After all, he was a detective--it was his job to be always nosing about, trying to find out things.

And, though she couldn't fairly say to herself that he had done much of that sort of thing in her house, he might start doing it any minute.

And then--then--where would she, and -- and Mr.Sleuth, be?
She thought of the bottle of red ink--of the leather bag which must be hidden somewhere--and her heart almost stopped beating.
Those were the sort of things which, in the stories Bunting was so fond of reading, always led to the detection of famous criminals.

.

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