But now she was so up and down; so different from what she used to be! In old days she had always been the same, but now a man never knew where to have her.
And as he went downstairs he pondered uneasily over his wife's changed ways and manner.
Take the question of his easy chair.

A very small matter, no doubt, but he had never known Ellen sit in that chair--no, not even once, for a minute, since it had been purchased by her as a present for him.
They had been so happy, so happy, and so--so restful, during that first week after Mr.Sleuth had come to them.

Perhaps it was the sudden, dramatic change from agonising anxiety to peace and security which had been too much for Ellen--yes, that was what was the matter with her, that and the universal excitement about these Avenger murders, which were shaking the nerves of all London.

Even Bunting, unobservant as he was, had come to realise that his wife took a morbid interest in these terrible happenings.

And it was the more queer of her to do so that at first she refused to discuss them, and said openly that she was utterly uninterested in murder or crime of any sort.
He, Bunting, had always had a mild pleasure in such things.