Having done that, and having turned out the gas in the passage and the sitting-room, she went into her bedroom and closed the door.
The fire was burning brightly and clearly.

She told herself that she did not need any other light to undress by.
What was it made the flames of the fire shoot up, shoot down, in that queer way?
But watching it for awhile, she did at last doze off a bit.
And then--and then Mrs.Bunting woke with a sudden thumping of her heart.

Woke to see that the fire was almost out--woke to hear a quarter to twelve chime out--woke at last to the sound she had been listening for before she fell asleep--the sound of Mr.Sleuth, wearing his rubber-soled shoes, creeping downstairs, along the passage, and so out, very, very quietly by the front door.
But once she was in bed Mrs.Bunting turned restless.

She tossed this way and that, full of discomfort and unease.

Perhaps it was the unaccustomed firelight dancing on the walls, making queer shadows all round her, which kept her so wide awake.
She lay thinking and listening--listening and thinking.