I scarcely touched you, sir." It seemed as if a power outside himself compelled Bunting to utter these lying words.

"And now, sir, I'll be saying good-night to you," he said.
Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that was in him against the wall, and let the other pass him.

There was a pause, and then--"Good-night," returned Mr.Sleuth, in a hollow voice.
Bunting waited until the lodger had gone upstairs, and then, lighting the gas, he sat down there, in the hall.

Mr.Sleuth's landlord felt very queer--queer and sick.
He did not draw his left hand out of his pocket till he heard Mr.
Sleuth shut the bedroom door upstairs.

Then he held up his left hand and looked at it curiously; it was flecked, streaked with pale reddish blood.
Taking off his boots, he crept into the room where his wife lay asleep.