Strange she should remember it now, stranger in a way because that employer of her's had not been a real lady, and Mr.Sleuth, whatever his peculiarities, was, in every sense of the word, a real gentleman.
Somehow Mrs.Bunting felt sure that if he had bought any notepaper it would have been white--white and probably cream-laid--not grey and cheap.
Again she opened the drawer of the old-fashioned wardrobe and lifted up the few pieces of underclothing Mr.Sleuth now possessed.
But there was nothing there--nothing, that is, hidden away.

When one came to think of it there seemed something strange in the notion of leaving all one's money where anyone could take it, and in locking up such a valueless thing as a cheap sham leather bag, to say nothing of a bottle of ink.
Mrs.Bunting once more opened out each of the tiny drawers below the looking-glass, each delicately fashioned of fine old mahogany.

Mr.
Sleuth kept his money in the centre drawer.
The glass had only cost seven-and-sixpence, and, after the auction a dealer had come and offered her first fifteen shillings, and then a guinea for it.

Not long ago, in Baker Street, she had seen a looking-glass which was the very spit of this one, labeled "Chippendale, Antique.

L21 5s 0d." There lay Mr.Sleuth's money--the sovereigns, as the landlady well knew, would each and all gradually pass into her's and Bunting's possession, honestly earned by them no doubt but unattainable--in act unearnable--excepting in connection with the present owner of those dully shining gold sovereigns.
At last she went downstairs to await Mr.Sleuth's return.
When she heard the key turn in the door, she came out into the passage.
"I'm sorry to say I've had an accident, sir," she said a little breathlessly.