly; and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room.

Mrs. Bunting’s face went yellow with fear. “I thought you was indoors,” she cried. “You was indoors! Whatever made you come out for, without first making sure I’d stay in?”

Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew.

They turned and scurried down the crowded street. “Don’t run,” he said suddenly; “we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. People are noticing you, Ellen. Don’t run.”

But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her stepmother’s side, joined him.

Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none.

Mrs. Bunting put down three sixpences.