He was queer about the drink--one might say almost crazy on the subject--but there, as to that, he wasn't the only one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the question of drink and drunkards--She looked round the neat drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction.

There was only one place where anything could be kept concealed--that place was the substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier.

And then an idea suddenly came to Mrs.Bunting, one she had never thought of before.
After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly bring Mr.Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the corner where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her not very great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece of furniture.
As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,--something rolling about on the second shelf, something which had not been there before Mr.Sleuth's arrival.

Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier backwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice--satisfied, yet strangely troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by its owner.
Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs.Bunting's mind.
She hoped Mr.Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside the cupboard.

A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr.Sleuth's landlady realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier must become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some dark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the bottom of the little cupboard door.
She stooped down and touched the stuff.