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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2014-0.txt b/2014-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3755110 --- /dev/null +++ b/2014-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9845 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Lodger + +Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes + +Release Date: December, 1999 [eBook #2014] +[Most recently updated: April 22, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + + + + +The Lodger + +by Marie Belloc Lowndes + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + + + + +“Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into +darkness.” +PSALM lxxxviii. 18 + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning, +carefully-banked-up fire. + +The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house +standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare, was +exceptionally clean and well-cared-for. A casual stranger, more +particularly one of a Superior class to their own, on suddenly opening +the door of that sitting-room; would have thought that Mr. and Mrs. +Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of comfortable married +life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep leather arm-chair, was +clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance what he had been for many +years of his life—a self-respecting man-servant. + +On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, +the marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they were there all +the same—in her neat black stuff dress, and in her scrupulously clean, +plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been what +is known as a useful maid. + +But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn English +proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were +sitting in a very nice room and in their time—how long ago it now +seemed!—both husband and wife had been proud of their carefully chosen +belongings. Everything in the room was strong and substantial, and each +article of furniture had been bought at a well-conducted auction held +in a private house. + +Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, +drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, and +yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. A +great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which +covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat +forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair had +been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband to be +comfortable after the day’s work was done, and she had paid +thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had tried +to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at it, +guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve +shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping +their arm-chair. + +But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, much +as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the walls of +the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded +photographs—photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s various former +employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had +separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not unhappy +servitude. + +But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than usually +deceitful with regard to these unfortunate people. In spite of their +good furniture—that substantial outward sign of respectability which is +the last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to dispose +of—they were almost at the end of their tether. Already they had learnt +to go hungry, and they were beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the +last thing the sober man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up +some time ago by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting—prim, prudent, careful +woman as she was in her way—had realised what this must mean to him. So +well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had crept out +and bought him a packet of Virginia. + +Bunting had been touched—touched as he had not been for years by any +woman’s thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced themselves +into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in their odd, +unemotional way, moved to the heart. + +Fortunately he never guessed—how could he have guessed, with his slow, +normal, rather dull mind?—that his poor Ellen had since more than once +bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha’penny, for they were now very near +the soundless depths which divide those who dwell on the safe tableland +of security—those, that is, who are sure of making a respectable, if +not a happy, living—and the submerged multitude who, through some lack +in themselves, or owing to the conditions under which our strange +civilisation has become organised, struggle rudderless till they die in +workhouse, hospital, or prison. + +Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they +belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to so +many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours ready +to help them, and the same would have been the case had they belonged +to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk whom they +had spent so much of their lives in serving. + +There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought to +help them. That was an aunt of Bunting’s first wife. With this woman, +the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, Bunting’s only +child by his first wife, and during the last long two days he had been +trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, and that though he +suspected that she would almost certainly retort with a cruel, sharp +rebuff. + +As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, they +had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but one friend +who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This was a young +fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting had been footman +years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone into service; he was +attached to the police; in fact not to put too fine a point upon it, +young Chandler was a detective. + +When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they +both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap to +come often, for his tales were well worth listening to—quite exciting +at times. But now poor Bunting didn’t want to hear that sort of +stories—stories of people being cleverly “nabbed,” or stupidly allowed +to escape the fate they always, from Chandler’s point of view, richly +deserved. + +But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing his +calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him—nay, more, +he had done that which showed him to have a good and feeling heart. He +had offered his father’s old acquaintance a loan, and Bunting, at last, +had taken 30s. Very little of that money now remained: Bunting still +could jingle a few coppers in his pocket; and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; +that and the rent they would have to pay in five weeks, was all they +had left. Everything of the light, portable sort that would fetch money +had been sold. Mrs. Bunting had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She +had never put her feet in such a place, and she declared she never +would—she would rather starve first. + +But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual +disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting +valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been +given to him after the death of his first master, a master he had +nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. There +had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a large mourning ring, +both gifts of former employers. + +When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure from +the insecure—when they see themselves creeping closer and closer to its +dread edge—they are apt, however loquacious by nature, to fall into +long silences. Bunting had always been a talker, but now he talked no +more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but then she had always been a silent +woman, and that was perhaps one reason why Bunting had felt drawn to +her from the very first moment he had seen her. + +It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as butler, +and he had been shown, by the man whose place he was to take, into the +dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he had discovered Ellen +Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port wine which her then +mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning. And as he, the new +butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he had watched her +carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into the old +wine-cooler, he had said to himself, “That is the woman for me!” + +But now her stillness, her—her dumbness, had got on the unfortunate +man’s nerves. He no longer felt like going into the various little +shops, close by, patronised by him in more prosperous days, and Mrs. +Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases which still had +to be made every day or two, if they were to be saved from actually +starving to death. + +Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there came +the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting +outside—boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening papers. + +Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily paper +had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And the paper +was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants are great readers of +newspapers. + +As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask +curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him. + +It was a shame—a damned shame—that he shouldn’t know what was happening +in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing news of what +is going on beyond their prison walls. And those shouts, those hoarse, +sharp cries must portend that something really exciting had happened, +something warranted to make a man forget for the moment his own +intimate, gnawing troubles. + +He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to +listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused +babel of hoarse shouts, the one clear word “Murder!” + +Slowly Bunting’s brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some sort +of connected order. Yes, that was it—“Horrible Murder! Murder at St. +Pancras!” Bunting remembered vaguely another murder which had been +committed near St. Pancras—that of an old lady by her servant-maid. It +had happened a great many years ago, but was still vividly remembered, +as of special and natural interest, among the class to which he had +belonged. + +The newsboys—for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual +thing in the Marylebone Road—were coming nearer and nearer; now they +had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they were +crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he could only +hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly “The Avenger! The Avenger at +his work again!” broke on his ear. + +During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had been +committed in London and within a comparatively small area. + +The first had aroused no special interest—even the second had only been +awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a small +paragraph. + +Then had come the third—and with that a wave of keen excitement, for +pinned to the dress of the victim—a drunken woman—had been found a +three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red ink, and in +printed characters, the words, + +“THE AVENGER” + + +It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to +investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world of men +and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister mysteries, +that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes; and before that +extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into the public mind there +took place yet another murder, and again the murderer had been to +special pains to make it clear that some obscure and terrible lust for +vengeance possessed him. + +Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the man +who left their ha’porth of milk at the door each morning had spoken to +Bunting about them that very day. + +Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild +excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of weary, +mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him. He felt he +could have shaken her! + +Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had come +back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had said. In +fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that she didn’t +like hearing about such horrid things. + +It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of pathos +and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to the details of +a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories of immorality or of +physical violence. In the old, happy days, when they could afford to +buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper daily, Bunting had often had +to choke down his interest in some exciting “case” or “mystery” which +was affording him pleasant mental relaxation, because any allusion to +it sharply angered Ellen. + +But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she felt. + +Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards the +door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his +close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which a +child about to do something naughty glances at its parent. + +But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders just +showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, bolt +upright, staring before her as if into vacancy. + +Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into the +dark hall—they had given up lighting the gas there some time ago—and +opened the front door. + +Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron +gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. The +coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he +remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. + +Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, +being sorely tempted—fell. “Give me a _Sun_,” he said roughly, “_Sun_ +or _Echo!_” + +But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. “Only +penny papers left,” he gasped. “What’ll yer ’ave, sir?” + +With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny +out of his pocket and took a paper—it was the _Evening Standard_—from +the boy’s hand. + +Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, +cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful +anticipation. + +Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass a +happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, miserable +self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments of respite +from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, with +careworn, troubled Ellen. + +A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen +would never have spent that penny on herself—he knew that well +enough—and if it hadn’t been so cold, so foggy, so—so drizzly, he would +have gone out again through the gate and stood under the street lamp to +take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread the glance of +Ellen’s cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance would tell him that +he had had no business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well he +knew it! + +Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he heard a familiar voice +saying crossly, yet anxiously, “What on earth are you doing out there, +Bunting? Come in—do! You’ll catch your death of cold! I don’t want to +have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!” Mrs. Bunting +rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays. + +He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. “I went out +to get a paper,” he said sullenly. + +After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money as +she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now both +living had been lent, nay, pressed on him—not on Ellen—by that decent +young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done all he could; he +had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, so he resentfully +noticed, still wore her wedding ring. + +He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew she +grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and contempt +for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a very mild, +oath—Ellen had very early made it clear she would have no swearing in +her presence—he lit the hall gas full-flare. + +“How can we hope to get lodgers if they can’t even see the card?” he +shouted angrily. + +And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the gas, +the oblong card, though not the word “Apartments” printed on it, could +be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned fanlight above the +front door. + +Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, and +then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little banked-up +fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire for many a long +day, and this exertion of marital authority made him feel better. A man +has to assert himself sometimes, and he, Bunting, had not asserted +himself enough lately. + +A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting’s pale face. She was not used to +be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly upset, was the +mildest of men. + +She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible touch of +dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. + +But her hands trembled—they trembled with excitement, with self-pity, +with anger. A penny? It was dreadful—dreadful to have to worry about a +penny! But they had come to the point when one has to worry about +pennies. Strange that her husband didn’t realise that. + +Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen to +leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by now, a +little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, and she +soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. + +But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have +liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, +irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the door +which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and—shutting +out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably by the now +brightly burning fire, with the _Evening Standard_ spread out before +him—she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her hands against +her temples. + +Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so—so broken as now. Where was +the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting +woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading +poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age which +gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter service +together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed cook. A +cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs. Bunting was +no cook. She could do all right the simple things any lodger she might +get would require, but that was all. + +Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For it +had been her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands. + +Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. There +they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still pretty well; +and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and that had meant ruin +for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of other luckless people. Then +had followed a business experiment which had proved even more +disastrous, and which had left them in debt—in debt to an extent they +could never hope to repay, to a good-natured former employer. + +After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have done, +perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up their minds to +make one last effort, and they had taken over, with the trifle of money +that remained to them, the lease of this house in the Marylebone Road. + +In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, +impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is the +compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately take +upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both lived in +houses overlooking Regent’s Park. It had seemed a wise plan to settle +in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting, who had a good +appearance, had retained the kind of connection which enables a man to +get a job now and again as waiter at private parties. + +But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. Two of +his former masters had moved to another part of London, and a caterer +in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. + +And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had one been +offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had not asked his +wife’s permission to do this, as so good a husband ought to have done. +He had just gone out and done it. And she had not had the heart to say +anything; nay, it was with part of the money that he had handed her +silently the evening he did it that she had bought that last packet of +tobacco. + +And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, +there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, +uncertain double knock. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment +listening in the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line of +light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. + +And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock; +not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any good. +Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. No; this must +be some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at all hours, and +asked—whining or threatening—for money. + +Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and +women—especially women—drawn from that nameless, mysterious class made +up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every great city. +But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the passage unlit at +night she had been very little troubled with that kind of visitors, +those human bats which are attracted by any kind of light but leave +alone those who live in darkness. + +She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting’s place to go +to the front door, but she knew far better than he did how to deal with +difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she would have liked +him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed in his newspaper; all +he did at the sound of the bedroom door opening was to look up and say, +“Didn’t you hear a knock?” + +Without answering his question she went out into the hall. + +Slowly she opened the front door. + +On the top of the three steps which led up to the door, there stood the +long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an +old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, +perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. Bunting’s +trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as he looked, +was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with whom her former +employment had brought her in contact. + +“Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?” he asked, and there was +something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. + +“Yes, sir,” she said uncertainly—it was a long, long time since anyone +had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they could think +of taking into their respectable house. + +Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger walked +past her, and so into the hall. + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a +narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong +brown leather. + +“I am looking for some quiet rooms,” he said; then he repeated the +words, “quiet rooms,” in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered them +he looked nervously round him. + +Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully +furnished, and was very clean. + +There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger’s weary feet +fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which matched in +colour the flock-paper on the walls. + +A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior +lodging-house keeper. + +“You’d find my rooms quite quiet, sir,” she said gently. “And just now +I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband and me, +sir.” + +Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too good to +be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a lodger who +spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which recalled to the +poor woman her happy, far-off days of youth and of security. + +“That sounds very suitable,” he said. “Four rooms? Well, perhaps I +ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see all four +before I make my choice.” + +How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the gas! +But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed them by. + +She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation +that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom she +already in her mind described as “the lodger,” who turned and rather +quickly walked down the passage and shut it. + +“Oh, thank you, sir!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry you should have had the +trouble.” + +For a moment their eyes met. “It’s not safe to leave a front door open +in London,” he said, rather sharply. “I hope you do not often do that. +It would be so easy for anyone to slip in.” + +Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken +courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. + +“I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open,” she answered +hastily. “You needn’t be at all afraid of that!” + +And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the sound +of Bunting coughing—it was just a little, hard cough, but Mrs. +Bunting’s future lodger started violently. + +“Who’s that?” he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. +“Whatever was that?” + +“Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes ago, +and the cold just caught him, I suppose.” + +“Your husband—?” he looked at her intently, suspiciously. “What—what, +may I ask, is your husband’s occupation?” + +Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting’s occupation +was no one’s business but theirs. Still, it wouldn’t do for her to show +offence. “He goes out waiting,” she said stiffly. “He was a gentleman’s +servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you should you require him to +do so.” + +And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. + +At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to +herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a sitting-room +in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door of the sitting-room +and quickly lit the chandelier. + +This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little +over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green carpet +simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table which occupied +the exact middle of the apartment, and in the corner, opposite the door +giving on to the landing, was a roomy, old-fashioned chiffonnier. + +On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits of +early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, clipped +from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these +pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of elegance and +refinement. + +As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that she +had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the room a +thorough turn-out. + +It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been left +by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been scared into +going away by Bunting’s rough threats of the police. But now it was in +apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, of which Mrs. Bunting +was painfully aware. There were no white curtains to the windows, but +that omission could soon be remedied if this gentleman really took the +lodgings. + +But what was this—? The stranger was looking round him rather +dubiously. “This is rather—rather too grand for me,” he said at last “I +should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er—” + +“—Bunting,” she said softly. “Bunting, sir.” + +And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and +settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, +after all—or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but +perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman—too poor, that is, to +afford the rent of more than one room, say eight or ten shillings a +week; eight or ten shillings a week would be very little use to her and +Bunting, though better than nothing at all. + +“Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?” + +“No,” he said, “no. I think I should like to see what you have farther +up the house, Mrs.—,” and then, as if making a prodigious mental +effort, he brought out her name, “Bunting,” with a kind of gasp. + +The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the drawing-room +floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact that they were +bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had been taken over +their arrangement; in fact, they had been left in much the same +condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. + +For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel +sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features are a +sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete pattern, was +fed by a tiresome, shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. It had been the +property of the people from whom the Buntings had taken over the lease +of the house, who, knowing it to be of no monetary value, had thrown it +in among the humble fittings they had left behind. + +What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as +everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a +bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry that +she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. + +To her surprise, however, her companion’s dark, sensitive, +hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. “Capital! +Capital!” he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he held +at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a quick, +nervous movement. + +“This is just what I have been looking for.” He walked with long, eager +strides towards the gas stove. “First-rate—quite first-rate! Exactly +what I wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs.—er—Bunting, that I am +a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of experiments, and I +often require the—ah, well, the presence of great heat.” + +He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the +stove. “This, too, will be useful—exceedingly useful, to me,” and he +touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing touch. + +He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare +forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down—wearily. “I’m +tired,” he muttered in a low voice, “tired—tired! I’ve been walking +about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down upon. +They do not put benches for tired men in the London streets. They do so +on the Continent. In some ways they are far more humane on the +Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“Indeed, sir,” she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, she +asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, “Then +you mean to take my rooms, sir?” + +“This room, certainly,” he said, looking round. “This room is exactly +what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last few days;” and +then hastily he added, “I mean this kind of place is what I have always +wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would be surprised if you knew how +difficult it is to get anything of the sort. But now my weary search +has ended, and that is a relief—a very, very great relief to me!” + +He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And +then, “Where’s my bag?” he asked suddenly, and there came a note of +sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman standing +before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of fright shoot +through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far away, right down +the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a +perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of the +well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like other +people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. “Surely I had a +bag when I came in?” he said in a scared, troubled voice. + +“Here it is, sir,” she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it up and +handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the bag was not at +all heavy; it was evidently by no means full. + +He took it eagerly from her. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “But +there is something in that bag which is very precious to me—something I +procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could never get again +without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. That must be the +excuse for my late agitation.” + +“About terms, sir?” she said a little timidly, returning to the subject +which meant so much, so very much to her. + +“About terms?” he echoed. And then there came a pause. “My name is +Sleuth,” he said suddenly,—“S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, Mrs. +Bunting, and you’ll never forget my name. I could provide you with a +reference—” (he gave her what she described to herself as a funny, +sideways look), “but I should prefer you to dispense with that, if you +don’t mind. I am quite willing to pay you—well, shall we say a month in +advance?” + +A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting’s cheeks. She felt sick with +relief—nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known till +that moment how hungry she was—how eager for—a good meal. “That would +be all right, sir,” she murmured. + +“And what are you going to charge me?” There had come a kindly, almost +a friendly note into his voice. “With attendance, mind! I shall expect +you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if you can cook, Mrs. +Bunting?” + +“Oh, yes, sir,” she said. “I am a plain cook. What would you say to +twenty-five shillings a week, sir?” She looked at him deprecatingly, +and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, “You see, sir, it may +seem a good deal, but you would have the best of attendance and careful +cooking—and my husband, sir—he would be pleased to valet you.” + +“I shouldn’t want anything of that sort done for me,” said Mr. Sleuth +hastily. “I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used to waiting +on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to sharing +lodgings—” + +She interrupted eagerly, “I could let you have the use of the two +floors for the same price—that is, until we get another lodger. I +shouldn’t like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It’s such a +poor little room. You could do as you say, sir—do your work and your +experiments up here, and then have your meals in the drawing-room.” + +“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that sounds a good plan. And if I offered +you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your not taking +another lodger?” + +“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’d be very glad only to have you to wait on, +sir.” + +“I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? I +don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working.” + +He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, “I suppose +you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, there’s a key—a very nice little key. The people who +lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door.” She went +over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round disk had been +fitted above the old keyhole. + +He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if +absorbed in thought, “Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will suit +me perfectly. And I’ll begin now by paying my first month’s rent in +advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is”—he jerked his head +back and stared at his new landlady; for the first time he smiled, a +queer, wry smile—“why, just eight pounds eight shillings, Mrs. +Bunting!” + +He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long cape-like +coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began putting these +down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in the centre of the +room. “Here’s five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten pounds. You’d better keep +the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, for I shall want you to do some shopping +for me to-morrow morning. I met with a misfortune to-day.” But the new +lodger did not speak as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on +his spirits. + +“Indeed, sir. I’m sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Bunting’s heart was going +thump—thump—thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy with relief +and joy. + +“Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things I +managed to bring away with me.” His voice dropped suddenly. “I +shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “I was a fool to say that!” +Then, more loudly, “Someone said to me, ‘You can’t go into a +lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn’t take you in.’ But +_you_ have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I’m grateful for—for the kind +way you have met me—” He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, and Mrs. +Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly towards her +new lodger. + +“I hope I know a gentleman when I see one,” she said, with a break in +her staid voice. + +“I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. +Bunting.” Again he looked at her appealingly. + +“I expect you’d like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you tell me +what you’d like for supper? We haven’t much in the house.” + +“Oh, anything’ll do,” he said hastily. “I don’t want you to go out for +me. It’s a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a little +bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied.” + +“I have a nice sausage,” she said hesitatingly. + +It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning for +Bunting’s supper; as to herself, she had been going to content herself +with a little bread and cheese. But now—wonderful, almost, intoxicating +thought—she could send Bunting out to get anything they both liked. The +ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort and good cheer. + +“A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh meat,” +he said; “it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, Mrs. +Bunting.” + +“Is it indeed, sir?” She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, “And +will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?” + +A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth’s +pale face. + +“Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. I +had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer—” + +“So I am, sir, lifelong. And so’s Bunting been since we married.” She +might have said, had she been a woman given to make such confidences, +that she had made Bunting abstain very early in their acquaintance. +That he had given in about that had been the thing that first made her +believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense that he talked to her, +in those far-away days of his courting. Glad she was now that he had +taken the pledge as a younger man; but for that nothing would have kept +him from the drink during the bad times they had gone through. + +And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom +which opened out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. +Bunting’s own room just underneath, excepting that everything up here +had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better in +quality. + +The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of +content and peace stealing over his worn face. “A haven of rest,” he +muttered; and then, “‘He bringeth them to their desired haven.’ +Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone had +quoted the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to set the +seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth’s respectability. + +What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one lodger, +and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! Very peculiar +married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s +lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the seaside. + +How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to London +not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately respectable and +kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible underworld of men +and women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen better days, now only +keep their heads above water with the help of petty fraud. + +“I’ll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean +towels,” she said, going to the door. + +And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. “Mrs. Bunting”—and as he +spoke he stammered a little—“I—I don’t want you to interpret the word +attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off your feet for +me. I’m accustomed to look after myself.” + +And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed—even a little +snubbed. “All right, sir,” she said. “I’ll only just let you know when +I’ve your supper ready.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy of +going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune which +had fallen their way? + +Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. +In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still +her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of +emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling “making a fuss.” + +Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment looking +at her husband’s bent back, and she realised, with a pang of pain, how +the last few weeks had aged him. + +Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He put +the paper he had been holding down on to the table: “Well,” he said, +“well, who was it, then?” + +He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have answered +the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard murmurs. + +And then in a moment his wife’s hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns +fell in a little clinking heap on the table. + +“Look there!” she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her +voice. “Look there, Bunting!” + +And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. + +He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion that +his wife had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this ten pounds +represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that were so, then it +was the beginning of the end. That furniture in the first-floor front +had cost—Ellen had reminded him of the fact bitterly only +yesterday—seventeen pounds nine shillings, and every single item had +been a bargain. It was too bad that she had only got ten pounds for it. + +Yet he hadn’t the heart to reproach her. + +He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that troubled, +rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought had happened. + +“We’ve a new lodger!” she cried. “And—and, Bunting? He’s quite the +gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance, at two +guineas a week.” + +“No, never!” + +Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, +fascinated by the little heap of gold. “But there’s ten sovereigns +here,” he said suddenly. + +“Yes, the gentleman said I’d have to buy some things for him to-morrow. +And, oh, Bunting, he’s so well spoken, I really felt that—I really felt +that—” and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step or two sideways, sat down, +and throwing her little black apron over her face burst into gasping +sobs. + +Bunting patted her back timidly. “Ellen?” he said, much moved by her +agitation, “Ellen? Don’t take on so, my dear—” + +“I won’t,” she sobbed, “I—I won’t! I’m a fool—I know I am! But, oh, I +didn’t think we was ever going to have any luck again!” + +And then she told him—or rather tried to tell him—what the lodger was +like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing she did +impress on her husband’s mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was eccentric, +as so many clever people are eccentric—that is, in a harmless way—and +that he must be humoured. + +“He says he doesn’t want to be waited on much,” she said at last wiping +her eyes, “but I can see he will want a good bit of looking after, all +the same, poor gentleman.” + +And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound of +a loud ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled again +and again. + +Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. “I think I’d better go up, eh, +Ellen?” he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. For the +matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something again. + +“Yes,” she answered, “you go up! Don’t keep him waiting! I wonder what +it is he wants? I said I’d let him know when his supper was ready.” + +A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on his +face. “Whatever d’you think he wanted?” he whispered mysteriously. And +as she said nothing, he went on, “He’s asked me for the loan of a +Bible!” + +“Well, I don’t see anything so out of the way in that,” she said +hastily, “’specially if he don’t feel well. I’ll take it up to him.” + +And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, +Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her as +a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had lived for +several years. + +“He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper,” said +Bunting; and, then, “Ellen? He’s a queer-looking cove—not like any +gentleman I ever had to do with.” + +“He is a gentleman,” said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. + +“Oh, yes, that’s all right.” But still he looked at her doubtfully. “I +asked him if he’d like me to just put away his clothes. But, Ellen, he +said he hadn’t got any clothes!” + +“No more he hasn’t;” she spoke quickly, defensively. “He had the +misfortune to lose his luggage. He’s one dishonest folk ’ud take +advantage of.” + +“Yes, one can see that with half an eye,” Bunting agreed. + +And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting put +down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband to go +out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with a +sovereign. “Be as quick as you can,” she said, “for I feel a bit +hungry. I’ll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth’s supper. He +only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I’m glad I’ve never fallen to +bad eggs!” + +“Sleuth,” echoed Bunting, staring at her. “What a queer name! How d’you +spell it—S-l-u-t-h?” + +“No,” she shot out, “S-l-e—u—t—h.” + +“Oh,” he said doubtfully. + +“He said, ‘Think of a hound and you’ll never forget my name,’” and Mrs. +Bunting smiled. + +When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: “We’ll now be able to +pay young Chandler back some o’ that thirty shillings. I am glad.” She +nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. + +And then each went about his and her business—Bunting out into the +drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. + +The lodger’s tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and +daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. + +Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly +remembered Mr. Sleuth’s request for a Bible. Putting the tray down in +the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; but when +back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it was worth +while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she could manage; +clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and taking up the tray, +she walked slowly up the staircase. + +But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth’s landlady +opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped the tray. +She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy thud to the +ground. + +The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the early +Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, with their +faces to the wall! + +For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the tray +down on the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It troubled her +that the Book should have fallen to the ground; but really she hadn’t +been able to help it—it was mercy that the tray hadn’t fallen, too. + +Mr. Sleuth got up. “I—I have taken the liberty to arrange the room as I +should wish it to be,” he said awkwardly. “You see, Mrs.—er—Bunting, I +felt as I sat here that these women’s eyes followed me about. It was a +most unpleasant sensation, and gave me quite an eerie feeling.” + +The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the table. +She made no answer to her lodger’s remark, for the good reason that she +did not know what to say. + +Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a long +pause, he spoke again. + +“I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting,” he spoke with some agitation. “As +a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about me for a +long time.” And then, at last his landlady answered him, in a composed, +soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. “I quite +understand, sir. And when Bunting comes in he shall take the pictures +all down. We have plenty of space in our own rooms for them.” + +“Thank you—thank you very much.” + +Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. + +“And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understood you wanted the +loan of it?” + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing +himself, he said, “Yes, yes, I do. There is no reading like the Book. +There is something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of +body too—” + +“Very true, sir.” And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what really +looked a very appetising little meal, turned round and quietly shut the +door. + +She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for +Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen to clear up. And as she did so +there came to her a comfortable recollection, an incident of her +long-past youth, in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had maided a +dear old lady. + +The old lady had a favourite nephew—a bright, jolly young gentleman, +who was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. +Algernon—that was his rather peculiar Christian name—had had the +impudence to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings +done by the famous Mr. Landseer! + +Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only +occurred yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. + +It was quite early; she had come down—for in those days maids weren’t +thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the upper +housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid’s duty to be down very +early—and, there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. Algernon +engaged in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, his aunt thought +all the world of those pictures, and Ellen had felt quite concerned, +for it doesn’t do for a young gentleman to put himself wrong with a +kind aunt. + +“Oh, sir,” she had exclaimed in dismay, “whatever are you doing?” And +even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had answered, “I +am doing my duty, fair Helen”—he had always called her “fair Helen” +when no one was listening. “How can I draw ordinary animals when I see +these half-human monsters staring at me all the time I am having my +breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?” That was what Mr. Algernon had +said in his own saucy way, and that was what he repeated in a more +serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when that dear old lady had +come downstairs. In fact he had declared, quite soberly, that the +beautiful animals painted by Mr. Landseer put his eye out! + +But his aunt had been very much annoyed—in fact, she had made him turn +the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he just had +to put up with what he called “those half-human monsters.” Mrs. +Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth’s odd +behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her long-gone +youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so strange as he +appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did not tell him the +queer thing which had happened. She told herself that she would be +quite able to manage the taking down of the pictures in the +drawing-room herself. + +But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady went +upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the sound +of—was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she waited a moment +on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then she realised that it +was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. There was something very +awful in the words which rose and fell on her listening ears: + +“A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for a +prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men.” + +She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, and +again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, sing-song +voice, “Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of +death.” + +It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up +courage, knocked, and walked in. + +“I’d better clear away, sir, had I not?” she said. And Mr. Sleuth +nodded. + +Then he got up and closed the Book. “I think I’ll go to bed now,” he +said. “I am very, very tired. I’ve had a long and a very weary day, +Mrs. Bunting.” + +After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed up on +a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. Sleuth. +Each left an unsightly mark on the wall—but that, after all, could not +be helped. + +Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried them +down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had felt +for a very, very long time. + +For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different—and +then she suddenly remembered. + +How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, lay, +in the well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction at an +auction held in a Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two +guineas a week! Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would be +“a permanency.” In any case, it wouldn’t be her fault if he wasn’t. As +to his—his queerness, well, there’s always something funny in +everybody. But after she had got up, and as the morning wore itself +away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there came no sound at +all from the new lodger’s rooms. At twelve, however, the drawing-room +bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. She was painfully anxious to +please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His coming had only been in the nick of +time to save them from terrible disaster. + +She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was sitting at the round +table which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his landlady’s +large Bible lay open before him. + +As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see how +tired and worn he seemed. + +“You did not happen,” he asked, “to have a Concordance, Mrs. Bunting?” + +She shook her head; she had no idea what a Concordance could be, but +she was quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. + +And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he desired +her to buy for him. She had supposed the bag he had brought with him to +contain certain little necessaries of civilised life—such articles, for +instance, as a comb and brush, a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say +nothing of a couple of nightshirts—but no, that was evidently not so, +for Mr. Sleuth required all these things to be bought now. + +After having cooked him a nice breakfast Mrs. Bunting hurried out to +purchase the things of which he was in urgent need. + +How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse again—not +only someone else’s money, but money she was now in the very act of +earning so agreeably. + +Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber’s shop close by. It +was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It was a +funny, rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as she +could, the more so that the foreigner who served her insisted on +telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this Avenger +murder which had taken place forty-eight hours before, and in which +Bunting took such a morbid interest. + +The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn’t want to think of +anything painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. + +Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. +Sleuth was pleased with everything, and thanked her most courteously. +But when she suggested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked quite +put out. + +“Please wait till this evening,” he said hastily. “It is my custom to +stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when the +lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem a +little, just a little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed to. +And I must ask you to understand that I must not be disturbed when +thinking out my problems—” He broke off short, sighed, then added +solemnly, “for mine are the great problems of life and death.” + +And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her +prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady was a true +woman—she had, that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries +and oddities. + +When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady met with a +surprise; but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had been +upstairs, talking to the lodger, Bunting’s young friend, Joe Chandler, +the detective, had come in, and as she walked into the sitting-room she +saw that her husband was pushing half a sovereign across the table +towards Joe. + +Joe Chandler’s fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction: not at +seeing his money again, mark you, but at the news Bunting had evidently +been telling him—that news of the sudden wonderful change in their +fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. + +“Mr. Sleuth don’t want me to do his bedroom till he’s gone out!” she +exclaimed. And then she sat down for a bit of a rest. + +It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good breakfast, +and there was no need to think of him for the present. In a few minutes +she would be going down to make her own and Bunting’s dinner, and she +told Joe Chandler that he might as well stop and have a bite with them. + +Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood which +seldom surprised her—a mood to be pleased with anything and everything. +Nay, more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler about the last of +those awful Avenger murders, she even listened with a certain languid +interest to all he had to say. + +In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that very day +three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery which was now +beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London, West and East, +North and South. Bunting had read out little bits about it while they +ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself Mrs. Bunting had felt +thrilled and excited. + +“They do say,” observed Bunting cautiously, “They do say, Joe, that the +police have a clue they won’t say nothing about?” He looked expectantly +at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was attached to the +detective section of the Metropolitan Police invested the young man +with a kind of sinister glory—especially just now, when these awful and +mysterious crimes were amazing and terrifying the town. + +“Them who says that says wrong,” answered Chandler slowly, and a look +of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face. “’Twould make +a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a clue.” + +And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. “Why that, Joe?” she said, smiling +indulgently; the young man’s keenness about his work pleased her. And +in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took his job very +seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. + +“Well, ’tis this way,” he explained. “From to-day I’m on this business +myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard’s nettled—that’s what it is, +and we’re all on our mettle—that we are. I was right down sorry for the +poor chap who was on point duty in the street where the last one +happened—” + +“No!” said Bunting incredulously. “You don’t mean there was a policeman +there, within a few yards?” + +That fact hadn’t been recorded in his newspaper. + +Chandler nodded. “That’s exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting! The man +is near off his head, so I’m told. He did hear a yell, so he says, but +he took no notice—there are a good few yells in that part o’ London, as +you can guess. People always quarrelling and rowing at one another in +such low parts.” + +“Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes his +name?” inquired Bunting eagerly. + +Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those +three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims’ skirts, on +which was roughly written in red ink and in printed characters the +words “The Avenger.” + +His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his +elbows on the table, and stared across expectantly at the young man. + +“Yes, I have,” said Joe briefly. + +“A funny kind of visiting card, eh!” Bunting laughed; the notion struck +him as downright comic. + +But Mrs. Bunting coloured. “It isn’t a thing to make a joke about,” she +said reprovingly. + +And Chandler backed her up. “No, indeed,” he said feelingly. “I’ll +never forget what I’ve been made to see over this job. And as for that +grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting—or, rather, those grey bits of paper”—he +corrected himself hastily—“you know they’ve three of them now at the +Yard—well, they gives me the horrors!” + +And then he jumped up. “That reminds me that I oughtn’t to be wasting +my time in pleasant company—” + +“Won’t you stay and have a bit of dinner?” said Mrs. Bunting +solicitously. + +But the detective shook his head. “No,” he said, “I had a bite before I +came out. Our job’s a queer kind of job, as you know. A lot’s left to +our discretion, so to speak, but it don’t leave us much time for lazing +about, I can tell you.” + +When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate +carelessness he inquired, “Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London +again soon?” + +Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very fond +of his only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. “No,” he said, +“I’m afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, keeps Daisy +pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite put about that +week the child was up with us last June.” + +“Indeed? Well, so long!” + +After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, “Joe +seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?” + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly dislike +the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting’s daughter was +being managed by that old aunt of hers—an idle, good-for-nothing way, +very different from the fashion in which she herself had been trained +at the Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting as a little child had known no other +home, no other family than those provided by good Captain Coram. + +“Joe Chandler’s too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls yet +awhile,” she said tartly. + +“No doubt you’re right,” Bunting agreed. “Times be changed. In my young +days chaps always had time for that. ’Twas just a notion that came into +my head, hearing him asking, anxious-like, after her.” + +About five o’clock, after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. Sleuth +went out, and that same evening there came two parcels addressed to his +landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But it was quite clear to +Mrs. Bunting’s eyes that they were not new clothes. In fact, they had +evidently been bought in some good second-hand clothes-shop. A funny +thing for a real gentleman like Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had +given up all hope of getting back his lost luggage. + +When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him, of that +Mrs. Bunting was positive. And yet, though she searched high and low +for it, she could not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept it. And at +last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed woman, with a +good memory, she would have been disposed to think that the bag had +never existed, save in her imagination. + +But no, she could not tell herself that! She remembered exactly how it +had looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange, queer-looking +figure of a man, on her doorstep. + +She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of the +top front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he had asked +her eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was—only to find it +safely lodged at his feet! + +As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, for, +strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth’s bag again. But, of +course, she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. The brown +leather bag which had formed Mr. Sleuth’s only luggage the afternoon of +his arrival was almost certainly locked up in the lower part of the +drawing-room chiffonnier. Mr. Sleuth evidently always carried the key +of the little corner cupboard about his person; Mrs. Bunting had also +had a good hunt for that key, but, as was the case with the bag, the +key disappeared, and she never saw either the one or the other again. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped the next few days. +Already life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on Mr. Sleuth was +just what Mrs. Bunting could manage to do easily, and without tiring +herself. + +It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred to be waited on +only by one person, and that person his landlady. He gave her very +little trouble. Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the lodger; +it even did her good that he was not like other gentlemen; for the fact +occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. The more so that +whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had none of those tiresome, +disagreeable ways with which landladies are only too familiar, and +which seem peculiar only to those human beings who also happen to be +lodgers. To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did not ask to be called +unduly early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen into the way of lying +rather late in the morning, and it was a great comfort not to have to +turn out to make the lodger a cup of tea at seven, or even half-past +seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom required anything before eleven. + +But odd he certainly was. + +The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth had brought in a +book of which the queer name was Cruden’s Concordance. That and the +Bible—Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a relation +between the two books—seemed to be the lodger’s only reading. He spent +hours each day, generally after he had eaten the breakfast which also +served for luncheon, poring over the Old Testament and over that +strange kind of index to the Book. + +As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, Mr. +Sleuth was everything—everything that the most exacting landlady could +have wished. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting +gentleman. On the very first day he had been with them he had allowed +his money—the considerable sum of one hundred and eighty-four +sovereigns—to lie about wrapped up in little pieces of rather dirty +newspaper on his dressing-table. That had quite upset Mrs. Bunting. She +had allowed herself respectfully to point out to him that what he was +doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But as only answer he had laughed, and +she had been startled when the loud, unusual and discordant sound had +issued from his thin lips. + +“I know those I can trust,” he had answered, stuttering rather, as was +his way when moved. “And—and I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that I hardly +have to speak to a human being—especially to a woman” (and he had drawn +in his breath with a hissing sound) “before I know exactly what manner +of person is before me.” + +It hadn’t taken the landlady very long to find out that her lodger had +a queer kind of fear and dislike of women. When she was doing the +staircase and landings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading aloud to +himself passages in the Bible that were very uncomplimentary to her +sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very great opinion of her sister woman, so +that didn’t put her out. Besides, where one’s lodger is concerned, a +dislike of women is better than—well, than the other thing. + +In any case, where would have been the good of worrying about the +lodger’s funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he hadn’t +been, as Bunting funnily styled it, “just a leetle touched upstairs,” +he wouldn’t be here, living this strange, solitary life in lodgings. He +would be living in quite a different sort of way with some of his +relatives, or with a friend of his own class. + +There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back—as even the least +imaginative of us are apt to look back to any part of our own past +lives which becomes for any reason poignantly memorable—wondered how +soon it was that she had discovered that her lodger was given to +creeping out of the house at a time when almost all living things +prefer to sleep. + +She brought herself to believe—but I am inclined to doubt whether she +was right in so believing—that the first time she became aware of this +strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth’s happened to be during the night +which preceded the day on which she had observed a very curious +circumstance. This very curious circumstance was the complete +disappearance of one of Mr. Sleuth’s three suits of clothes. + +It always passes my comprehension how people can remember, over any +length of time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is +natural enough, but the day, the hour, the minute when these happenings +took place! Much as she thought about it afterwards, even Mrs. Bunting +never quite made up her mind whether it was during the fifth or the +sixth night of Mr. Sleuth’s stay under her roof that she became aware +that he had gone out at two in the morning and had only come in at +five. + +But that there did come such a night is certain—as certain as is the +fact that her discovery coincided with various occurrences which were +destined to remain retrospectively memorable. + +It was intensely dark, intensely quiet—the darkest quietest hour of the +night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, dreamless +sleep by sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She knew at once what +those sounds were. They were those made by Mr. Sleuth, first coming +down the stairs, and walking on tiptoe—she was sure it was on +tiptoe—past her door, and finally softly shutting the front door behind +him. + +Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to sleep +again. There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting should +waken up too, till she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, creep back +into the house and so up to bed. + +Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the morning she felt +very tired, so tired indeed, that she had been very glad when Bunting +good-naturedly suggested that he should go out and do their little bit +of marketing. + +The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of +catering it was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, +and that though he always tried to appear pleased. This perfect lodger +had one serious fault from the point of view of those who keep +lodgings. Strange to say, he was a vegetarian. He would not eat meat in +any form. He sometimes, however, condescended to a chicken, and when he +did so condescend he generously intimated that Mr. and Mrs. Bunting +were welcome to a share in it. + +Now to-day—this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. +Bunting’s mind so very long, and to remain so very vivid, it had been +arranged that Mr. Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, while +what he left was to be “done up” to serve for his simple supper. + +Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour, for he was a +gregarious soul, and liked to have a gossip in the shops he frequented, +Mrs. Bunting rose and dressed in a leisurely manner; then she went and +“did” her front sitting-room. + +She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after a broken night, +and it was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Sleuth was not likely to +ring before twelve. + +But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged through the quiet +house. She knew it for the front door bell. + +Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened one of those tiresome +people who come round for old bottles and such-like fal-lals. + +She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then her face cleared, +for it was that good young chap, Joe Chandler, who stood waiting +outside. + +He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked over-quickly +through the moist, foggy air. + +“Why, Joe?” said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. “Come in—do! Bunting’s out, +but he won’t be very long now. You’ve been quite a stranger these last +few days.” + +“Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting—” + +She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Then, +suddenly she remembered. Why, of course, Joe was on a big job just +now—the job of trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had alluded to +the fact again and again when reading out to her little bits from the +halfpenny evening paper he was taking again. + +She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good thing Bunting had +insisted on lighting the fire before he went out, for now the room was +nice and warm—and it was just horrible outside. She had felt a chill go +right through her as she had stood, even for that second, at the front +door. + +And she hadn’t been alone to feel it, for, “I say, it is jolly to be in +here, out of that awful cold!” exclaimed Chandler, sitting down heavily +in Bunting’s easy chair. + +And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the young man was tired, +as well as cold. He was pale, almost pallid under his usual healthy, +tanned complexion—the complexion of the man who lives much out of +doors. + +“Wouldn’t you like me just to make you a cup of tea?” she said +solicitously. + +“Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful for one, Mrs. +Bunting!” Then he looked round, and again he said her name, “Mrs. +Bunting—?” + +He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. “Yes, what +is it, Joe?” she asked. And then, in sudden terror, “You’ve never come +to tell me that anything’s happened to Bunting? He’s not had an +accident?” + +“Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But—but, Mrs. Bunting, +there’s been another of them!” + +His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with +unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, eyes. + +“Another of them?” She looked at him, bewildered—at a loss. And then +what he meant flashed across her—“another of them” meant another of +these strange, mysterious, awful murders. + +But her relief for the moment was so great—for she really had thought +for a second that he had come to give her ill news of Bunting—that the +feeling that she did experience on hearing this piece of news was +actually pleasurable, though she would have been much shocked had that +fact been brought to her notice. + +Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested +in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination of +the whole of London’s nether-world. Even her refined mind had busied +itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem so +frequently presented to it by Bunting—for Bunting, now that they were +no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in “The +Avenger” and his doings. + +She took the kettle off the gas-ring. “It’s a pity Bunting isn’t here,” +she said, drawing in her breath. “He’d a-liked so much to hear you tell +all about it, Joe.” + +As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. + +But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. “Why, you +do look bad!” she exclaimed. + +And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad—very bad indeed. + +“I can’t help it,” he said, with a kind of gasp. “It was your saying +that about my telling you all about it that made me turn queer. You +see, this time I was one of the first there, and it fairly turned me +sick—that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. Bunting! Don’t talk of +it.” + +He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. + +She looked at him with sympathetic interest. “Why, Joe,” she said, “I +never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, that +anything could upset you like that.” + +“This isn’t like anything there’s ever been before,” he said. “And +then—then—oh, Mrs. Bunting, ’twas I that discovered the piece of paper +this time.” + +“Then it _is_ true,” she cried eagerly. “It _is_ The Avenger’s bit of +paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in that practical +joker.” + +“I did,” said Chandler reluctantly. “You see, there are some queer +fellows even—even—” (he lowered his voice, and looked round him as if +the walls had ears)—“even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and these murders +have fair got on our nerves.” + +“No, never!” she said. “D’you think that a Bobby might do a thing like +that?” + +He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn’t worth answering. Then, +“It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while the poor +soul was still warm,”—he shuddered—“that brought me out West this +morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince Albert Terrace, +and I had to go and tell him all about it. They never offered me a bit +or a sup—I think they might have done that, don’t you, Mrs. Bunting?” + +“Yes,” she said absently. “Yes, I do think so.” + +“But, there, I don’t know that I ought to say that,” went on Chandler. +“He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to me +while I was telling him.” + +“Have a bit of something now?” she said suddenly. + +“Oh, no, I couldn’t eat anything,” he said hastily. “I don’t feel as if +I could ever eat anything any more.” + +“That’ll only make you ill.” Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, for she +was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite out of the slice +of bread-and-butter she had cut for him. + +“I expect you’re right,” he said. “And I’ve a goodish heavy day in +front of me. Been up since four, too—” + +“Four?” she said. “Was it then they found—” she hesitated a moment, and +then said, “it?” + +He nodded. “It was just a chance I was near by. If I’d been half a +minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have knocked +up against that—that monster. But two or three people do think they saw +him slinking away.” + +“What was he like?” she asked curiously. + +“Well, that’s hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful fog. But +there’s one thing they all agree about. He was carrying a bag—” + +“A bag?” repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. “Whatever sort of bag +might it have been, Joe?” + +There had come across her—just right in her middle, like—such a strange +sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering. + +She was at a loss to account for it. + +“Just a hand-bag,” said Joe Chandler vaguely. “A woman I spoke +to—cross-examining her, like—who was positive she had seen him, said, +‘Just a tall, thin shadow—that’s what he was, a tall, thin shadow of a +man—with a bag.’” + +“With a bag?” repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. “How very strange and +peculiar—” + +“Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does the +deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. We’ve always wondered how he hid +it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you know.” + +“Do they, indeed?” Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, wondering +way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the lodger +had done with his bag. It was possible—in fact, when one came to think +of it, it was very probable—that he had just lost it, being so +forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone out, as she knew +he was fond of doing, into the Regent’s Park. + +“There’ll be a description circulated in an hour or two,” went on +Chandler. “Perhaps that’ll help catch him. There isn’t a London man or +woman, I don’t suppose, who wouldn’t give a good bit to lay that chap +by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now.” + +“Won’t you wait a bit longer for Bunting?” she said hesitatingly. + +“No, I can’t do that. But I’ll come in, maybe, either this evening or +to-morrow, and tell you any more that’s happened. Thanks kindly for the +tea. It’s made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“Well, you’ve had enough to unman you, Joe.” + +“Aye, that I have,” he said heavily. + +A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had quite +a little tiff—the first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth became their +lodger. + +It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting was +angry that Mrs. Bunting hadn’t got more details of the horrible +occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler. + +“You don’t mean to say, Ellen, that you can’t even tell me where it +happened?” he said indignantly. “I suppose you put Chandler off—that’s +what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, excepting to tell us +all about it?” + +“He came to have something to eat and drink,” snapped out Mrs. Bunting. +“That’s what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. He could +hardly speak of it at all—he felt so bad. In fact, he didn’t say a word +about it until he’d come right into the room and sat down. He told me +quite enough!” + +“Didn’t he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had +written his name was square or three-cornered?” demanded Bunting. + +“No; he did not. And that isn’t the sort of thing I should have cared +to ask him.” + +“The more fool you!” And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys were +coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful discovery which +had been made that morning—that of The Avenger’s fifth murder. Bunting +went out to buy a paper, and his wife took the things he had brought in +down to the kitchen. + +The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened Mr. +Sleuth, for his landlady hadn’t been in the kitchen ten minutes before +his bell rang. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang again. + +Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since he +had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at once. +But when there came the second imperative tinkle—for electric bells had +not been fitted into that old-fashioned house—she made up her mind to +go upstairs. + +As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, +sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wife stepping heavily +under the load of the well-laden tray. + +“Wait a minute!” he called out. “I’ll help you, Ellen,” and he came out +and took the tray from her. + +She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room +floor landing. + +There she stopped him. “Here,” she whispered quickly, “you give me +that, Bunting. The lodger won’t like your going in to him.” And then, +as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she added in +a rather acid tone, “You might open the door for me, at any rate! How +can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on my hands?” + +She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised—rather put +out. Ellen wasn’t exactly what you’d call a lively, jolly woman, but +when things were going well—as now—she was generally equable enough. He +supposed she was still resentful of the way he had spoken to her about +young Chandler and the new Avenger murder. + +However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, +and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked into +the room. + +And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, of +lightness of heart. + +As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible. + +Somehow—she could not have told you why, she would not willingly have +told herself—she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth _looking different_. +But no, he appeared to be exactly the same—in fact, as he glanced up at +her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up his thin, pallid face. + +“Well, Mrs. Bunting,” he said genially, “I overslept myself this +morning, but I feel all the better for the rest.” + +“I’m glad of that, sir,” she answered, in a low voice. “One of the +ladies I once lived with used to say, ‘Rest is an old-fashioned remedy, +but it’s the best remedy of all.’” + +Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden’s Concordance off the +table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady laying +the cloth. + +Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the morning. +“I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you outside the +door just now?” + +“Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray.” + +“I’m afraid I give you a good deal of trouble,” he said hesitatingly. + +But she answered quickly, “Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was only +saying yesterday that we’ve never had a lodger that gave us as little +trouble as you do, sir.” + +“I’m glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar.” + +He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of +denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and truthful +woman. It never occurred to her to question his statement. Mr. Sleuth’s +habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at night, or rather +in the early morning, for instance? So she remained silent. + +After she had laid the lodger’s breakfast on the table she prepared to +leave the room. “I suppose I’m not to do your room till you goes out, +sir?” + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. “No, no!” he said. “I never want my +room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. Bunting. +But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a somewhat +elaborate experiment—upstairs. If I go out at all” he waited a moment, +and again he looked at her fixedly “—I shall wait till night-time to do +so.” And then, coming back to the matter in hand, he added hastily, +“Perhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs, about five o’clock—if +that time is convenient to you, that is?” + +“Oh, yes, sir! That’ll do nicely!” + +Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself +wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face—even in her inmost +heart—the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken her. She only +repeated to herself again and again, “I’ve got upset—that’s what I’ve +done,” and then she spoke aloud, “I must get myself a dose at the +chemist’s next time I’m out. That’s what I must do.” + +And just as she murmured the word “do,” there came a loud double knock +on the front door. + +It was only the postman’s knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar +visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was +nervous, that’s what was the matter with her,—so she told herself +angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must +have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All gentlefolk +have. But when she picked the small envelope off the hall floor, she +saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husband’s daughter. + +“Bunting!” she called out sharply. “Here’s a letter for you.” + +She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there was +her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading a +paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting felt +a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing nothing—in +fact, doing worse than nothing—wasting his time reading all about those +horrid crimes. + +She sighed—a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into idle +ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she prevent it? He +had been such an active, conscientious sort of man when they had first +made acquaintance. . . + +She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, +that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland +Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress’s glass of +port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a +good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking +fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had +appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as +butler! + +To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past +rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. + +Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed +the door softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various +little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to +cook. And all the time she was down there she fixed her mind +obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting. She +wondered what she’d better do to get him into good ways again. + +Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A week +ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if nothing +could save them from disaster. But everything was now changed! + +Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor of +that registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed hands. +It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an occasional job—for +the matter of that he could now take up a fairly regular thing in the +way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that it isn’t easy to get a man out +of idle ways once he has acquired those ways. + +When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of +what she had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid it +very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. + +“Ellen?” he cried eagerly, “here’s news! Daisy’s coming to-morrow! +There’s scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she’d better come +away for a few days. So, you see, she’ll be here for her birthday. +Eighteen, that’s what she be on the nineteenth! It do make me feel +old—that it do!” + +Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. “I can’t have the girl here just now,” +she said shortly. “I’ve just as much to do as I can manage. The lodger +gives me more trouble than you seem to think for.” + +“Rubbish!” he said sharply. “I’ll help you with the lodger. It’s your +own fault you haven’t had help with him before. Of course, Daisy must +come here. Whatever other place could the girl go to?” + +Bunting felt pugnacious—so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. But +as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction vanished. +Ellen’s face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill—ill and +horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and behave like +this—just when they were beginning to get on nicely again. + +“For the matter of that,” he said suddenly, “Daisy’ll be able to help +you with the work, Ellen, and she’ll brisk us both up a bit.” + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. And +then she said languidly, “You might as well show me the girl’s letter.” + +He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. + +“DEAR FATHER (it ran)—I hope this finds you as well at it leaves me. +Mrs. Puddle’s youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks I had +better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few days. Please +tell Ellen I won’t give her no trouble. I’ll start at ten if I don’t +hear nothing.—Your loving daughter, + + +“DAISY.” + + +“Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here,” Mrs. Bunting slowly. +“It’ll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life.” + +And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content +himself. + +Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. +Sleuth’s landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She +remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room. + +He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things about as +so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. No, he kept +everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the various articles +Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first two days he had been +there, were carefully arranged in the chest of drawers. He had lately +purchased a pair of boots. Those he had arrived in were +peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes with rubber soles, and he +had told his landlady on that very first day that he never wished them +to go down to be cleaned. + +A funny idea—a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after midnight +in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were glad to be at +home, snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself admitted that he was a +funny sort of gentleman. + +After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the sitting-room +and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept quite as nice as she +would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting longed to give the drawing-room +something of a good turn out; but Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving +about in it when he himself was in his bedroom; and when up he sat +there almost all the time. Delighted as he had seemed to be with the +top room, he only used it when making his mysterious experiments, and +never during the day-time. + +And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with +longing eyes—she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture a +slight shake. If only the doors would fly open, as the locked doors of +old cupboards sometimes do, even after they have been securely +fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more comfortable somehow +she would feel! + +But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. + +About eight o’clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just for +a few minutes’ chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the +morning, but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting listened +in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself, while he and +Bunting talked. + +“Yes,” he said, “I’m as right as a trivet now! I’ve had a good +rest—laid down all this afternoon. You see, the Yard thinks there’s +going to be something on to-night. He’s always done them in pairs.” + +“So he has,” exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. “So he has! Now, I never +thought o’ that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster’ll be on the job +again to-night?” + +Chandler nodded. “Yes. And I think there’s a very good chance of his +being caught too—” + +“I suppose there’ll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?” + +“I should think there will be! How many of our men d’you think there’ll +be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?” + +Bunting shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. + +“I mean extra,” suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice. + +“A thousand?” ventured Bunting. + +“Five thousand, Mr. Bunting.” + +“Never!” exclaimed Bunting, amazed. + +And even Mrs. Bunting echoed “Never!” incredulously. + +“Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!” +Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. “Just +listen to this: + +“‘The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to the +perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any surprise +at the information that a popular attack has been organised on the +Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even talk of an +indignation mass meeting.’ + + +“What d’you think of that? That’s not a pleasant thing for a gentleman +as is doing his best to read, eh?” + +“Well, it does seem queer that the police can’t catch him, now doesn’t +it?” said Bunting argumentatively. + +“I don’t think it’s queer at all,” said young Chandler crossly. “Now +you just listen again! Here’s a bit of the truth for once—in a +newspaper.” And slowly he read out: + +“‘The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind man’s +buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes bandaged. +Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through the slums of a +great city.’” + + +“Whatever does that mean?” said Bunting. “Your hands aren’t tied, and +your eyes aren’t bandaged, Joe?” + +“It’s metaphorical-like that it’s intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven’t got +the same facilities—no, not a quarter of them—that the French ’tecs +have.” + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: “What was that word, +Joe—‘perpetrators’? I mean that first bit you read out.” + +“Yes,” he said, turning to her eagerly. + +“Then do they think there’s more than one of them?” she said, and a +look of relief came over her thin face. + +“There’s some of our chaps thinks it’s a gang,” said Chandler. “They +say it can’t be the work of one man.” + +“What do _you_ think, Joe?” + +“Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don’t know what to think. I’m fair puzzled.” + +He got up. “Don’t you come to the door. I’ll shut it all right. So +long! See you to-morrow, perhaps.” As he had done the other evening, +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s visitor stopped at the door. “Any news of Miss +Daisy?” he asked casually. + +“Yes; she’s coming to-morrow,” said her father. “They’ve got scarlet +fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks she’d better clear out.” + +The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting +found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, the +half-hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old church +close by. + +And then, just as she was dozing off—it must have been about one +o’clock—she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been expecting +to hear, that of the lodger’s stealthy footsteps coming down the stairs +just outside her room. + +He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. + +But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him come +in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. + +Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder still, +it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going out into the +passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been pushed through the +letter-box. + +But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into her +bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning up against +the wall to steady herself, for she was trembling with cold and +fatigue, she opened the paper. + +Yes, there was the heading she sought: + +“THE AVENGER MURDERS” + + +But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed: + +“Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report +concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, and, +indeed, staggering not only London, but the whole civilised world, and +which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating teetotal fanatic. +Since yesterday morning, when the last of these dastardly murders was +committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator, or perpetrators, has +been obtained, though several arrests were made in the course of the +day. In every case, however, those arrested were able to prove a +satisfactory alibi.” + + +And then, a little lower down: + +“The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that even a +stranger to London would know that something very unusual was in the +air. As for the place where the murder was committed last night—” + + +“Last night!” thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised +that “last night,” in this connection, meant the night before last. + +She began the sentence again: + +“As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all +approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds of +onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of traces +of the tragedy.” + + +Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its +original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the mat +where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going back +into bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. + +“Anything the matter?” Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. +“Anything the matter, Ellen?” + +She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange gladness, +“No, nothing, Bunting—nothing the matter! Go to sleep again, my dear.” + +They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting +rejoiced at the thought of his daughter’s coming, and even Daisy’s +stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl about +the house to help her a bit. + +About ten o’clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought back +with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy’s dinner, and three +mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the sauce. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. + +It brought Daisy—pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy—a sight to +gladden any father’s heart. + +“Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad,” she cried +out joyously. + +There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King’s Cross, as all the +world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, but +the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that he had +done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all. + +While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, +walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was +awaiting her. + +As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, ’twas a mere peck +on Mrs. Bunting’s part, there fell, with startling suddenness, loud +cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they sounded +strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roar of traffic +in the Edgware Road. + +“What’s that?” exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. “Why, whatever’s that?” + +The cabman lowered his voice. “Them’s ’a-crying out that ’orrible +affair at King’s Cross. He’s done for two of ’em this time! That’s what +I meant when I said I might ’a got a better fare. I wouldn’t say +nothink before little missy there, but folk ’ave been coming from all +over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, too—but there, +there’s nothing to see now!” + +“What? Another woman murdered last night?” + +Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand +constables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen? + +The cabman stared at him, surprised. “Two of ’em, I tell yer—within a +few yards of one another. He ’ave—got a nerve—But, of course, they was +drunk. He are got a down on the drink!” + +“Have they caught him?” asked Bunting perfunctorily. + +“Lord, no! They’ll never catch ’im! It must ’ave happened hours and +hours ago—they was both stone cold. One each end of a little passage +what ain’t used no more. That’s why they didn’t find ’em before.” + +The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer—two news vendors trying +to outshout each other. + +“’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross!” they yelled exultingly. “The +Avenger again!” + +And Bunting, with his daughter’s large straw hold-all in his hand, ran +forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for a +halfpenny paper. + +He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with +young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He hoped +that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it, as he had +done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily been out. + +As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy’s voice—high, +voluble, excited—giving her stepmother a long account of the scarlet +fever case, and how at first Old Aunt’s neighbours had thought it was +not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. + +But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there came a +note of sharp alarm in his daughter’s voice, and he heard her cry, +“Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You _do_ look bad!” and his wife’s +muffled answer, “Open the window—do.” + +“’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross—a clue at last!” yelled the +newspaper-boys triumphantly. + +And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, and +laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an ecstasy of +mirth. + +“Why, father, whatever’s the matter with her?” + +Daisy looked quite scared. + +“She’s in ’sterics—that’s what it is,” he said shortly. “I’ll just get +the water-jug. Wait a minute!” + +Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous—that’s what she was, to +be so easily upset. + +The lodger’s bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either that +sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical effect on +Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all over, but +mentally composed. + +“I’ll go up,” she said a little chokingly. “As for you, child, just run +down into the kitchen. You’ll find a piece of pork roasting in the +oven. You might start paring the apples for the sauce.” + +As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made of +cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the banister +for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself, she began to +feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments on the landing, +she knocked at the door of the drawing-room. + +Mr. Sleuth’s voice answered her from the bedroom. “I’m not well,” he +called out querulously; “I think I’ve caught a chill. I should be +obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put it +outside my door, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“Very well, sir.” + +Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer and +giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his +cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring. + +During their midday dinner the husband and wife had a little discussion +as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been settled that a bed should +be made up for her in the top back room, but Mrs. Bunting saw reason to +change this plan. “I think ’twould be better if Daisy were to sleep +with me, Bunting, and you was to sleep upstairs.” + +Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellen was +probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, after +all, they didn’t know much about the lodger, though he seemed a +respectable gentleman enough. + +Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make +herself useful to her stepmother. “I’ll wash up; don’t you bother to +come downstairs,” she said cheerfully. + +Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him a furtive +glance; she wondered what he was thinking about. + +“Didn’t you get a paper?” she said at last. + +“Yes, of course I did,” he answered hastily. “But I’ve put it away. I +thought you’d rather not look at it, as you’re that nervous.” + +Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as +usual—he evidently meant just what he said and no more. + +“I thought they was shouting something in the street—I mean just before +I was took bad.” + +It was now Bunting’s turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather +furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, of +hysterics—call it what you might—had been due to the shouting outside. +She was not the only woman in London who had got the Avenger murders on +her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lot of women were afraid to +go out alone. Was it possible that the curious way she had been taken +just now had had nothing to do with the shouts and excitement outside? + +“Don’t you know what it was they were calling out?” he asked slowly. + +Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a very great +deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did not know what those +dreadful cries had portended. But when it came to the point she found +she could not do so. + +“Yes,” she said dully. “I heard a word here and there. There’s been +another murder, hasn’t there?” + +“Two other murders,” he said soberly. + +“Two? That’s worse news!” She turned so pale—a sallow +greenish-white—that Bunting thought she was again going queer. + +“Ellen?” he said warningly, “Ellen, now do have a care! I can’t think +what’s come over you about these murders. Turn your mind away from +them, do! We needn’t talk about them—not so much, that is—” + +“But I wants to talk about them,” cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically. + +The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table, the man +with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the door. + +Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and +disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure +looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully, Ellen +was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands—she had kept the +pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has never done rough +work—grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive movement. + +Bunting didn’t at all like the look of her. “Oh, dear,” he said to +himself, “I do hope Ellen isn’t going to be ill! That would be a to-do +just now.” + +“Tell me about it,” she commanded, in a low voice. “Can’t you see I’m +waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!” + +“There isn’t very much to tell,” he said reluctantly. “There’s precious +little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what brought Daisy told +me—” + +“Well?” + +“What I said just now. There’s two of ’em this time, and they’d both +been drinking heavily, poor creatures.” + +“Was it where the others was done?” she asked looking at her husband +fearfully. + +“No,” he said awkwardly. “No, it wasn’t, Ellen. It was a good bit +farther West—in fact, not so very far from here. Near King’s +Cross—that’s how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to have +been done in a passage which isn’t used no more.” And then, as he +thought his wife’s eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he added +hastily. “There, that’s enough for the present! We shall soon be +hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He’s pretty sure to come +in some time to-day.” + +“Then the five thousand constables weren’t no use?” said Mrs. Bunting +slowly. + +She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more upright. + +“No use at all,” said Bunting briefly. “He is artful and no mistake +about it. But wait a minute—” he turned and took up the paper which he +had laid aside, on a chair. “Yes they says here that they has a clue.” + +“A clue, Bunting?” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away voice, +and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the table. + +But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paper +close up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable +satisfaction: + +“‘It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last believe +they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the arrest of +the—’” + + +and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed round the table. + +His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the +floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay there in +what appeared to be a dead faint. And Bunting, scared out of his wits, +opened the door and screamed out, “Daisy! Daisy! Come up, child. +Ellen’s took bad again.” + +And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource which +even at this anxious moment roused her fond father’s admiration. + +“Get a wet sponge, Dad—quick!” she cried, “a sponge,—and, if you’ve got +such a thing, a drop o’ brandy. I’ll see after her!” And then, after he +had got the little medicine flask, “I can’t think what’s wrong with +Ellen,” said Daisy wonderingly. “She seemed quite all right when I +first came in. She was listening, interested-like, to what I was +telling her, and then, suddenly—well, you saw how she was took, father? +’Tain’t like Ellen this, is it now?” + +“No,” he whispered. “No, ’tain’t. But you see, child, we’ve been going +through a pretty bad time—worse nor I should ever have let you know of, +my dear. Ellen’s just feeling it now—that’s what it is. She didn’t say +nothing, for Ellen’s a good plucked one, but it’s told on her—it’s told +on her!” + +And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and +instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was all +right. + +She hadn’t really been quite “off.” It would have been better for her +if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she couldn’t stand +up—more, that she must fall down. Bunting’s words touched a most +unwonted chord in the poor woman’s heart, and the eyes which she opened +were full of tears. She had not thought her husband knew how she had +suffered during those weeks of starving and waiting. + +But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her such +betrayal betokened “foolishness,” and so all she said was, “There’s no +need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. I never was +right off, Daisy.” + +Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly +poured a little brandy. “I wouldn’t touch such stuff—no, not if I was +dying!” she exclaimed. + +Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of the +table, on to her feet. “Go down again to the kitchen, child”; but there +was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice. + +“You haven’t been eating properly, Ellen—that’s what’s the matter with +you,” said Bunting suddenly. “Now I come to think of it, you haven’t +eat half enough these last two days. I always did say—in old days many +a time I telled you—that a woman couldn’t live on air. But there, you +never believed me!” + +Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, +pretty face. “I’d no idea you’d had such a bad time, father,” she said +feelingly. “Why didn’t you let me know about it? I might have got +something out of Old Aunt.” + +“We didn’t want anything of that sort,” said her stepmother hastily. +“But of course—well, I expect I’m still feeling the worry now. I don’t +seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, of—of—” she restrained +herself; another moment and the word “starving” would have left her +lips. + +“But everything’s all right now,” said Bunting eagerly, “all right, +thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is.” + +“Yes,” repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. “Yes, we’re +all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it’s all along of Mr. Sleuth.” + +She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. “I’m just a little +tottery still,” she muttered. + +And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a whisper, +but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, “Don’t you think Ellen +ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her something that would +pull her round.” + +“I won’t see no doctor!” said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. “I saw +enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten months +did my poor missis have. Just determined on having ’em she was! Did +they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit sooner.” + +“She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen,” began Bunting +aggressively. + +Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress +died. They might have been married some months before they were married +but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it. + +His wife smile wanly. “We won’t have no words about that,” she said, +and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. “Daisy? If +you won’t go down to the kitchen again, then I must”—she turned to her +stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room. + +“I think the child grows prettier every minute,” said Bunting fondly. + +“Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep,” said his +wife. She was beginning to feel better. “But still, I do agree, +Bunting, that Daisy’s well enough. And she seems more willing, too.” + +“I say, we mustn’t forget the lodger’s dinner,” Bunting spoke uneasily. +“It’s a bit of fish to-day, isn’t it? Hadn’t I better just tell Daisy +to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, as you’re not feeling +quite the thing, Ellen?” + +“I’m quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth’s luncheon,” she said +quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger’s +dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth had +luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot her lodger +was a gentleman. + +“After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn’t he? I can manage all +right. Don’t you worry,” she added after a long pause. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later than +usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs with far +heartier an appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice slice of +roast pork downstairs. + +“I hope you’re feeling a little better, sir,” Mrs. Bunting had forced +herself to say when she first took in his tray. + +And he had answered plaintively, querulously, “No, I can’t say I feel +well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired—very tired. And as I lay in bed I +seemed to hear so many sounds—so much crying and shouting. I trust the +Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy thoroughfare, Mrs. +Bunting?” + +“Oh, no, sir, I don’t think that. We’re generally reckoned very quiet +indeed, sir.” + +She waited a moment—try as she would, she could not allude to what +those unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. “I expect you’ve got a +chill, sir,” she said suddenly. “If I was you, I shouldn’t go out this +afternoon; I’d just stay quietly indoors. There’s a lot of rough people +about—” Perhaps there was an undercurrent of warning, of painful +pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated in some way to the +brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and an uneasy, watchful +look came into his luminous grey eyes. + +“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think I’ll take your +advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss to +know what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of Books.” + +“Then you’re not afraid about your eyes, sir?” said Mrs. Bunting +curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted her +to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about him +downstairs. It seemed to banish the terror which filled her soul—aye, +and her body, too—at other times. When she was with him Mr. Sleuth was +so gentle, so reasonable, so—so grateful. + +Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely +wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentric—so much must be +admitted. But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric folk, +eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long career as useful +maid. + +Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced woman, +she had never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on certain things +she had learnt as to the aberrations of which human nature is +capable—even well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human nature—as +exemplified in some of the households where she had served. It would, +indeed, be unfortunate if she now became morbid or—or hysterical. + +So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she had +talked during the first few days of Mr. Sleuth’s stay in her house, +that she exclaimed, “Well, sir, I’ll be up again to clear away in about +half an hour. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I hope you will +stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather—that’s what it is! +If there’s any little thing you want, me or Bunting can go out and get +it.” + +It must have been about four o’clock when there came a ring at the +front door. + +The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up—she +really was saving her stepmother a good bit of trouble—and the girl was +now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Aunt’s pernickety +ways. + +“Whoever can that be?” said Bunting, looking up. “It’s too early for +Joe Chandler, surely.” + +“I’ll go,” said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her chair. “I’ll +go! We don’t want no strangers in here.” + +And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, +“A clue? What clue?” + +But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from +her. “Why, Joe? We never thought ’twas you! But you’re very welcome, +I’m sure. Come in.” + +And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, fair +young face. + +“I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to know—” he began, in a +loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. She +didn’t want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler might be +going to say. + +“Don’t talk so loud,” she said a little sharply. “The lodger is not +very well to-day. He’s had a cold,” she added hastily, “and during the +last two or three days he hasn’t been able to go out.” + +She wondered at her temerity, her—her hypocrisy, and that moment, those +few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Bunting’s life. It was the first +time she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was one of those +women—there are many, many such—to whom there is a whole world of +difference between the suppression of the truth and the utterance of an +untruth. + +But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. “Has Miss Daisy arrived?” he +asked, in a lower voice. + +She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father and +daughter were sitting. + +“Well?” said Bunting, starting up. “Well, Joe? Now you can tell us all +about that mysterious clue. I suppose it’d be too good news to expect +you to tell us they’ve caught him?” + +“No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If they’d caught him,” +said Joe ruefully, “well, I don’t suppose I should be here, Mr. +Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. And—well, +they’ve found his weapon!” + +“No?” cried Bunting excitedly. “You don’t say so! Whatever sort of a +thing is it? And are they sure ’tis his?” + +“Well, ’tain’t sure, but it seems to be likely.” + +Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. +But she was still standing with her back against the door, looking at +the group in front of her. None of them were thinking of her—she +thanked God for that! She could hear everything that was said without +joining in the talk and excitement. + +“Listen to this!” cried Joe Chandler exultantly. “’Tain’t given out +yet—not for the public, that is—but we was all given it by eight +o’clock this morning. Quick work that, eh?” He read out: + +“WANTED + + +“A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height approximately +5 ft. 8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or whiskers. Wearing a black +diagonal coat, hard felt hat, high white collar, and tie. Carried a +newspaper parcel. Very respectable appearance.” + + +Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of +unutterable relief. + +“There’s the chap!” said Joe Chandler triumphantly. “And now, Miss +Daisy”—he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little tremor +in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice—“if you knows of any nice, likely +young fellow that answers to that description—well, you’ve only got to +walk in and earn your reward of five hundred pounds.” + +“Five hundred pounds!” cried Daisy and her father simultaneously. + +“Yes. That’s what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private +bloke—nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred from +taking that reward, worse luck. And it’s too bad, for we has all the +trouble, after all.” + +“Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?” said Bunting. “I’d like +to con it over to myself.” + +Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. + +A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. “Well, it’s clear +enough, isn’t it?” + +“Yes. And there’s hundreds—nay, thousands—of young fellows that might +be a description of,” said Chandler sarcastically. “As a pal of mine +said this morning, ‘There isn’t a chap will like to carry a newspaper +parcel after this.’ And it won’t do to have a respectable +appearance—eh?” + +Daisy’s voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly +appreciated Mr. Chandler’s witticism. + +“Why on earth didn’t the people who saw him try and catch him?” asked +Bunting suddenly. + +And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, “Yes, Joe—that seems odd, +don’t it?” + +Joe Chandler coughed. “Well, it’s this way,” he said. “No one person +did see all that. The man who’s described here is just made up from the +description of two different folk who _think_ they saw him. You see, +the murders must have taken place—well, now, let me see—perhaps at two +o’clock this last time. Two o’clock—that’s the idea. Well, at such a +time as that not many people are about, especially on a foggy night. +Yes, one woman declares she saw a young chap walking away from the spot +where ’twas done; and another one—but that was a good bit later—says +The Avenger passed by her. It’s mostly her they’re following in this +’ere description. And then the boss who has charge of that sort of +thing looked up what other people had said—I mean when the other crimes +was committed. That’s how he made up this ‘Wanted.’” + +“Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?” said Bunting +slowly, disappointedly. + +“Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description fits him +all right,” said Chandler; but he also spoke in a hesitating voice. + +“You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?” observed Bunting +insinuatingly. + +He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on—in fact, that +she even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She had come up +close to them, and now looked quite her old self again. + +“Yes. They believe they’ve found the weapon what he does his awful +deeds with,” said Chandler. “At any rate, within a hundred yards of +that little dark passage where they found the bodies—one at each end, +that was—there was discovered this morning a very peculiar kind o’ +knife—‘keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger’—that’s the exact words the +boss used when he was describing it to a lot of us. He seemed to think +a lot more of that clue than of the other—I mean than of the +description people gave of the chap who walked quickly by with a +newspaper parcel. But now there’s a pretty job in front of us. Every +shop where they sell or might a’ sold, such a thing as that knife, +including every eating-house in the East End, has got to be called at!” + +“Whatever for?” asked Daisy. + +“Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling +about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the +time. But, Mr. Bunting”—Chandler’s voice changed; it became +businesslike, official—“they’re not going to say anything about +that—not in newspapers—till to-morrow, so don’t you go and tell +anybody. You see, we don’t want to frighten the fellow off. If he knew +they’d got his knife—well, he might just make himself scarce, and they +don’t want that! If it’s discovered that any knife of that kind was +sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways are known, +then—then—” + +“What’ll happen then?” said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer. + +“Well, then, nothing’ll be put about it in the papers at all,” said +Chandler deliberately. “The only objec’ of letting the public know +about it would be if nothink was found—I mean if the search of the +shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try and find +out someone—some private person-like, who’s watched that knife in the +criminal’s possession. It’s there the reward—the five hundred pounds +will come in.” + +“Oh, I’d give anything to see that knife!” exclaimed Daisy, clasping +her hands together. + +“You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!” cried her stepmother passionately. + +They all looked round at her, surprised. + +“Come, come, Ellen!” said Bunting reprovingly. + +“Well, it _is_ a horrible idea!” said his wife sullenly. “To go and +sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds.” + +But Daisy was offended. “Of course I’d like to see it!” she cried +defiantly. “I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. +Chandler said that! I only said I’d like to see the knife.” + +Chandler looked at her soothingly. “Well, the day may come when you +_will_ see it,” he said slowly. + +A great idea had come into his mind. + +“No! What makes you think that?” + +“If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our Black +Museum at the Yard, you’ll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. They +keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this weapon +_should_ lead to the conviction of The Avenger—well, then, that knife +’ull be there, and you’ll see it!” + +“The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your place +for?” asked Daisy wonderingly. “I thought there was only the British +Museum—” + +And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, laughed +aloud. + +“You are a goosey girl!” said her father fondly. “Why, there’s a lot of +museums in London; the town’s thick with ’em. Ask Ellen there. She and +me used to go to them kind of places when we was courting—if the +weather was bad.” + +“But our museum’s the one that would interest Miss Daisy,” broke in +Chandler eagerly. “It’s a regular Chamber of ’Orrors!” + +“Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before,” said Bunting +excitedly. “D’you really mean that there’s a museum where they keeps +all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives murders +have been committed with?” + +“Knives?” cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of attention, +for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even Mrs. Bunting +looked at him expectantly. “Much more than knives, Mr. Bunting! Why, +they’ve got there, in little bottles, the real poison what people have +been done away with.” + +“And can you go there whenever you like?” asked Daisy wonderingly. She +had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable privileges are +attached to the position of a detective member of the London Police +Force. + +“Well, I suppose I _could_—” Joe smiled. “Anyway I can certainly get +leave to take a friend there.” He looked meaningly at Daisy, and Daisy +looked eagerly at him. + +But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? Ellen +was so prim, so—so irritatingly proper. But what was this father was +saying? “D’you really mean that, Joe?” + +“Yes, of course I do!” + +“Well, then, look here! If it isn’t asking too much of a favour, I +should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don’t want +to wait till The Avenger’s caught”—Bunting smiled broadly. “I’d be +quite content as it is with what there is in that museum o’ yours. +Ellen, there,”—he looked across at his wife—“don’t agree with me about +such things. Yet I don’t think I’m a bloodthirsty man! But I’m just +terribly interested in all that sort of thing—always have been. I used +to positively envy the butler in that Balham Mystery!” + +Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man—it was a look which +contained and carried a great many things backwards and forwards, such +as—“Now, isn’t it funny that your father should want to go to such a +place? But still, I can’t help it if he does want to go, so we must put +up with his company, though it would have been much nicer for us to go +just by our two selves.” And then Daisy’s look answered quite as +plainly, though perhaps Joe didn’t read her glance quite as clearly as +she had read his: “Yes, it is tiresome. But father means well; and +’twill be very pleasant going there, even if he does come too.” + +“Well, what d’you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? I’d call +for you here about—shall we say half-past two?—and just take you and +Miss Daisy down to the Yard. ’Twouldn’t take very long; we could go all +the way by bus, right down to Westminster Bridge.” He looked round at +his hostess: “Wouldn’t you join us, Mrs. Bunting? ’Tis truly a +wonderful interesting place.” + +But his hostess shook her head decidedly. “’Twould turn me sick,” she +exclaimed, “to see the bottle of poison what had done away with the +life of some poor creature! + +“And as for knives—!” a look of real horror, of startled fear, crept +over her pale face. + +“There, there!” said Bunting hastily. “Live and let live—that’s what I +always say. Ellen ain’t on in this turn. She can just stay at home and +mind the cat—I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!” + +“I won’t have Mr. Sleuth laughed at,” said Mrs. Bunting darkly. “But +there! I’m sure it’s very kind of you, Joe, to think of giving Bunting +and Daisy such a rare treat”—she spoke sarcastically, but none of the +three who heard her understood that. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the +stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart of +that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, Daisy +Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of Romance. +Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up to one of the +upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a new and delightful +experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, quiet life in the little +country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this was the first time a lift +had come her way. + +With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler +marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. + +Daisy clung to her father’s arm, a little bewildered, a little +oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was stilled by the +awe she felt at the wonderful place where she found herself, and by the +glimpses she caught of great rooms full of busy, silent men engaged in +unravelling—or so she supposed—the mysteries of crime. + +They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped +short. “Look in there,” he said, in a low voice, addressing the father +rather than the daughter, “that’s the Finger-Print Room. We’ve records +here of over two hundred thousand men’s and women’s finger-tips! I +expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we’ve got the print of a +man’s five finger-tips, well, he’s done for—if he ever does anything +else, that is. Once we’ve got that bit of him registered he can’t never +escape us—no, not if he tries ever so. But though there’s nigh on a +quarter of a million records in there, yet it don’t take—well, not half +an hour, for them to tell whether any particular man has ever been +convicted before! Wonderful thought, ain’t it?” + +“Wonderful!” said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a troubled +look came over his stolid face. “Wonderful, but also a very fearful +thought for the poor wretches as has got their finger-prints in, Joe.” + +Joe laughed. “Agreed!” he said. “And the cleverer ones knows that only +too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was here safe, +managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just so as to make +a blurred impression—you takes my meaning? But there, at the end of six +weeks the skin grew all right again, and in exactly the same little +creases as before!” + +“Poor devil!” said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came over +Daisy’s bright eager face. + +They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they came +to a half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than that of the +Finger-Print Identification Room. + +“If you’ll glance in there,” said Joe briefly, “you’ll see how we finds +out all about any man whose finger-tips has given him away, so to +speak. It’s here we keeps an account of what he’s done, his previous +convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where I told you, and his +record in there—just connected by a number.” + +“Wonderful!” said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was longing +to get on—to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe and her father +were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the matter of that not +worth taking the trouble to understand. However, she had not long to +wait. + +A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on very +friendly terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, unlocking +a common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of three through +into the Black Museum. + +For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment +and surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they +called the Science Room in the public library of the town where she +lived with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up with plain +glass cases fixed at a height from the floor which enabled their +contents to be looked at closely. + +She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The +exhibits shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, +the sort of things one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in an +untidy house—old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what looked +like a child’s broken lantern, even a box of pills. . . + +As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking objects; +bits of old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and leather, and so +on. + +It was really rather disappointing. + +Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf just +below the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the great +room look so light and shadowless, was a row of life-size white plaster +heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. There were about a +dozen of these, not more—and they had such odd, staring, helpless, +_real_-looking faces. + +“Whatever’s those?” asked Bunting in a low voice. + +Daisy clung a thought closer to her father’s arm. Even she guessed that +these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of those +men and women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains that the +murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death. + +“All hanged!” said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. “Casts +taken after death.” + +Bunting smiled nervously. “They don’t look dead somehow. They looks +more as if they were listening,” he said. + +“That’s the fault of Jack Ketch,” said the man facetiously. “It’s his +idea—that of knotting his patient’s necktie under the left ear! That’s +what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom he has to act valet on +just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a bit to one side. You +look here—?” + +Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed with +his finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each neck; +running from this indentation was a curious little furrow, well ridged +above, showing how tightly Jack Ketch’s necktie had been drawn when its +wearer was hurried through the gates of eternity. + +“They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or—or hurt,” said +Bunting wonderingly. + +He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring +faces. + +But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, +“Well, a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his +plans brought to naught—and knowing he’s only got a second to live—now +wouldn’t he?” + +“Yes, I suppose he would,” said Bunting slowly. + +Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere of +the place was beginning to tell on her. She now began to understand +that the shabby little objects lying there in the glass case close to +her were each and all links in the chain of evidence which, in almost +every case, had brought some guilty man or woman to the gallows. + +“We had a yellow gentleman here the other day,” observed the guardian +suddenly; “one of those Brahmins—so they calls themselves. Well, you’d +a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He +declared—what was the word he used?”—he turned to Chandler. + +“He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, +mind you—queer to say, he left them out—exuded evil, that was the word +he used! Exuded—squeezed out it means. He said that being here made him +feel very bad. And twasn’t all nonsense either. He turned quite green +under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him out quick. He didn’t +feel better till he’d got right to the other end of the passage!” + +“There now! Who’d ever think of that?” said Bunting. “I should say that +man ’ud got something on his conscience, wouldn’t you?” + +“Well, I needn’t stay now,” said Joe’s good-natured friend. “You show +your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place nearly as well as I +do, don’t you?” + +He smiled at Joe’s visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed that +he could not tear himself away after all. + +“Look here,” he said to Bunting. “In this here little case are the +tools of Charles Peace. I expect you’ve heard of him.” + +“I should think I have!” cried Bunting eagerly. + +“Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of all. +Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he would have +been, had he been put in the way of it. Here’s his ladder; you see it +folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little bundle—just like a +bundle of old sticks any man might have been seen carrying about London +in those days without attracting any attention. Why, it probably helped +him to look like an honest working man time and time again, for on +being arrested he declared most solemnly he’d always carried that +ladder openly under his arm.” + +“The daring of that!” cried Bunting. + +“Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could reach from the ground +to the second storey of any old house. And, oh! how clever he was! Just +open one section, and you see the other sections open automatically; so +Peace could stand on the ground and force the thing quietly up to any +window he wished to reach. Then he’d go away again, having done his +job, with a mere bundle of old wood under his arm! My word, he was +artful! I wonder if you’ve heard the tale of how Peace once lost a +finger. Well, he guessed the constables were instructed to look out for +a man missing a finger; so what did he do?” + +“Put on a false finger,” suggested Bunting. + +“No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do without a hand +altogether. Here’s his false stump: you see, it’s made of wood—wood and +black felt? Well, that just held his hand nicely. Why, we considers +that one of the most ingenious contrivances in the whole museum.” + +Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. With Chandler in +delighted attendance, she had moved away to the farther end of the +great room, and now she was bending over yet another glass case. +“Whatever are those little bottles for?” she asked wonderingly. + +There were five small phials, filled with varying quantities of cloudy +liquids. + +“They’re full of poison, Miss Daisy, that’s what they are. There’s +enough arsenic in that little whack o’ brandy to do for you and me—aye, +and for your father as well, I should say.” + +“Then chemists shouldn’t sell such stuff,” said Daisy, smiling. Poison +was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little bottles only +brought a pleasant thrill. + +“No more they don’t. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was. Lady +said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was really +going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband. She’d got a +bit tired of him, I suspect.” + +“Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with,” said +Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they began to +laugh aloud in unison. + +“Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?” asked Chandler, +becoming suddenly serious. + +“Oh, yes,” said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. “That was the +wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother. +They’ve got her in Madame Tussaud’s. But Ellen, she won’t let me go to +the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn’t let father take me there last time +I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow I don’t feel as +if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!” + +“Well,” said Chandler slowly, “we’ve a case full of relics of Mrs. +Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that’s at Madame +Tussaud’s—at least so they claim, I can’t say. Now here’s something +just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that man’s jacket +there?” + +“Yes,” said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed, +frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had been +taken queer. + +“A burglar shot a man dead who’d disturbed him, and by mistake he went +and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one of the +buttons was broken in two. Well, that don’t seem much of a clue, does +it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you that that other +bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged the fellow? And ’twas +the more wonderful because all three buttons was different!” + +Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which had +hung a man. “And whatever’s that!” she asked, pointing to a piece of +dirty-looking stuff. + +“Well,” said Chandler reluctantly, “that’s rather a horrible thing—that +is. That’s a bit o’ shirt that was buried with a woman—buried in the +ground, I mean—after her husband had cut her up and tried to burn her. +’Twas that bit o’ shirt that brought him to the gallows.” + +“I considers your museum’s a very horrid place!” said Daisy pettishly, +turning away. + +She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly +lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room. + +But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types of +infernal machines. “Beautiful little works of art some of them are,” +said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree. + +“Come along—do, father!” said Daisy quickly. “I’ve seen about enough +now. If I was to stay in here much longer it ’ud give me the horrors. I +don’t want to have no nightmares to-night. It’s dreadful to think there +are so many wicked people in the world. Why, we might knock up against +some murderer any minute without knowing it, mightn’t we?” + +“Not you, Miss Daisy,” said Chandler smilingly. “I don’t suppose you’ll +ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone who’s +committed a murder—not one in a million does that. Why, even I have +never had anything to do with a proper murder case!” + +But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every moment of +the time. Just now he was studying intently the various photographs +which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially was he pleased +to see those connected with a famous and still mysterious case which +had taken place not long before in Scotland, and in which the servant +of the man who died had played a considerable part—not in elucidating, +but in obscuring, the mystery. + +“I suppose a good many murderers get off?” he said musingly. + +And Joe Chandler’s friend nodded. “I should think they did!” he +exclaimed. “There’s no such thing as justice here in England. ’Tis odds +on the murderer every time. ’Tisn’t one in ten that come to the end he +should do—to the gallows, that is.” + +“And what d’you think about what’s going on now—I mean about those +Avenger murders?” + +Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already moving +towards the door. + +“I don’t believe he’ll ever be caught,” said the other confidentially. +“In some ways ’tis a lot more of a job to catch a madman than ’tis to +run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of course—leastways to my +thinking—The Avenger _is_ a madman—one of the cunning, quiet sort. Have +you heard about the letter?” his voice dropped lower. + +“No,” said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. “What letter d’you mean?” + +“Well, there’s a letter—it’ll be in this museum some day—which came +just before that last double event. ’Twas signed ‘The Avenger,’ in just +the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always leaves +behind him. Mind you, it don’t follow that it actually was The Avenger +what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, and I know +that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it.” + +“And where was it posted?” asked Bunting. “That might be a bit of a +clue, you know.” + +“Oh, no,” said the other. “They always goes a very long way to post +anything—criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But this +particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office.” + +“What? Close to us?” said Bunting. “Goodness! dreadful!” + +“Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don’t suppose The +Avenger’s in any way peculiar-looking—in fact we know he ain’t.” + +“Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?” asked +Bunting hesitatingly. + +“Our description was made up from what she said,” answered the other +cautiously. “But, there, you can’t tell! In a case like that it’s +groping—groping in the dark all the time—and it’s just a lucky accident +if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it’s upsetting us all very +much here. You can’t wonder at that!” + +“No, indeed,” said Bunting quickly. “I give you my word, I’ve hardly +thought of anything else for the last month.” + +Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage +she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was saying. + +He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother +lived, at Richmond—that it was a nice little house, close to the park. +He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there one +afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and how nice +it would be. + +“I don’t see why Ellen shouldn’t let me,” the girl said rebelliously. +“But she’s that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen—a regular old +maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I’m staying with them, father +don’t like for me to do anything that Ellen don’t approve of. But she’s +got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her—?” She looked at him, +and he nodded sagely. + +“Don’t you be afraid,” he said confidently. “I’ll get round Mrs. +Bunting. But, Miss Daisy”—he grew very red—“I’d just like to ask you a +question—no offence meant—” + +“Yes?” said Daisy a little breathlessly. “There’s father close to us, +Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?” + +“Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you’ve never walked +out with any young fellow?” + +Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her +cheek. “No,” she said sadly. “No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not.” In a +burst of candour she added, “You see, I never had the chance!” + +And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found herself +for close on an hour quite alone in the house during her husband’s and +Daisy’s jaunt with young Chandler. + +Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on this particular +afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was falling, he +suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, and his +landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. + +As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the +drawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two +rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, +that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth’s sitting-room she +wanted to do—as to engage in a vague search for—she hardly knew for +what. + +During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always had a +deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who read their +employers’ private letters, and who furtively peeped into desks and +cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of discovering family +skeletons. + +But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to do +herself what she had once so scorned others for doing. + +Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He was +a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, +under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had early +undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of +washing he required done, with her own and Bunting’s. Luckily he wore +soft shirts. + +At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with +this tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at it +herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting’s shirts. +Everything else she managed to do herself. + +From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the +dressing-table. + +Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he +generally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned +looking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulled out +the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there; she only +glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver. The lodger +had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes he required. He +had consulted her as to how much they would cost, making no secret of +why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely comforted Mrs. Bunting. + +Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a little +way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap of paper. +And at last, when more or less giving up the search, as she came and +went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting door wide open, her +mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as to the lodger’s +past life. + +Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible sort +of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct as have +other people of his class. He was queer about the drink—one might say +almost crazy on the subject—but there, as to that, he wasn’t the only +one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a lady who was just like +that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the question of drink and +drunkards—She looked round the neat drawing-room with vague +dissatisfaction. There was only one place where anything could be kept +concealed—that place was the substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. +And then an idea suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never +thought of before. + +After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly +bring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the corner +where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her not very +great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece of +furniture. + +As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,—something rolling +about on the second shelf, something which had not been there before +Mr. Sleuth’s arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier +backwards and forwards—once, twice, thrice—satisfied, yet strangely +troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the +disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by its +owner. + +Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Bunting’s mind. She +hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside the +cupboard. A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady +realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier must become +known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some dark-coloured liquid +was oozing out though the bottom of the little cupboard door. + +She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red, on +her finger. + +Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. In fact +the colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over. + +It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset—that was all! How could +she have thought it was anything else? + +It was the more silly of her—so she told herself in scornful +condemnation—because she knew that the lodger used red ink. Certain +pages of Cruden’s Concordance were covered with notes written in Mr. +Sleuth’s peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some places you +couldn’t see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarks and +notes of interrogation. + +Mr. Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in the +chiffonnier—that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done; and it +was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to know things she +would be none the better, none the happier, for knowing, that this +accident had taken place. + +She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallen on +the green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily told herself, +foolishly upset she went once more into the back room. + +It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She would have +expected him to have made that one of his first purchases—the more so +that paper is so very cheap, especially that rather dirty-looking grey +Silurian paper. Mrs. Bunting had once lived with a lady who always used +two kinds of notepaper, white for her friends and equals, grey for +those whom she called “common people.” She, Ellen Green, as she then +was, had always resented the fact. 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. £21 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. “Taking advantage of your being out I went up to dust the +drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the chiffonnier it +tilted. I’m afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that was inside may have +got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, sir. But I hope there’s no +harm done. I wiped it up as well as I could, seeing that the doors of +the chiffonnier are locked.” + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. But +Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now than she +had felt before he came in. Then she had been so frightened that she +had nearly gone out of the house, on to the pavement, for company. + +“Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there.” + +She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger’s brow +cleared. + +“I was aware you used ink, sir,” Mrs. Bunting went on, “for I have seen +you marking that book of yours—I mean the book you read together with +the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you another bottle, +sir?” + +“No,” said Mr. Sleuth. “No, I thank you. I will at once proceed +upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you I shall +ring.” + +He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room bell did +ring. + +At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier was wide +open, and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle of red ink +which had turned over and now lay in a red pool of its own making on +the lower shelf. + +“I’m afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps I was +ill-advised to keep my ink in there.” + +“Oh, no, sir! That doesn’t matter at all. Only a drop or two fell out +on to the carpet, and they don’t show, as you see, sir, for it’s a dark +corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well.” + +Mr. Sleuth hesitated. “No,” he said, after a long pause, “I think not, +Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the ink remaining in the +bottle will do quite well, especially if I add a little water, or +better still, a little tea, to what already remains in the bottle. I +only require it to mark up passages which happen to be of peculiar +interest in my Concordance—a work, Mrs. Bunting, which I should have +taken great pleasure in compiling myself had not this—ah—this gentleman +called Cruden, been before.” + +Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter in her +manner than usual that evening. She listened to all they had to say +about their interesting visit to the Black Museum, and did not snub +either of them—no, not even when Bunting told of the dreadful, +haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged. + +But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked her a +question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she had not +heard the last few words he had been saying. + +“A penny for your thoughts!” he said jocularly. But she shook her head. + +Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came back +dressed up in a blue-and-white check silk gown. + +“My!” said her father. “You do look fine, Daisy. I’ve never seen you +wearing that before.” + +“And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!” observed Mrs. Bunting +sarcastically. And then, “I suppose this dressing up means that you’re +expecting someone. I should have thought both of you must have seen +enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that young chap +does his work—that I do! He never seems too busy to come and waste an +hour or two here.” + +But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. And even +Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlike herself. She +went about her cooking and the various little things she had to do even +more silently than was her wont. + +Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was the storm +of dread, of sombre anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense, which shook +her soul, and which so far affected her poor, ailing body that often +she felt as if she could not force herself to accomplish her simple +round of daily work. + +After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a penny +evening paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather rueful +smile, that he had read so much of that nasty little print this last +week or two that his eyes hurt him. + +“Let me read aloud a bit to you, father,” said Daisy eagerly, and he +handed her the paper. + +Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock echoed +through the house. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him “Joe” now, and no +longer “Chandler,” as he had mostly used to do. + +Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. She +wasn’t going to have any strangers pushing in past her. + +To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel which +must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty horde _with +right on their side_. And she was always expecting that first single +spy who would herald the battalion against whom her only weapon would +be her woman’s wit and cunning. + +But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her +face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look it +assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and stepdaughter. + +“Why, Joe,” she whispered, for she had left the door open behind her, +and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had bidden +her. “Come in, do! It’s fairly cold to-night.” + +A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news. + +Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? Well, he +didn’t feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the sooner where he +was now. + +Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the double +murder which had been committed early in the morning of the day Daisy +had arrived in London. And though the thousands of men belonging to the +Metropolitan Police—to say nothing of the smaller, more alert body of +detectives attached to the Force—were keenly on the alert, not one but +had begun to feel that there was nothing to be alert about. +Familiarity, even with horror, breeds contempt. + +But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something happened +to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest this strange, +enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the more sober organs of +the Press went on attacking, with gathering severity and indignation, +the Commissioner of Police; and at the huge demonstration held in +Victoria Park two days before violent speeches had also been made +against the Home Secretary. + +But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little house +in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle of dreams, +to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a moment to spare +from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an unsatisfactory, job. +He secretly agreed with one of his pals who had exclaimed, and that +within twenty-four hours of the last double crime, “Why, ’twould be +easier to find a needle in a rick o’ hay than this—bloke!” + +And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now—after nine +long, empty days had gone by? + +Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. +Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. +Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the father +and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented domesticity. +Joe Chandler’s honest heart swelled at the sight. + +Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her +stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left side +of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable +arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude—as it was +the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought a pang to +Mrs. Bunting—which showed that age was beginning to creep over the +listener. + +One of Daisy’s duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of +reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her +accomplishment. + +Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been asking, “Shall +I read this, father?” And Bunting had answered quickly, “Aye, do, my +dear.” + +He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the door, +he had only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming so +frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves. + +Daisy read out: + +“THE AVENGER: A—” + + +And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. +Bravely, however, she went on. “A the-o-ry.” + +“Go in—do!” whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. “Why should we stay +out here in the cold? It’s ridiculous.” + +“I don’t want to interrupt Miss Daisy,” whispered Chandler back, rather +hoarsely. + +“Well, you’ll hear it all the better in the room. Don’t think she’ll +stop because of you, bless you! There’s nothing shy about our Daisy!” + +The young man resented the tart, short tone. “Poor little girl!” he +said to himself tenderly. “That’s what it is having a stepmother, +instead of a proper mother.” But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then he +was pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright blush +came over her pretty face. + +“Joe begs you won’t stop yet awhile. Go on with your reading,” +commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. “Now, Joe, you can go and sit over +there, close to Daisy, and then you won’t miss a word.” + +There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed +that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went +and sat on a chair just behind Daisy. From there he could note with +reverent delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards from the +nape of her slender neck. + +“THE AVENGER: A THE-O-RY” + + +began Daisy again, clearing her throat. + +“DEAR SIR—I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think there is +a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable that The +Avenger—to give him the name by which he apparently wishes to be +known—comprises in his own person the peculiarities of Jekyll and Hyde, +Mr. Louis Stevenson’s now famous hero. + “The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, + pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of + London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the + husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and + is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his + widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he has + become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, + occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy + nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out + of the house, maybe between one and two o’clock, and swiftly makes + his way straight to what has become The Avenger’s murder area. + Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like + gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home + again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once + more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, + esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and + acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene + of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal + lunatic. + “I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that + I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to + the part of London where these murders have been actually + committed. I am quite sure from all that has come out—and we must + remember that full information is never given to the newspapers—The + Avenger should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of + London—Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly—” + + +Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the word +“Gab-o-ri-you,” said she. + +“What a funny name!” said Bunting wonderingly. + +And then Joe broke in: “That’s the name of a French chap what wrote +detective stories,” he said. “Pretty good, some of them are, too!” + +“Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, I +take it?” said Bunting. + +“Oh, no,” Joe spoke with confidence. “Whoever’s written that silly +letter just signed that name for fun.” + +“It is a silly letter,” Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. “I +wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish.” + +“Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman!” cried Daisy, in +an awe-struck voice. “There’d be a how-to-do!” + +“There may be something in the notion,” said her father thoughtfully. +“After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute he must be +somewhere a-hiding of himself.” + +“Of course he’s somewhere,” said Mrs. Bunting scornfully. + +She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. ’Twould soon be time for +the lodger’s supper. + +She hurried on: “But what I do say is that—that—he has nothing to do +with the West End. Why, they say it’s a sailor from the Docks—that’s a +good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I’m fair sick of the whole +subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. The Avenger this—The +Avenger that—” + +“I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night,” said Bunting +cheerfully. “Well, Joe, is there anything new?” + +“I say, father, just listen to this!” Daisy broke in excitedly. She +read out: + +“BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED” + + +“Bloodhounds?” repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her tone. +“Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!” + +Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. “Why, ’twould be a +very good idea, if ’twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. But, +there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers’ shops, to say +nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o’ that sort?” + +But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother’s shrinking ear there seemed a +horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her fresh young +voice. + +“Hark to this,” she said: + +“A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn was +traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious +instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and +hanged.” + + +“La, now! Who’d ever have thought of such a thing?” Bunting exclaimed, +in admiration. “The newspapers do have some useful hints in sometimes, +Joe.” + +But young Chandler shook his head. “Bloodhounds ain’t no use,” he said; +“no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the suggestions that +the last few days have brought in—well, all I can say is our work would +be cut out for us—not but what it’s cut out for us now, if it comes to +that!” He sighed ruefully. He was beginning to feel very tired; if only +he could stay in this pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting +reading on and on for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would +presently have to do, into the cold and foggy night! + +Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There was a +lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, even in the +house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where he habitually +took his meals, the people round him had taken to taunt him with the +remissness of the police. More than that one of his pals, a man he’d +always looked up to, because the young fellow had the gift of the gab, +had actually been among those who had spoken at the big demonstration +in Victoria Park, making a violent speech, not only against the +Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but also against the Home +Secretary. + +But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the +possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading just +yet. + +“Here’s another notion!” she exclaimed. “Another letter, father!” + +“PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES. + + +“DEAR SIR—During the last day or two several of the more Intelligent of +my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, whoever he may be, +must be known to a certain number of persons. It is impossible that the +perpetrator of such deeds, however nomad he may be in his habits—” + + +“Now I wonder what ‘nomad’ can be?” Daisy interrupted herself, and +looked round at her little audience. + +“I’ve always declared the fellow had all his senses about him,” +observed Bunting confidently. + +Daisy went on, quite satisfied: + +“—however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat where +his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person who knows the +terrible secret is evidently withholding information in expectation of +a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory after the fact, he or +she is now afraid of the consequences. My suggestion, Sir, is that the +Home Secretary promise a free pardon. The more so that only thus can +this miscreant be brought to justice. Unless he was caught red-handed +in the act, it will be exceedingly difficult to trace the crime +committed to any individual, for English law looks very askance at +circumstantial evidence.” + + +“There’s something worth listening to in that letter,” said Joe, +leaning forward. + +Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as she +turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he was +saying. + +“Yes, Mr. Chandler?” she said interrogatively. + +“Well, d’you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in a +railway carriage? He took refuge with someone—a woman his mother had +known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. But at last she +gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!” + +“I don’t think I’d like to give anybody up for a reward,” said Bunting, +in his slow, dogmatic way. + +“Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting,” said Chandler confidently. “You’d +only be doing what it’s the plain duty of everyone—everyone, that is, +who’s a good citizen. And you’d be getting something for doing it, +which is more than most people gets as does their duty.” + +“A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common +informer,” went on Bunting obstinately. “And no man ’ud care to be +called that! It’s different for you, Joe,” he added hastily. “It’s your +job to catch those who’ve done anything wrong. And a man’d be a fool +who’d take refuge—like with you. He’d be walking into the lion’s +mouth—” Bunting laughed. + +And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: “If I’d done anything I wouldn’t +mind going for help to Mr. Chandler,” she said. + +And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, “No. And if you did you needn’t be +afraid I’d give you up, Miss Daisy!” + +And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, +sitting with bowed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience +and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain. + +“Why, Ellen, don’t you feel well?” asked Bunting quickly. + +“Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like,” answered the poor +woman heavily. “It’s over now. Don’t mind me.” + +“But I don’t believe—no, that I don’t—that there’s anybody in the world +who knows who The Avenger is,” went on Chandler quickly. “It stands to +reason that anybody’d give him up—in their own interest, if not in +anyone else’s. Who’d shelter such a creature? Why, ’twould be dangerous +to have him in the house along with one!” + +“Then it’s your idea that he’s not responsible for the wicked things he +does?” Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at Chandler with +eager, anxious eyes. + +“I’d be sorry to think he wasn’t responsible enough to hang!” said +Chandler deliberately. “After all the trouble he’s been giving us, +too!” + +“Hanging’d be too good for that chap,” said Bunting. + +“Not if he’s not responsible,” said his wife sharply. “I never heard of +anything so cruel—that I never did! If the man’s a madman, he ought to +be in an asylum—that’s where he ought to be.” + +“Hark to her now!” Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. +“Contrary isn’t the word for her! But there, I’ve noticed the last few +days that she seemed to be taking that monster’s part. That’s what +comes of being a born total abstainer.” + +Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. “What nonsense you do talk!” +she said angrily. “Not but what it’s a good thing if these murders have +emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. England’s drink is +England’s shame—I’ll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, get up, +do! Put down that paper. We’ve heard quite enough. You can be laying +the cloth while I goes down the kitchen.” + +“Yes, you mustn’t be forgetting the lodger’s supper,” called out +Bunting. “Mr. Sleuth don’t always ring—” he turned to Chandler. “For +one thing, he’s often out about this time.” + +“Not often—just now and again, when he wants to buy something,” snapped +out Mrs. Bunting. “But I hadn’t forgot his supper. He never do want it +before eight o’clock.” + +“Let me take up the lodger’s supper, Ellen,” Daisy’s eager voice broke +in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was now laying +the cloth. + +“Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You have +your work cut out looking after things down here—that’s where I wants +you to help me.” + +Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn’t like to be doing nothing while +Daisy was so busy. “Yes,” he said, looking across at Mrs. Bunting, “I’d +forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?” + +“Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman,” said Bunting. “He +turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth.” + +His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy laughed. “You’ll +hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I’ve never seen this wonderful +lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she does! If I was father I’d +be jealous!” + +Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too funny. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +“All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can’t always do just +what one wants to do—not in this world, at any rate!” + +Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, though +both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She was +standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she spoke +she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in her voice +a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which they were both +acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other would have to +bow. + +There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, “I +don’t see why I should go if I don’t want to!” she cried. “You’ll allow +I’ve been useful to you, Ellen? ’Tisn’t even as if you was quite well.” + +“I am quite well—perfectly well!” snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and she +turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her stepdaughter. + +“’Tain’t often I has a chance of being with you and father.” There were +tears in Daisy’s voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at his wife. + +An invitation had come to Daisy—an invitation from her own dead +mother’s sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave Square. +“The family” had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and Aunt +Margaret—Daisy was her godchild—had begged that her niece might come +and spend two or three days with her. + +But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was like +in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt Margaret was +one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modern employer is +always sighing. While “the family” were away it was her joy—she +regarded it as a privilege—to wash sixty-seven pieces of very valuable +china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room; she also slept in +every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. These were the two +duties with which she intended her young niece to assist her, and +Daisy’s soul sickened at the prospect. + +But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an hour +ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret was not one +to be trifled with. + +Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the very +first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go—that there was no +doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But discuss it +they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. But that, as +was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set on her own view. + +“What the child says is true,” he observed. “It isn’t as if you was +quite well. You’ve been took bad twice in the last few days—you can’t +deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn’t I just take a bus and go over and see +Margaret? I’d tell her just how it is. She’d understand, bless you!” + +“I won’t have you doing nothing of the sort!” cried Mrs. Bunting, +speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. “Haven’t +I a right to be ill, haven’t I a right to be took bad, aye, and to feel +all right again—same as other people?” + +Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. “Oh, Ellen!” she cried; “do +say that you can’t spare me! I don’t want to go across to that horrid +old dungeon of a place.” + +“Do as you like,” said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. “I’m fair tired of you +both! There’ll come a day, Daisy, when you’ll know, like me, that money +is the main thing that matters in this world; and when your Aunt +Margaret’s left her savings to somebody else just because you wouldn’t +spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you’ll know what it’s +like to go without—you’ll know what a fool you were, and that nothing +can’t alter it any more!” + +And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it +snatched from her. + +“Ellen is right,” Bunting said heavily. “Money does matter—a terrible +deal—though I never thought to hear Ellen say ’twas the only thing that +mattered. But ’twould be foolish—very, very foolish, my girl, to offend +your Aunt Margaret. It’ll only be two days after all—two days isn’t a +very long time.” + +But Daisy did not hear her father’s last words. She had already rushed +from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her childish tears +of disappointment—the childish tears which came because she was +beginning to be a woman, with a woman’s natural instinct for building +her own human nest. + +Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange young +man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police. + +“Who’d ever have thought she’d have minded as much as that!” Bunting +looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart was misgiving +him. + +“It’s plain enough why she’s become so fond of us all of a sudden,” +said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her +uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, “as plain as the +nose on your face, my man.” + +“What d’you mean?” he said. “I daresay I’m a bit slow, Ellen, but I +really don’t know what you’d be at?” + +“Don’t you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe Chandler +had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only foolishness +then, but I’ve come round to your view—that’s all.” + +Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of coming +very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome Scotland +Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested in the +Avenger murders that he hadn’t thought of Joe in any other +connection—not this time, at any rate. + +“And do you think Daisy likes him?” There was an unwonted tone of +excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting’s voice. + +His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly smile by +any means, lit up her pale face. “I’ve never been one to prophesy,” she +answered deliberately. “But this I don’t mind telling you, +Bunting—Daisy’ll have plenty o’ time to get tired of Joe Chandler +before they two are dead. Mark my words!” + +“Well, she might do worse,” said Bunting ruminatingly. “He’s as steady +as God makes them, and he’s already earning thirty-two shillings a +week. But I wonder how Old Aunt’d like the notion? I don’t see her +parting with Daisy before she must.” + +“I wouldn’t let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing as +that!” cried Mrs. Bunting. “No, not for millions of gold!” And Bunting +looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a very different tune +now to what she’d sung a few minutes ago, when she was so keen about +the girl going to Belgrave Square. + +“If she still seems upset while she’s having her dinner,” said his wife +suddenly, “well, you just wait till I’ve gone out for something, and +then you just say to her, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’—just +that, and nothing more! She’ll take it from you. And I shouldn’t be +surprised if it comforted her quite a lot.” + +“For the matter of that, there’s no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn’t +go over and see her there,” said Bunting hesitatingly. + +“Oh, yes, there is,” said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. “Plenty of +reason. Daisy’ll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to know +any of her secrets. I’ve only seen that woman once, but I know exactly +the sort Margaret is. She’s just waiting for Old Aunt to drop off and +then she’ll want to have Daisy herself—to wait on her, like. She’d turn +quite nasty if she thought there was a young fellow what stood in her +way.” + +She glanced at the clock, the pretty little eight-day clock which had +been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. It had +mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and had as +mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth’s arrival. + +“I’ve time to go out with that telegram,” she said briskly—somehow she +felt better, different to what she had done the last few days—“and then +it’ll be done. It’s no good having more words about it, and I expect we +should have plenty more words if I wait till the child comes upstairs +again.” + +She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather +wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as “the child”—in fact, +he could only remember her having done so once before, and that was a +long time ago. They had been talking over their future life together, +and she had said, very solemnly, “Bunting, I promise I will do my +duty—as much as lies in my power, that is—by the child.” + +But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. As +not infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to do, +that particular duty had been taken over by someone else who had no +mind to let it go. + +“What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?” asked Bunting, rather nervously. +It was the first time since the lodger had come to them that Ellen had +offered to go out in the morning. + +She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, she +had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so—strange, +and, to herself, very comfortable and pleasant. + +“Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door and say I’ll be +back in a few minutes—that I had to go out with a message. He’s quite a +reasonable gentleman.” She went into the back room to put on her bonnet +and thick jacket for it was very cold—getting colder every minute. + +As she stood, buttoning her gloves—she wouldn’t have gone out untidy +for the world—Bunting suddenly came across to her. “Give us a kiss, old +girl,” he said. And his wife turned up her face. + +“One ’ud think it was catching!” she said, but there was a lilt in her +voice. + +“So it is,” Bunting briefly answered. “Didn’t that old cook get married +just after us? She’d never ’a thought of it if it hadn’t been for you!” + +But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. +Sleuth revenged himself for his landlady’s temporary forgetfulness. + +During the last two days the lodger had been queer, odder than usual, +unlike himself, or, rather, very much as he had been some ten days ago, +just before that double murder had taken place. + +The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadful place +to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs. Bunting had +heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead, restlessly walking up and down +his sitting-room. And later, when she took up his supper, she had +listened a moment outside the door, while he read aloud some of the +texts his soul delighted in—terrible texts telling of the grim joys +attendant on revenge. + +Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with the +curious personality of her lodger, that she did not look where she was +going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up against her. + +She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young person +muttered a word of apology;—then she again fell into deep thought. + +It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the +problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She, Ellen, +was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after all it +wasn’t wonderful that she had been snappy. This last night she had +hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake listening—and there is +nothing so tiring as to lie awake listening for a sound that never +comes. + +The house had remained so still you could have heard a pin drop. Mr. +Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. Had +he stirred his landlady was bound to have heard him, for his bed was, +as we know, just above hers. No, during those long hours of darkness +Daisy’s light, regular breathing was all that had fallen on Mrs. +Bunting’s ears. + +And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined effort +to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts. + +It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe had +said only last evening, it was full time that he should again turn that +awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. Bunting always +visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre a bright blinding +light—but the shadow had no form or definite substance. Sometimes he +looked like one thing, sometimes like another . . . + +Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the street where +there was a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to the left she +stopped short for a minute. + +There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebuke and +even self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women, should have +longed to hear that another murder had been committed last night! + +Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all through breakfast +hoping to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes, and more or +less during the long discussion which had followed on the receipt of +Margaret’s letter she had been hoping—hoping against hope—that those +dreadful triumphant shouts of the newspaper-sellers still might come +echoing down the Marylebone Road. And yet hypocrite that she was, she +had reproved Bunting when he had expressed, not disappointment +exactly—but, well, surprise, that nothing had happened last night. + +Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think how afraid +she had been of that young man! She was no longer afraid of him, or +hardly at all. He was dotty—that’s what was the matter with him, dotty +with love for rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy. Anything might now +go on, right under Joe Chandler’s very nose—but, bless you, he’d never +see it! Last summer, when this affair, this nonsense of young Chandler +and Daisy had begun, she had had very little patience with it all. In +fact, the memory of the way Joe had gone on then, the tiresome way he +would be always dropping in, had been one reason (though not the most +important reason of all) why she had felt so terribly put about at the +idea of the girl coming again. But now? Well, now she had become quite +tolerant, quite kindly—at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was +concerned. + +She wondered why. + +Still, ’twouldn’t do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for a couple +of days. In fact ’twould be a very good thing, for then he’d think of +Daisy—think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absence does make the +heart grow fonder—at first, at any rate. Mrs. Bunting was well aware of +that. During the long course of hers and Bunting’s mild courting, +they’d been separated for about three months, and it was that three +months which had made up her mind for her. She had got so used to +Bunting that she couldn’t do without him, and she had felt—oddest fact +of all—acutely, miserably jealous. But she hadn’t let him know that—no +fear! + +Of course, Joe mustn’t neglect his job—that would never do. But what a +good thing it was, after all, that he wasn’t like some of those +detective chaps that are written about in stories—the sort of chaps +that know everything, see everything, guess everything—even where there +isn’t anything to see, or know, or guess! + +Why, to take only one little fact—Joe Chandler had never shown the +slightest curiosity about their lodger. . . . + +Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurried quickly +on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her. + +She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman +without a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed to +manage other people’s affairs, had even written out the words: “Will be +with you to tea.—DAISY.” + +It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anything +horrible was going to happen in the next two or three days—it was just +as well Daisy shouldn’t be at home. Not that there was any _real_ +danger that anything would happen,—Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. + +By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentally +counting up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine, or +was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by now, +if—as that writer in the newspaper had suggested—he was a quiet, +blameless gentleman living in the West End, whatever vengeance he had +to wreak, must be satisfied? + +She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn’t do for the lodger to ring +before she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr. +Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. + +Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed into the +house. Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. There came the +sound of voices—of voices she thought she did not know—in the +sitting-room. + +She opened the door, and then drew a long breath. It was only Joe +Chandler—Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stopped rather +guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heard Chandler utter +the words: “That don’t mean nothing! I’ll just run out and send another +saying you won’t come, Miss Daisy.” + +And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting’s face. There had +fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shouts which +betokened that something _had_ happened last night—something which made +it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying down the +Marylebone Road. + +“Well?” she said a little breathlessly. “Well, Joe? I suppose you’ve +brought us news? I suppose there’s been another?” + +He looked at her, surprised. “No, that there hasn’t, Mrs. Bunting—not +as far as I know, that is. Oh, you’re thinking of those newspaper +chaps? They’ve got to cry out something,” he grinned. “You wouldn’t ’a +thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They’re just shouting out that +there’s been an arrest; but we don’t take no stock of that. It’s a +Scotchman what gave himself up last night at Dorking. He’d been +drinking, and was a-pitying of himself. Why, since this business began, +there’s been about twenty arrests, but they’ve all come to nothing.” + +“Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed,” said Bunting +jokingly. “Come to think of it, it’s high time The Avenger was at work +again.” He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned to young +Chandler: “Well, _you’ll_ be glad when its all over, my lad.” + +“Glad in a way,” said Chandler unwillingly. “But one ’ud have liked to +have caught him. One doesn’t like to know such a creature’s at large, +now, does one?” + +Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. “I must just go and +see about Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast,” she said in a weary, dispirited +voice, and left them there. + +She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plot which +had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance of success; +Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out another telegram +contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy’s stepmother shrewdly suspected +that by now the girl herself wouldn’t care to do such a thing. Daisy +had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere in her pretty little head. If +it ever became her fate to live as a married woman in London, it would +be best to stay on the right side of Aunt Margaret. + +And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother’s heart became very +soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact, there +was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth’s two eggs. Feeling suddenly +more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took the tray +upstairs. + +“As it was rather late, I didn’t wait for you to ring, sir,” she said. + +And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was +studying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book. “Quite +right, Mrs. Bunting—quite right! I have been pondering over the +command, ‘Work while it is yet light.’” + +“Yes, sir?” she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over her heart. +“Yes, sir?” + +“‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh—the flesh is weak,’” said Mr. +Sleuth, with a heavy sigh. + +“You studies too hard, and too long—that’s what’s ailing you, sir,” +said Mr. Sleuth’s landlady suddenly. + +When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had been +settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler was going +to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He could carry Daisy’s +modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead of walk, why, they could +take the bus from Baker Street Station to Victoria—that would land them +very near Belgrave Square. + +But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn’t had a walk, she +declared, for a long, long time—and then she blushed rosy red, and even +her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was very nice +looking, not at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to go +about the London streets by herself. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +Daisy’s father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, +watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. + +A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had come +a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining, rather lamely, +that it was the fog which had brought him so soon. + +“If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, ’twouldn’t have been +possible to walk a yard,” he explained, and they had accepted, +silently, his explanation. + +“I hope it’s quite safe sending her off like that?” Bunting looked +deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once that +he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was like an +old hen with her last chicken. + +“She’s safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn’t have a +smarter young fellow to look after her.” + +“It’ll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner,” said Bunting. “It’s always +worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I’d ’a taken her by the +Underground Railway to Victoria—that ’ud been the best way, considering +the weather ’tis.” + +“They don’t think anything of the weather, bless you!” said his wife. +“They’ll walk and walk as long as there’s a glimmer left for ’em to +steer by. Daisy’s just been pining to have a walk with that young chap. +I wonder you didn’t notice how disappointed they both were when you was +so set on going along with them to that horrid place.” + +“D’you really mean that, Ellen?” Bunting looked upset. “I understood +Joe to say he liked my company.” + +“Oh, did you?” said Mrs. Bunting dryly. “I expect he liked it just +about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go out +with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how the +woman could force herself upon two people who didn’t want her.” + +“But I’m Daisy’s father; and an old friend of Chandler,” said Bunting +remonstratingly. “I’m quite different from that cook. She was nothing +to us, and we was nothing to her.” + +“She’d have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt,” observed +his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little +foolishly. + +By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and a +feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. Bunting. +It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. The girl, in +some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and she had early +betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very unseemly and silly +curiosity concerning the lodger. “You might just let me have one peep +at him, Ellen?” she had pleaded, only that morning. But Ellen had +shaken her head. “No, that I won’t! He’s a very quiet gentleman; but he +knows exactly what he likes, and he don’t like anyone but me waiting on +him. Why, even your father’s hardly seen him.” + +But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy’s desire to view Mr. +Sleuth. + +There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her +stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence young +Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken to +doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to her +husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe Chandler to +call at Belgrave Square. ’Twouldn’t be human nature—at any rate, not +girlish human nature—not to do so, even if Joe’s coming did anger Aunt +Margaret. + +Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, would +be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a good thing. + +When Daisy wasn’t there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. +Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 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. . . . + +Mr. Sleuth’s bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than usual. +The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it later than it +was. + +When she went up, “I would like a cup of tea now, and just one piece of +bread-and-butter,” the lodger said wearily. “I don’t feel like having +anything else this afternoon.” + +“It’s a horrible day,” Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice than +usual. “No wonder you don’t feel hungry, sir. And then it isn’t so very +long since you had your dinner, is it?” + +“No,” he said absently. “No, it isn’t, Mrs. Bunting.” + +She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, as she +came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay. + +Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long Inverness +cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to +put on. + +“You’re never going out this afternoon, sir?” she asked falteringly. +“Why, the fog’s awful; you can’t see a yard ahead of you!” + +Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting’s voice had risen almost to a scream. +She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between the door and +her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way—to erect between Mr. Sleuth +and the dark, foggy world outside a living barrier. + +“The weather never affects me at all,” he said sullenly; and he looked +at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, slowly, +reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed for the first +time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right hand. It was the key +of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been on his way there when her +coming in had disturbed him. + +“It’s very kind of you to be so concerned about me,” he stammered, +“but—but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do not +welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I—I cannot stay in +your house if I feel that my comings and goings are watched—spied +upon.” + +She pulled herself together. “No one spies upon you, sir,” she said, +with considerable dignity. “I’ve done my best to satisfy you—” + +“You have—you have!” he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone. “But +you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing what I +wish to do—indeed, what I have to do. For years I have been +misunderstood—persecuted”—he waited a moment, then in a hollow voice +added the one word, “tortured! Do not tell me that you are going to add +yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. Bunting?” + +She stared at him helplessly. “Don’t you be afraid I’ll ever be that, +sir. I only spoke as I did because—well, sir, because I thought it +really wasn’t safe for a gentleman to go out this afternoon. Why, +there’s hardly anyone about, though we’re so near Christmas.” + +He walked across to the window and looked out. “The fog is clearing +somewhat; Mrs. Bunting,” but there was no relief in his voice, rather +was there disappointment and dread. + +Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. The +fog was lifting—rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in which +local fogs sometimes do lift in London. + +He turned sharply from the window. “Our conversation has made me forget +an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you would just +leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for me this +evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for after my walk I +shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through a very difficult +experiment.” + +“Very good, sir.” And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. + +But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it had +drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing Daisy +off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing—a thing +she had never thought of doing in her life before. She pressed her hot +forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass let into the +hat-and-umbrella stand. “I don’t know what to do!” she moaned to +herself, and then, “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” + +But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming +intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery never +occurred to Mrs. Bunting. + +In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that a +woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The timorous and +cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human being fleeing from +his pursuer from her door, but she has not revealed the fact that he +was ever there. In fact, it may almost be said that such betrayal has +never taken place unless the betrayer has been actuated by love of +gain, or by a longing for revenge. So far, perhaps because she is +subject rather than citizen, her duty as a component part of civilised +society weighs but lightly on woman’s shoulders. + +And then—and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become attached +to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his sad face when +he saw her come in with one of his meals, and when this happened Mrs. +Bunting felt pleased—pleased and vaguely touched. In between +those—those dreadful events outside, which filled her with such +suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, she never felt any fear, +only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. + +Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over the +strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have lived +_somewhere_ during his forty-odd years of life. She did not even know +if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters; friends she knew he had +none. But, however odd and eccentric he was, he had evidently, or so +she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind of life, till—till now. + +What had made him alter all of a sudden—if, that is, he had altered? +That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully with herself; +and, what was more, and very terribly, to the point, having altered, +why should he not in time go back to what he evidently had been—that +is, a blameless, quiet gentleman? + +If only he would! If only he would! + +As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these thoughts, +these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed through her brain. + +She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day—that there +had never been, in the history of the world, so strange a murderer as +The Avenger had proved himself to be. + +She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated, on +Joe’s words, as he had told them of other famous series of murders +which had taken place in the past, not only in England but +abroad—especially abroad. + +One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, +respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order to +get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale of an +apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, living +at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers who took +shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any valuables +they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or murderers +always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in almost every +case, a wicked lust for gold. + +At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she +went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. + +“The fog’s lifting a bit,” she said in an ill-assured voice. “I hope +that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it.” + +But the other shook his head silently. “No such luck!” he said briefly. +“You don’t know what it’s like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I expect ’twill +soon be just as heavy here as ’twas half an hour ago!” + +She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. “Quite a +lot of people have come out, anyway,” she observed. + +“There’s a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking of +asking if you wouldn’t like to go along there with me.” + +“No,” she said dully. “I’m quite content to stay at home.” + +She was listening—listening for the sounds which would betoken that the +lodger was coming downstairs. + +At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled +shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact when +the front door shut to. + +“That’s never Mr. Sleuth going out?” He turned on his wife, startled. +“Why, the poor gentleman’ll come to harm—that he will! One has to be +wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn’t taken any of his +money out with him.” + +“’Tisn’t the first time Mr. Sleuth’s been out in a fog,” said Mrs. +Bunting sombrely. + +Somehow she couldn’t help uttering these over-true words. And then she +turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken what +she said. + +But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. “We don’t +get the good old fogs we used to get—not what people used to call +‘London particulars.’ I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley—I’ve +often told you about her, Ellen?” + +Mrs. Bunting nodded. + +Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting’s ladies, one of those he had +liked best—a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her servants +what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat they would +have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated her kind +thought. + +“Mrs. Crowley used to say,” went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way, +“that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so long as it +was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked the country best, +but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. Fog never kept her from +going out—no, that it didn’t. She wasn’t a bit afraid. But—” he turned +round and looked at his wife—“I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I +should have thought him a timid kind of gentleman—” + +He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him. + +“I wouldn’t exactly call him timid,” she said, in a low voice, “but he +is very quiet, certainly. That’s why he dislikes going out when there +are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don’t suppose he’ll +be out long.” + +She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon—that +he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. + +Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She got up, +and went over to the farthest window. + +The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on the +other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and shadowy +figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards the Edgware +Road, to see the Christmas shops. + +At last to his wife’s relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to the +cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one out. + +“I think I’ll read a bit,” he said. “Seems a long time since I’ve +looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, but +now there’s nothing in ’em.” + +His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days had +gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had very +little to say about them that they hadn’t said in different language a +dozen times before. + +She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. + +Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so +engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not had +much time for that sort of work. + +It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or—or the +lodger, in it. + +At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric slipped +down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. Sleuth’s +return home. + +And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful wonder +if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she knew of Mr. +Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any kind of—well, +trouble outside, he would never betray where he had lived during the +last few weeks. + +No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way as he +had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, until, +perhaps—God, what a horrible thought—a picture published in some +newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting’s knowledge. + +But if that happened—if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, she +made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also would +pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding +revelation. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +“There he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ’Tain’t a night you +would wish a dog to be out in.” + +Bunting’s voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and look +at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the evening +paper he held in his hand. + +He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his nice +arm-chair. He looked very well—well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared +across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of resentment. And +this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of +Bunting. + +“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for +himself all right.” + +Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. “I can’t +think why he wanted to go out in such weather,” he said impatiently. + +“Well, it’s none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?” + +“No, that’s true enough. Still, ’twould be a very bad thing for us if +anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had +for a terrible long time, Ellen.” + +Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She remained +silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious to be worth +answering. Also she was listening, following in imagination her +lodger’s quick, singularly quiet progress—“stealthy” she called it to +herself—through the fog-filled, lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up +the staircase. What was that Bunting was saying? + +“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—no, that it +ain’t, not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till +to-morrow.” The speaker was looking straight into his wife’s narrow, +colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove +himself right. “I’ve a good mind to speak to him about it, that I have! +He ought to be told that it isn’t safe—not for the sort of man he is—to +be wandering about the streets at night. I read you out the accidents +in _Lloyd’s_—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And +then, that horrid monster ’ull soon be at his work again—” + +“Monster?” repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. + +She was trying to hear the lodger’s footsteps overhead. She was very +curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, or +straight upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always +called it. + +But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up +trying to listen to what was going on above. + +“It wouldn’t be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that in +the fog, eh, Ellen?” He spoke as if the notion had a certain pleasant +thrill in it after all. + +“What stuff you do talk!” said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then she got +up. Her husband’s remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn’t they talk of +something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time together? + +Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she moved quietly about the +room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and to-night she was going +to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That fortunate man, +as she was fond of telling him, with mingled contempt and envy, had the +digestion of an ostrich, and yet he was rather fanciful, as gentlemen’s +servants who have lived in good places often are. + +Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. +Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, and she would never have +allowed an unrefined word—such a word as “stomach,” for instance, to +say nothing of an even plainer term—to pass her lips, except, of +course, to a doctor in a sick-room. + +Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen; +instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading +into her bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back into +the darkness, and stood motionless, listening. + +At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her listening +ears the sound of someone moving softly about in the room just +overhead, that is, in Mr. Sleuth’s bedroom. But, try as she might, it +was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was doing. + +At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little landing. +She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, that Mr. +Sleuth would pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless room above. +He hadn’t spent any time up there for quite a long while—in fact, not +for nearly ten days. ’Twas odd he chose to-night, when it was so foggy, +to carry out an experiment. + +She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very +tired—strangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical +exertion. + +Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck, and +it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that. + +As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first time, +what the lodger’s departure would mean. It would almost certainly mean +ruin; just as his staying meant all sorts of good things, of which +physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth stayed on with them, as +he showed every intention of doing, it meant respectability, and, above +all, security. + +Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth’s money. He never received a letter, +and yet he must have some kind of income—so much was clear. She +supposed he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out of a bank as he +required it. + +Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr. Sleuth. + +The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that there +would come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel satiated; +when he would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. + +To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so +pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and +landlady—indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever +wish to leave such nice lodgings. + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook off +her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the handle of +the door giving into the passage she turned it, and then, with light, +firm steps, she went down into the kitchen. + +When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by her +care, if not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very clean +place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still white walls +the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron and bright steel. +It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one pays four shillings a +quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in the kitchen, there was no +foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a +woman to have anything to do with that kind of business. There was a +proper gas-meter, and she paid for what she consumed after she had +consumed it. + +Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she turned +up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle. + +Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the stove, +and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, to Mr. +Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman +than the lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, so—so peculiar. + +She thought of the bag—that bag which had rumbled about so queerly in +the chiffonnier. Something seemed to tell her that tonight the lodger +had taken that bag out with him. + +And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently from +her mind, and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. Sleuth’s +income, and of how little trouble he gave. Of course, the lodger was +eccentric, otherwise he wouldn’t be their lodger at all—he would be +living in quite a different sort of way with some of his relations, or +with a friend in his own class. + +While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, Mrs. +Bunting went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting it up +into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing +everything, as was always her way, with a certain delicate and cleanly +precision. + +And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to be +poured the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled her, +made her feel uncomfortable. + +Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. + +She looked up and listened. + +Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy +night—going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second time? +But no; the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar footsteps, did +not continue down the passage leading to the front door. + +Instead—Why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen so +intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the toasting-fork +grew quite black. With a start she became aware that this was so, and +she frowned, vexed with herself. That came of not attending to one’s +work. + +Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. He was +coming down into the kitchen. + +Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the +kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting’s heart began to beat as if in +response. She put out the flame of the gas-ring, unheedful of the fact +that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. + +Then she turned and faced the door. + +There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door +opened, and revealed, as she had at once known and feared it would do, +the lodger. + +Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid +dressing-gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though she +knew that he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In his hand +was a lighted candle. + +When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in it, +the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. + +“Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn’t ring, sir?” + +Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had no +business to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to let +him know that such was her view. + +“No, I—I didn’t ring,” he stammered awkwardly. “The truth is, I didn’t +know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. My +gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot +arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had a gas-stove. +I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to-night for an important +experiment I wish to make.” + +Mrs. Bunting’s heart was beating quickly—quickly. She felt horribly +troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn’t Mr. Sleuth’s experiment wait +till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but there was that in +his face that made her at once afraid and pitiful. It was a wild, +eager, imploring look. + +“Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here.” + +“It seems most pleasantly warm,” he observed, his voice full of relief, +“warm and cosy, after my cold room upstairs.” + +Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even that +cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and more cosy +than this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. + +“I’ll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it’s in perfect +order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house was to +have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might have set the +house on fire.” Mrs. Bunting’s housewifely instincts were roused. “For +the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in your bedroom this cold +night.” + +“By no means—I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire there. +I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told you as +much.” + +Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his +candle still alight, just inside the kitchen door. + +“I shan’t be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You could +come down then. I’ll have everything quite tidy for you. Is there +anything I can do to help you?” + +“I do not require the use of your kitchen yet—thank you all the same, +Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later—altogether later—after you and +your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much obliged if you +would see that the gas people come to-morrow and put my stove in order. +It might be done while I am out. That the shilling-in-the-slot machine +should go wrong is very unpleasant. It has upset me greatly.” + +“Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter of +that, I could ask him to go up now.” + +“No, no, I don’t want anything of that sort done to-night. Besides, he +couldn’t put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, and I +have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite simple. The +machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish plan, so I always +felt it to be.” + +Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to +speak, but Mrs. Bunting sympathised with him in this matter. She had +always suspected that those slot machines were as dishonest as if they +were human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up the shillings! +She had had one once, so she knew. + +And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward and +stared at the stove. “Then you haven’t got a slot machine?” he said +wonderingly. “I’m very glad of that, for I expect my experiment will +take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you something for the use +of the stove, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t think of charging you anything for that. We +don’t use our stove very much, you know, sir. I’m never in the kitchen +a minute longer than I can help this cold weather.” + +Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually in Mr. +Sleuth’s presence her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps because his +manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. But still there +came over her an eerie feeling, as, with him preceding her, they made a +slow progress to the ground floor. + +Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady good-night, and +proceeded upstairs to his own apartments. + +Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove; but +she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she was cooking the +cheese, she tried to concentrate her mind on what she was doing, and on +the whole she succeeded. But another part of her mind seemed to be +working independently, asking her insistent questions. + +The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she caught +herself listening—which was absurd, for, of course, she could not hope +to hear what Mr. Sleuth was doing two, if not three, flights upstairs. +She wondered in what the lodger’s experiments consisted. It was odd +that she had never been able to discover what it was he really did with +that big gas-stove. All she knew was that he used a very high degree of +heat. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting made up her +mind to keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour of the night +the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry through his +experiment, and, above all, she was anxious to know how long he would +stay there. + +But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she fell +asleep. + +The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs. Bunting awoke. +She felt put out, sharply annoyed with herself. How could she have +dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down and up again +hours ago! + +Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid odour in +the room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass her and the +snoring man by her side, almost as a vapour might have done. + +Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the cold, +she quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and crawled along +to the bottom of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did a very +curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail and put her face close to +the hinge of the door giving into the hall. Yes, it was from here that +this strange, horrible odor was coming; the smell must be very strong +in the passage. + +As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to give +her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard herself +saying, “Bunting, get up! There’s something strange and dreadful going +on downstairs which we ought to know about.” + +But as she lay there, by her husband’s side, listening with painful +intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she would +do nothing of the sort. + +What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess—a certain amount +of smell—in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not—was he not an almost +perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, where could they +ever hope to get another like him? + +Three o’clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps +creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight up +to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he went to +the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he came past +her door, and she thought—but could not be sure—that he sat down on the +stairs. + +At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage +again. Very softly he closed the front door. By then she had divined +why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted to get the +strong, acrid smell of burning—was it of burning wool?—out of the +house. + +But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the lodger +creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get rid of the +horrible odour. + +Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. + +At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and then +she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse voices seemed +to be shouting in her ear: “The Avenger close here! The Avenger close +here!” “’Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!” “The Avenger at his work +again!” + +And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered—angered and impatient. +She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare! +It was because of Bunting—Bunting, who could think and talk of nothing +else than those frightful murders, in which only morbid and +vulgar-minded people took any interest. + +Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her +about it: + +“Ellen”—so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear—“Ellen, my dear, I’m +just going to get up to get a paper. It’s after seven o’clock.” + +The shouting—nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on +her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead with both +hands, she sat up and listened. + +It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse—reality. + +Why couldn’t Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and let +his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been +easier to bear than this awakening. + +She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the +paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then he +came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring +in the sitting-room. + +Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had +promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet +broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, no +doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge that he +was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting’s pale blue eyes. This +morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job. + +When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his wife +lying with her face to the wall. + +“Here’s your tea, Ellen,” he said, and there was a thrill of eager, nay +happy, excitement in his voice. + +She turned herself round and sat up. “Well?” she asked. “Well? Why +don’t you tell me about it?” + +“I thought you was asleep,” he stammered out. “I thought, Ellen, you +never heard nothing.” + +“How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. Why +don’t you tell me?” + +“I’ve hardly had time to glance at the paper myself,” he said slowly. + +“You was reading it just now,” she said severely, “for I heard the +rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don’t tell +me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?” + +“Well,” said Bunting, “as you do know, I may as well tell you. The +Avenger’s moving West—that’s what he’s doing. Last time ’twas King’s +Cross—now ’tis the Edgware Road. I said he’d come our way, and he _has_ +come our way!” + +“You just go and get me that paper,” she commanded. “I wants to see for +myself.” + +Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her +silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. + +“Why, whatever’s this?” she asked. “This ain’t our paper!” + +“’Course not,” he answered, a trifle crossly. “It’s a special early +edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger. Here’s the bit about +it”—he showed her the exact spot. But she would have found it, even by +the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring over the +dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear characters:— + +“Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger has +escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, and of the +great army of amateur detectives who are taking an interest in this +strange series of atrocious crimes, were concentrating their attention +round the East End and King’s Cross, he moved swiftly and silently +Westward. And, choosing a time when the Edgware Road is at its busiest +and most thronged, did another human being to death with lightning-like +quickness and savagery. + “Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had + lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of + happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that + cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing + his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest accident + that the body was discovered as soon as it was—that is, just after + midnight. + “Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion + that the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It + was at first thought—we were going to say, hoped—that this murder + had nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and + horrifying the whole of the civilised world. But no—pinned on the + edge of the dead woman’s dress was the usual now familiar + triangular piece of grey paper—the grimmest visiting card ever + designed by the wit of man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed + himself as regards his audacity and daring—so cold in its maniacal + fanaticism and abhorrent wickedness.” + + +All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful +intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to +burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his +Ellen’s unsympathetic ears. + +At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. + +“Haven’t you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?” she +said irritably. “Murder or no murder, I’ve got to get up! Go away—do!” + +And Bunting went off into the next room. + +After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried to +think of nothing. Nay, more—so strong, so determined was her will that +for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She felt terribly +tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does a person who is +recovering from a long, wearing illness. + +Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of her +mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if those +horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; she +wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her +brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret was not +one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as that. + +Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes—to-morrow, not to-day. +Well, that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things Daisy would +be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl had an excellent +gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise, funny ways, her +perpetual talk about “the family,” lent herself to the cruel gift. + +And then Mrs. Bunting’s mind—her poor, weak, tired mind—wandered off to +young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you came to think of +it—which she, Ellen Bunting, didn’t often do. There was Joe, a likely +young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty young women, +too,—quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times more artful—and yet there! +He passed them all by, had done so ever since last summer, though you +might be sure that they, artful minxes, by no manner of means passed +him by,—without giving them a thought! As Daisy wasn’t here, he would +probably keep away to-day. There was comfort in that thought, too. + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful turgid +flood. If Joe _did_ come in, she must nerve herself to hear all +that—that talk there’d be about The Avenger between him and Bunting. + +Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she had +just recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, very, very +tired in body and soul. + +She stood for a moment listening—listening, and shivering, for it was +very cold. Considering how early it still was, there seemed a lot of +coming and going in the Marylebone Road. She could hear the +unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and the tightly fastened +windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular crowd of men and +women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene of The Avenger’s last +extraordinary crime. + +She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling +from the letter-box on to the floor of the hall, and a moment later +came the sound of Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. +She visualised him coming back, and sitting down with a sigh of +satisfaction by the newly-lit fire. + +Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant +tramping and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume and +in sound as the moments slipped by. + +When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen everything looked just as +she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she had +expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed room was +full of fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were bolted and +barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had been widely +opened to the air. She had left them shut. + +Making a “spill” out of a twist of newspaper—she had been taught the +art as a girl by one of her old mistresses—she stooped and flung open +the oven-door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had expected, a +fierce heat had been generated there since she had last used the oven, +and through to the stone floor below had fallen a mass of black, gluey +soot. + +Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous day +for her own and Bunting’s breakfast upstairs, and broiled them over the +gas-ring in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in surprised +silence. She had never done such a thing before. + +“I couldn’t stay down there,” she said; “it was so cold and foggy. I +thought I’d make breakfast up here, just for to-day.” + +“Yes,” he said kindly; “that’s quite right, Ellen. I think you’ve done +quite right, my dear.” + +But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the nice +breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea. + +“I’m afraid you’re ill, Ellen?” Bunting asked solicitously. + +“No,” she said shortly; “I’m not ill at all. Don’t be silly! The +thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me, and +put me off my food. Just hark to them now!” + +Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet and +loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd; nay, what a mob, must be hastening +busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing to be seen! + +Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. “I don’t want any of +those ghouls in here!” she exclaimed angrily. And then, “What a lot of +idle people there are in the world!” she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the +window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; +then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down. + +But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up he +would rise from his chair, and go to the window again. + +“I wish you’d stay still,” his wife said at last. And then, a few +minutes later, “Hadn’t you better put your hat and coat on and go out?” +she exclaimed. + +And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat and +coat and go out. + +As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it was +natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, +extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn’t +reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had been +that very morning—angry with him because he had gone out to hear what +all the row was about, and even more angry when he had come back and +said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her to hear about it! + +Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the +kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, a +tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned and did what +she had never in her life done before, and what she had never heard of +anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. + +But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from +everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She felt as +if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which mocked and +jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns. + +Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? +Daisy, at any rate, was company—kind, young, unsuspecting company. With +Daisy she could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort to be with +someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say nothing. When with +Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame. She was +the man’s wedded wife—in his stolid way he was very kind to her, and +yet she was keeping from him something he certainly had a right to +know. + +Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful +suspicion—nay, of her almost certainty. + +At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went +upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little +better. + +She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved by +his absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet she +welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house. + +And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into +what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what was going +on upstairs. + +What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only +natural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last +night, or rather this morning. + +Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not +go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal which +was the lodger’s luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she went +downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger’s food. + +Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and +just outside the sitting-room—for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had got +up, that he was there already, waiting for her—she rested the tray on +the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments she heard +nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice with +which she had become so familiar: + +“‘She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret +is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, and that her +guests are in the depths of hell.’” + +There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of her Bible +being turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. Sleuth broke +out, this time in a softer voice: + +“‘She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men have +been slain by her.’” And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone came the +words: “‘I applied my heart to know, and to search, and to seek out +wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the wickedness of folly, +even of foolishness and madness.’” + +And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of +spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time in her +life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and strangeness, of +human life. + +Poor Mr. Sleuth—poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An overwhelming +pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the loathing, she had +been feeling for her lodger. + +She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. + +“Come in, Mrs. Bunting.” Mr. Sleuth’s voice sounded feebler, more +toneless than usual. + +She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was not +sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round table on +which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of his +bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it were +placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But as his landlady came +in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and began staring dreamily out +of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying crowd of men and women +which now swept along the Marylebone Road. + +“There seem a great many people out today,” he observed, without +looking round. + +“Yes, sir, there do.” + +Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and putting +out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized with a +mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there. + +At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to look +at him. How tired, how worn, he looked, and—how strange! + +Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands +together with a nervous gesture—it was a gesture he only made when +something had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at +him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he had +first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained a large +gas-stove and a convenient sink. + +What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a play +she had once seen—a play to which a young man had taken her when she +was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled and fascinated +her. “Out, out, damned spot!” that was what the tall, fierce, beautiful +lady who had played the part of a queen had said, twisting her hands +together just as the lodger was doing now. + +“It’s a fine day,” said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and unfolding his +napkin. “The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with me, +Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining, as it +is now, at any rate, trying to shine.” He looked at her inquiringly, +but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. However, that did +not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. + +He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, +taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced any +such feeling for many years past. + +He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. “I don’t +feel as if I could eat very much to-day,” he said plaintively. And then +he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. + +Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat Mr. +Sleuth had been wearing the day before. + +“Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?” + +And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. + +“Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly allowed +me to make of your kitchen last night?” he said quietly. “I tried to +make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but—well, the truth is I +was carrying out a very elaborate experiment.” + +Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took the +coin. The fingers which for a moment brushed lightly against her palm +were icy cold—cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently not well. + +As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball hanging +in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth’s landlady, and threw +blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece of gold she +was holding in her hand. + +The day went by, as other days had gone by in that quiet household, +but, of course, there was far greater animation outside the little +house than was usually the case. + +Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some days, +the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that part of the +town. + +When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while he +told her of the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. And then, +after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot a strange +look at him. + +“I suppose you went to see the place?” she said. + +And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. + +“Well?” + +“Well, there wasn’t anything much to see—not now. But, oh, Ellen, the +daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry +out—which they don’t believe she had—it’s impossible someone wouldn’t +’a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like that—in the +afternoon, like—he never _will_ be caught. He must have just got mixed +up with all the other people within ten seconds of what he’d done!” + +During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly—in fact, he must +have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all the supposed +and suggested clues, there was nothing—nothing at all new to read, +less, in fact than ever before. + +The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting began +to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less—less terrified +than she had felt through the morning. + +And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the +quietude of the day. + +They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the papers +he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, thundering, +double knock at the door. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. “Why, whoever can that be?” she said. + +But as Bunting got up she added quickly, “You just sit down again. I’ll +go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I’ll soon send them to +the right-about!” + +And then she left the room, but not before there had come another loud +double knock. + +Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the person +who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark man, with +fierce, black moustaches. And somehow—she could not have told you +why—he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting’s mind. + +This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. +For, “I’m here to execute a warrant!” he exclaimed in a theatrical, +hollow tone. + +With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms as +if to bar the way; she turned deadly white—but then, in an instant the +supposed stranger’s laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, familiar sound! + +“There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I’d take you in as well as +all that!” + +It was Joe Chandler—Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he sometimes, +not very often, did dress up in the course of his work. + +Mrs. Bunting began laughing—laughing helplessly, hysterically, just as +she had done on the morning of Daisy’s arrival, when the +newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road. + +“What’s all this about?” Bunting came out + +Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. “I didn’t mean to upset +her like this,” he said, looking foolish; “’twas just my silly +nonsense, Mr. Bunting.” And together they helped her into the +sitting-room. + +But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she threw +her black apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically. + +“I made sure she’d know who I was when I spoke,” went on the young +fellow apologetically. “But, there now, I _have_ upset her. I _am_ +sorry!” + +“It don’t matter!” she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, but +the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and laughed +by turns. “Don’t matter one little bit, Joe! ’Twas stupid of me to be +so taken aback. But, there, that murder that’s happened close by, it’s +just upset me—upset me altogether to-day.” + +“Enough to upset anyone—that was,” acknowledged the young man ruefully. +“I’ve only come in for a minute, like. I haven’t no right to come when +I’m on duty like this—” + +Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were +still on the table. + +“You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup,” said Bunting +hospitably; “and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We’re +right in the middle of everything now, ain’t we?” He spoke with evident +enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. + +Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He waited a +moment, and then: “Well I have got one piece of news—not that I suppose +it’ll interest _you_ very much.” + +They both looked at him—Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her breast +still heaved from time to time. + +“Our Boss has resigned!” said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. + +“No! Not the Commissioner o’ Police?” exclaimed Bunting. + +“Yes, he has. He just can’t bear what’s said about us any longer—and I +don’t wonder! He done his best, and so’s we all. The public have just +gone daft—in the West End, that is, to-day. As for the papers, well, +they’re something cruel—that’s what they are. And the ridiculous ideas +they print! You’d never believe the things they asks us to do—and quite +serious-like.” + +“What d’you mean?” questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to know. + +“Well, the _Courier_ declares that there ought to be a house-to-house +investigation—all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to let the +police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, just to see if +The Avenger isn’t concealed there. Dotty, I calls it! Why, ’twould take +us months and months just to do that one job in a town like London.” + +“I’d like to see them dare come into my house!” said Mrs. Bunting +angrily. + +“It’s all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to work a +different way this time,” said Chandler slowly. + +Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was eagerly +listening. “How d’you mean?” he asked. “I don’t take your meaning, +Joe.” + +“Well, you see, it’s this way. The newspapers was always saying how +extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar time to do +his deeds—I mean, the time when no one’s about the streets. Now, +doesn’t it stand to reason that the fellow, reading all that, and +seeing the sense of it, said to himself, ‘I’ll go on another tack this +time’? Just listen to this!” He pulled a strip of paper, part of a +column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket: + +“‘AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE AVENGER + + +“‘Will the murderer be caught? Yes,’ replied Sir John, ‘he will +certainly be caught—probably when he commits his next crime. A whole +army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his track the +moment he draws blood again. With the whole community against him, he +cannot escape, _especially when it be remembered that he chooses the +quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes_. + “‘Londoners are now in such a state of nerves—if I may use the + expression, in such a state of funk—that every passer-by, however + innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his + avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and + three in the morning.’ + + +“I’d like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!” concluded Joe Chandler +wrathfully. + +Just then the lodger’s bell rang. + +“Let me go up, my dear,” said Bunting. + +His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. + +“No, no,” she said hastily. “You stop down here, and talk to Joe. I’ll +look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a bit earlier +than usual to-day.” + +Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton +wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, +and then went in. + +“You did ring, sir?” she said, in her quiet, respectful way. + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up. + +She thought—but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have been +just her idea, and nothing else—that for the first time the lodger +looked frightened—frightened and cowed. + +“I heard a noise downstairs,” he said fretfully, “and I wanted to know +what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I first took +these rooms, quiet is essential to me.” + +“It was just a friend of ours, sir. I’m sorry you were disturbed. Would +you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting’ll be pleased to do +it if you don’t like to hear the sound of the knocks.” + +“Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you to such trouble as that.” Mr. Sleuth looked +quite relieved. “Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. Bunting? He made +a great deal of noise.” + +“Just a young fellow,” she said apologetically. “The son of one of +Bunting’s old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did give +such a great big double knock as that before. I’ll speak to him about +it.” + +“Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of the +kind. It was just a passing annoyance—nothing more!” + +She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of the +hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam every +hour or two throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no allusion to +what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at his reading. + +“I thought maybe you’d like to have supper a little earlier to-night, +sir?” + +“Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting—just when it’s convenient. I do not +wish to put you out in any way.” + +She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door. + +As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed—Joe +Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the +lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her +kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came to her +the moment she laid her head upon her pillow. + +Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly giving +herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought her, she +got up and dressed. + +She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase +required a thorough “doing down,” and she did not even wait till they +had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It made Bunting +feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading his morning +paper—the paper which was again of such absorbing interest—he called +out, “There’s no need for so much hurry, Ellen. Daisy’ll be back +to-day. Why don’t you wait till she’s come home to help you?” + +But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, his +wife’s voice came back: “Girls ain’t no good at this sort of work. +Don’t you worry about me. I feel as if I’d enjoy doing an extra bit of +cleaning to-day. I don’t like to feel as anyone could come in and see +my place dirty.” + +“No fear of that!” Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck him. +“Ain’t you afraid of waking the lodger?” he called out. + +“Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night,” she answered +quickly. “As it is, I study him over-much; it’s a long, long time since +I’ve done this staircase down.” + +All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left the +sitting-room door wide open. + +That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn’t like to get up +and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn’t read +with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had never known +Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he looked up and +frowned rather crossly. + +There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that Ellen was +standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing. + +“Come in,” he said, “do! Ain’t you finished yet?” + +“I was only resting a minute,” she said. “You don’t tell me nothing. +I’d like to know if there’s anything—I mean anything new—in the paper +this morning.” + +She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her +unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting +suddenly uneasy. “Come in—do!” he repeated sharply. “You’ve done quite +enough—and before breakfast, too. ’Tain’t necessary. Come in and shut +that door.” + +He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him. + +She came in, and did what she had never done before—brought the broom +with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. + +Then she sat down. + +“I think I’ll make breakfast up here,” she said. “I—I feel cold, +Bunting.” And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of +perspiration were glistening on her forehead. + +He got up. “All right. I’ll go down and bring the eggs up. Don’t you +worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if you like.” + +“No,” she said obstinately. “I’d rather do my own work. You just bring +them up here—that’ll be all right. To-morrow morning we’ll have Daisy +to help see to things.” + +“Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair,” he suggested +kindly. “You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see’d such a +woman!” + +And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room +with languid steps. + +He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. + +She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took two +steps towards her. + +“I’ll show you the most interesting bit” he said eagerly. “It’s the +piece headed, ‘Our Special Investigator.’ You see, they’ve started a +special investigator of their own, and he’s got hold of a lot of little +facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man who writes all that—I +mean the Special Investigator—was a famous ’tec in his time, and he’s +just come back out of his retirement o’ purpose to do this bit of work +for the paper. You read what he says—I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if +he ends by getting that reward! One can see he just loves the work of +tracking people down.” + +“There’s nothing to be proud of in such a job,” said his wife +listlessly. + +“He’ll have something to be proud of if he catches The Avenger!” cried +Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put off by Ellen’s +contradictory remarks. “You just notice that bit about the rubber +soles. Now, no one’s thought o’ that. I’ll just tell Chandler—he don’t +seem to me to be half awake, that young man don’t.” + +“He’s quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! How +about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast even if +you don’t—” + +Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly described +to himself as “Ellen’s snarling voice.” + +He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There was +something queer about her, and he couldn’t make it out. He didn’t mind +it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was used to that. 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. In his time +he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he thought +there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first drawn him +to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap as cordially as he +had done when they first came to London. + +But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort of +talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed +reproachfully: “To hear you two, one would think there was no nice, +respectable, quiet people left in the world!” + +But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be to +hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her own +view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had had her own +notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman who thought +for herself—a clever woman, not an everyday woman by any manner of +means. + +While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, +Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give Ellen +a nice little surprise—to cook an omelette as a French chef had once +taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn’t know how she would +take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but never mind, +she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn’t been eating her +food properly of late. + +And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be +admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even noticed +how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading with intense, +painful care the column that the great daily paper they took in had +allotted to the one-time famous detective. + +According to this Special Investigator’s own account he had discovered +all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the police and of the +official detectives. For instance, owing, he admitted, to a fortunate +chance, he had been at the place where the two last murders had been +committed very soon after the double crime had been discovered—in fact +within half an hour, and he had found, or so he felt sure, on the +slippery, wet pavement imprints of the murderer’s right foot. + +The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. At the +same time, he also admitted—for the Special Investigator was very +honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the enterprising +paper which had engaged him to probe the awful mystery—that there were +thousands of rubber soles being worn in London. . . . + +And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, and there +came a wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It was quite +true—that about rubber soles; there were thousands of rubber soles +being worn just now. She felt grateful to the Special Investigator for +having stated the fact so clearly. + +The column ended up with the words: + +“And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten days +ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public inquiry could +be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery of a fresh murder +is made. In that way alone would it be possible to weigh and sift the +evidence offered by members of the general public. For when a week or +more has elapsed, and these same people have been examined and +cross-examined in private by the police, their impressions have had +time to become blurred and hopelessly confused. On that last occasion +but one there seems no doubt that several people, at any rate two women +and one man, actually saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his +atrocious double crime—this being so, to-day’s investigation may be of +the highest value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account +of the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements made +during its course.” + + +Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had gone +on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he said +rather crossly, “Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The omelette +I’ve cooked for you will be just like leather if you don’t eat it.” + +But once his wife had eaten her breakfast—and, to Bunting’s +mortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched—she +took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, until she +found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to The Avenger and +his crimes, the information she wanted, and then uttered an exclamation +under her breath. + +What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for—what at last she had found—was +the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that day. The +hour named was a rather odd time—two o’clock in the afternoon, but, +from Mrs. Bunting’s point of view, it was most convenient. + +By two o’clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had his +lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have had +their dinner, and—and Daisy wasn’t coming home till tea-time. + +She got up out of her husband’s chair. “I think you’re right,” she +said, in a quick, hoarse tone. “I mean about me seeing a doctor, +Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon.” + +“Wouldn’t you like me to go with you?” he asked. + +“No, that I wouldn’t. In fact I wouldn’t go at all you was to go with +me.” + +“All right,” he said vexedly. “Please yourself, my dear; you know +best.” + +“I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned.” + +Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. “’Twas I said, +long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; ’twas you said you +wouldn’t!” he exclaimed pugnaciously. + +“Well, I’ve never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, I’m +going.” + +“Have you a pain anywhere?” He stared at her with a look of real +solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. + +Somehow Ellen didn’t look right, standing there opposite him. Her +shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a +little. She had never looked so bad—not even when they had been half +starving, and dreadfully, dreadfully worked. + +“Yes,” she said briefly, “I’ve a pain in my head, at the back of my +neck. It doesn’t often leave me; it gets worse when anything upsets me, +like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler.” + +“He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!” said Bunting +crossly. “I’d a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, Ellen, I +wonder he took you in—he didn’t me!” + +“Well, you had no chance he should—you knew who it was,” she said +slowly. + +And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had +already spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and saw their +cleverly disguised visitor. + +“Those big black moustaches,” he went on complainingly, “and that black +wig—why, ’twas too ridic’lous—that’s what I call it!” + +“Not to anyone who didn’t know Joe,” she said sharply. + +“Well, I don’t know. He didn’t look like a real man—nohow. If he’s a +wise lad, he won’t let our Daisy ever see him looking like that!” and +Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. + +He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last two +days, and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, unnatural +life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe was earning good +money. They wouldn’t have long to wait, these two young people, as a +beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, Bunting, and Daisy’s +mother had had to do, for ever so long before they could be married. +No, there was no reason why they shouldn’t be spliced quite soon—if so +the fancy took them. And Bunting had very little doubt that so the +fancy would take Joe, at any rate. + +But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn’t be eighteen till the week +after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that time Old Aunt +might be dead, and Daisy might have come into quite a tidy little bit +of money. + +“What are you smiling at?” said his wife sharply. + +And he shook himself. “I—smiling? At nothing that I knows of.” Then he +waited a moment. “Well, if you will know, Ellen, I was just thinking of +Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is gone on her, ain’t he?” + +“Gone?” And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly +laugh. “Gone, Bunting?” she repeated. “Why, he’s out o’ sight—right, +out of sight!” + +Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, +twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:—“I +suppose he’ll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or—or d’you +think he’ll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?” + +“Inquest? What inquest?” He looked at her puzzled. + +“Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King’s +Cross.” + +“Oh, no; he’d have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o’ +that, I know he’s going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night—just +when you went up to the lodger.” + +“That’s just as well.” Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable +satisfaction. “Otherwise I suppose you’d ha’ had to go. I wouldn’t like +the house left—not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth _would_ be upset if +there came a ring at the door.” + +“Oh, I won’t leave the house, don’t you be afraid, Ellen—not while +you’re out.” + +“Not even if I’m out a good while, Bunting.” + +“No fear. Of course, you’ll be a long time if it’s your idea to see +that doctor at Ealing?” + +He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow +nodding didn’t seem as bad as speaking a lie. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, +when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely +novel. + +Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a +witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was +sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. + +In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for a +fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of those +sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the serenity, the +apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household. + +The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned herself +for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter +jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles to the strange +lady’s maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, and it was during +the conversation the two women had had together that the girl had +threatened to take her own life. + +As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going out, +she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair, and +of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. + +She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, +unfortunate creature had been held. + +The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give +evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful +animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women as +well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl’s fate had aroused +a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those who live +on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid. + +Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to Ellen +Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in the old +inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with chairs, but +with cake and wine. + +She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had felt as +if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place, rather than +have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the sad business. + +But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had been a +kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on the clear, +sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the exact words the +unhappy girl had used. + +One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by an +inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, low-ceilinged +room. “Ought not Miss Ellen Green,” so the man had asked, “to have told +someone of the girl’s threat? If she had done so, might not the girl +have been prevented from throwing herself into the lake?” And she, the +witness, had answered, with some asperity—for by that time the +coroner’s kind manner had put her at her ease—that she had not attached +any importance to what the girl had threatened to do, never believing +that any young woman could be so silly as to drown herself for love! + +Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was going +to be present this afternoon would be like that country inquest of long +ago. + +It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well how +little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, had got +the whole truth out—the story, that is, of how that horrid footman, +whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first minute she had set +eyes on him, had taken up with another young woman. It had been +supposed that this fact would not be elicited by the coroner; but it +had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the dead girl’s letters had +been read out—piteous, queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and +bitter, threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the young man +most severely; she remembered the look on his face when the people, +shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the crowded +room. + +Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting that +long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow +nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it. + +She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed to +ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where +she was thinking of going. + +And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head—no, +no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, never +suspect her of telling him a lie. + +Stop—had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after the +inquest was finished—if there was time, that is. She wondered uneasily +how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very +little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be very +formal—formal and therefore short. + +She herself had one quite definite object—that of hearing the evidence +of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving the spot where +his victims lay weltering in their still flowing blood. She was filled +with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who +were so positive about the matter would describe the appearance of The +Avenger. After all, a lot of people must have seen him, for, as Bunting +had said only the day before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a +ghost; he was a living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was +known, and where he spent his time between his awful crimes. + +As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her +husband. + +“Why, Ellen,” he said, “it is time you went to the doctor. You looks +just as if you was going to a funeral. I’ll come along with you as far +as the station. You’re going by train, ain’t you? Not by bus, eh? It’s +a very long way to Ealing, you know.” + +“There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first +minute!” But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully and +sadly. + +And Bunting hung his head. “Why, to be sure I’d gone and clean forgot +the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait till +to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?” + +“I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone else’s +way!” she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting really looked +concerned, and she did feel very far from well, “I’ll be all right, old +man. Don’t you worry about me!” + +As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl she +had put over her long jacket more closely round her. + +She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. And +yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden with +poor Bunting? Why, ’twould be enough to make a man go daft. Even she +often felt as if she could stand it no longer—as if she would give the +world to tell someone—anyone—what it was that she suspected, what deep +in her heart she so feared to be the truth. + +But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it +was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the +last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house +unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come +into contact with the lodger. + +When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There were +two ways of getting to St. Pancras—she could go by bus, or she could go +by train. She decided on the latter. But before turning into the +station her eyes strayed over the bills of the early afternoon papers +lying on the ground. + +Two words, + +THE AVENGER, + + +stared up at her in varying type. + +Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, Mrs. +Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined to buy a +paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes were +smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the close +print in the paper Bunting took in. + +Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. + +And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. + +The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be +empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they were +well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question she knew +she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. + +“Can you tell me,” she said, in a low voice, “where death inquests are +held”—she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then concluded—“in +the neighbourhood of King’s Cross?” + +The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at all +the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest—there are many such—just +for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted +her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain Princess bonnet which +framed her pale, refined face. + +“I’m going to the Coroner’s Court myself.” he said good-naturedly. “So +you can come along of me. You see there’s that big Avenger inquest +going on to-day, so I think they’ll have had to make other arrangements +for—hum, hum—ordinary cases.” And as she looked at him dumbly, he went +on, “There’ll be a mighty crowd of people at The Avenger inquest—a lot +of ticket folk to be accommodated, to say nothing of the public.” + +“That’s the inquest I’m going to,” faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could +scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, yes, +and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was going to +do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest! + +During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened by +suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the stolid face +of her unknown friend, how she herself would have regarded any woman +who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a simple, morbid feeling of +curiosity. And yet—and yet that was just what she was about to do +herself. + +“I’ve got a reason for wanting to go there,” she murmured. It was a +comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. + +“Ah!” he said reflectively. “A—a relative connected with one of the two +victims’ husbands, I presume?” + +And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. + +“Going to give evidence?” he asked casually, and then he turned and +looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. + +“Oh, no!” There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker’s voice. + +And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. “Hadn’t seen her for quite +a long time, I suppose?” + +“Never had, seen her. I’m from the country.” Something impelled Mrs. +Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, “At +least, I was.” + +“Will he be there?” + +She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was +alluding. + +“I mean the husband,” went on the inspector hastily. “I felt sorry for +the last poor chap—I mean the husband of the last one—he seemed so +awfully miserable. You see, she’d been a good wife and a good mother +till she took to the drink.” + +“It always is so,” breathed out Mrs. Bunting. + +“Aye.” He waited a moment. “D’you know anyone about the court?” he +asked. + +She shook her head. + +“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll take you in along o’ me. You’d never get +in by yourself.” + +They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one’s charge, of +having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even now +there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial about the +whole business. + +“If he knew—if he only knew what I know!” she kept saying over and over +again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly form of the +police inspector. + +“’Tisn’t far—not three minutes,” he said suddenly. “Am I walking too +quick for you, ma’am?” + +“No, not at all. I’m a quick walker.” + +And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, a +densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little +door sunk into a high wall. + +“Better take my arm,” the inspector suggested. “Make way there! Make +way!” he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the serried +ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight of his +uniform. + +“Lucky you met me,” he said, smiling. “You’d never have got through +alone. And ’tain’t a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.” + +The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a +narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few men were +out there, smoking. + +Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of the +yard, Mrs. Bunting’s kind new friend took out his watch. “There’s +another twenty minutes before they’ll begin,” he said. “There’s the +mortuary”—he pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to the +right of the court. “Would you like to go in and see them?” he +whispered. + +“Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked down at +her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a nice, +respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any +morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do +so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to one of The Avenger’s +victims. + +They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in +subdued yet eager, animated tones. + +“I think you’d better sit down here,” he said considerately, and, +leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed +walls—“unless you’d rather be with the witnesses, that is.” + +But again she said, “Oh, no!” And then, with an effort, “Oughtn’t I to +go into the court now, if it’s likely to be so full?” + +“Don’t you worry,” he said kindly. “I’ll see you get a proper place. I +must leave you now for a minute, but I’ll come back in good time and +look after you.” + +She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they +were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, and +looked about her. + +Many of the gentlemen—they mostly wore tall hats and good +overcoats—standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She +picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, +animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely +advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair—the +preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had +great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to +himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a dozen +men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, and +each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody. + +How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, +from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious +beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid place, +on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all thinking of, +talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality—that of the +shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose to call himself The +Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away from them all The Avenger +was keeping these clever, astute, highly trained minds—aye, and bodies, +too—at bay. + +Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her +presence among them. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long +time—it was really about a quarter of an hour—when her official friend +came back. + +“Better come along now,” he whispered; “it’ll begin soon.” + +She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, and +so into the Coroner’s Court. + +The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a chapel, +the more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a gallery +evidently set aside for the general public, for it was now crammed to +its utmost capacity. + +Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces. Had it +not been for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now following, +it was there that she would have had to try and make her way. And she +would have failed. Those people had rushed in the moment the doors were +opened, pushing, fighting their way in a way she could never have +pushed or fought. + +There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking women, +belonging to every class, but made one by their love of sensation and +their power of forcing their way in where they wanted to be. But the +women were few; the great majority of those standing there were men—men +who were also representative of every class of Londoner. + +The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three +steps below the surrounding gallery. Just now it was comparatively +clear of people, save for the benches on which sat the men who were to +compose the jury. Some way from these men, huddled together in a kind +of big pew, stood seven people—three women and four men. + +“D’you see the witnesses?” whispered the inspector, pointing these out +to her. He supposed her to know one of them with familiar knowledge, +but, if that were so, she made no sign. + +Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little +platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting guessed +rightly that it was there the coroner would sit. And to the left of the +platform was the witness-stand, also raised considerably above the +jury. + +Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than the +scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that bright +April day, in the village inn. There the coroner had sat on the same +level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped forward one by +one, and taken their place before him. + +Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely die +if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that curious +box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat the seven +witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart. + +But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman witness +looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the centre of +attention and attraction to the general public. It was plain each was +enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress in the thrilling +drama which was now absorbing the attention of all London—it might +almost be said of the whole world. + +Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was which. +Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who had +certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten seconds of +the double crime being committed? The woman who, aroused by one of his +victims’ cry of terror, had rushed to her window and seen the +murderer’s shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog? + +Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most +circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it was +supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed. + +Those two women now before her had been interrogated and cross-examined +again and again, not only by the police, but by representatives of +every newspaper in London. It was from what they had both +said—unluckily their accounts materially differed—that that official +description of The Avenger had been worked up—that which described him +as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow of twenty-eight, +carrying a newspaper parcel. + +As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon +companion of the dead. + +Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze on +another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed through +the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the coroner’s high +dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, was an +ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her place, there +had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now every seat at the +table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking men, each with a +notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, before him. + +“Them’s the reporters,” whispered her friend. “They don’t like coming +till the last minute, for they has to be the last to go. At an ordinary +inquest there are only two—maybe three—attending, but now every paper +in the kingdom has pretty well applied for a pass to that reporters’ +table.” + +He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. “Now let me +see what I can do for you—” + +Then he beckoned to the coroner’s officer: “Perhaps you could put this +lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a relation of +the deceased, but doesn’t want to be—” He whispered a word or two, and +the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at Mrs. Bunting with +interest. “I’ll put her just here,” he muttered. “There’s no one coming +there to-day. You see, there are only seven witnesses—sometimes we have +a lot more than that.” + +And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite to where the seven +witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set faces, ready—aye, more +than ready—to play their part. + +For a moment every eye in the court was focused on Mrs. Bunting, but +soon those who had stared so hungrily, so intently, at her, realised +that she had nothing to do with the case. She was evidently there as a +spectator, and, more fortunate than most, she had a “friend at court,” +and so was able to sit comfortably, instead of having to stand in the +crowd. + +But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon some of the +important-looking gentlemen she had seen downstairs came into the +court, and were ushered over to her seat while two or three among them, +including the famous writer whose face was so familiar that it almost +seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly acquaintance, were +accommodated at the reporters’ table. + +“Gentlemen, the Coroner.” + +The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat down again; over +the spectators there fell a sudden silence. + +And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the +first time, that informal little country inquest of long ago. + +First came the “Oyez! Oyez!” the old Norman-French summons to all whose +business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death—sudden, +unexplained, terrible—of a fellow-being. + +The jury—there were fourteen of them—all stood up again. They raised +their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words of their +oath. + +Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences ’twixt the coroner +and his officer. + +Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies—he quickly +corrected himself—the body, for, technically speaking, the inquest just +about to be held only concerned one body. + +And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could be +heard through the court, the coroner—a clever-looking gentleman, though +not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to occupy so +important a position on so important a day—gave a little history, as it +were, of the terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes. + +He spoke very clearly, warming to his work as he went on. + +He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of The +Avenger’s former victims. “I only went through professional curiosity,” +he threw in by way of parenthesis, “little thinking, gentlemen, that +the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would ever be held in my +court.” + +On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and +though that little was known to every one of his listeners. + +Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her whisper +to another: “Drawing it out all he can; that’s what he’s doing. Having +the time of his life, evidently!” And then the other whispered back, so +low that she could only just catch the words, “Aye, aye. But he’s a +good chap—I knew his father; we were at school together. Takes his job +very seriously, you know—he does to-day, at any rate.” + +She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which would +relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm them. But +the word, the sentence, was never uttered. + +And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did throw +out a hint which might mean anything—or nothing. + +“I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence to-day as will +in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has committed, +and is still committing, these terrible crimes.” + +Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner’s firm, +determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any new +evidence—evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was ignorant? +And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart gave a sudden +leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the witness-box—a +policeman who had not been sitting with the other witnesses. + +But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply the +constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like tones +he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, foggy +morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it slowly, +carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place—no, he was +making a mistake—that was the place where the other body had lain. He +explained apologetically that he had got rather mixed up between the +two bodies—that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy Hurtle. + +And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: “For the purpose of +this inquiry,” he said, “we must, I think, for a moment consider the +two murders together.” + +After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he +proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of The +Avenger’s acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood of sick +fear and—and, yes, remorse. + +Up to now she had given very little thought—if, indeed, any thought—to +the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had filled her +thoughts,—he and those who were trying to track him down. But now? Now +she felt sick and sorry she had come here to-day. She wondered if she +would ever be able to get the vision the policeman’s words had conjured +up out of her mind—out of her memory. + +And then there came an eager stir of excitement and of attention +throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of +the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to +his place. + +Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, +remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that +poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman +had looked so cheerful, so—so well pleased with herself till a minute +ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round her as a +hunted animal might have done. + +But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his manner, +just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen Green at +the inquest on that poor drowned girl. + +After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words of +the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. At +once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed to have +seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, as she +went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, stifled +screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of +bed and rushed to her window. + +The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. “Let me see! +Here is the plan. Yes—I think I understand that the house in which you +are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were +committed?” + +And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face the +alley, but the window of the witness’s bedroom faced the alley. + +“A distinction without a difference,” said the coroner testily. “And +now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when you +looked out.” + +There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman +broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. “I +saw ’im!” she cried. “I shall never forget it—no, not till my dying +day!” And she looked round defiantly. + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had +had with a person who slept under this woman’s room. That person had +unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that +night—that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept +lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, she +would have heard if there had been either the scream described by +Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed. + +“We quite understand that you think you saw the”—the coroner +hesitated—“the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible +crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. In +spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you say you +saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your window. +Now, please, try and tell us what he was like.” + +The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured +handkerchief she held in her hand. + +“Let us begin at the beginning,” said the coroner patiently. “What sort +of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from the +passage?” + +“It was just a black ’at” said the witness at last, in a husky, rather +anxious tone. + +“Yes—just a black hat. And a coat—were you able to see what sort of a +coat he was wearing?” + +“’E ’adn’t got no coat” she said decidedly. “No coat at all! I +remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was so +cold—everybody as can wears some sort o’ coat this weather!” + +A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and apparently +not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here jumped up and +put out his hand. + +“Yes?” the coroner turned to him. + +“I just want to say that this ’ere witness—if her name is Lizzie Cole, +began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat—a big, heavy coat. I’ve +got it here, in this bit of paper.” + +“I never said so!” cried the woman passionately. “I was made to say all +those things by the young man what came to me from the _Evening Sun_. +Just put in what ’e liked in ’is paper, ’e did—not what I said at all!” + +At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. + +“In future,” said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who had +now sat down again, “you must ask any question you wish to ask through +your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my examination of +the witness.” + +But this interruption, this—this accusation, had utterly upset the +witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man she had +seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall—no, he was short. +He was thin—no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was +carrying anything, there was quite an acrimonious discussion. + +Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had +seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back—so +she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that she had +said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had +taken down her first account—in fact, to him she had declared +confidently that the man had carried nothing—nothing at all; that she +had seen his arms swinging up and down. + +One fact—if fact it could be called—the coroner did elicit. Lizzie Cole +suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window he +had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. + +“He looked up at you?” repeated the coroner. “You said nothing of that +in your examination.” + +“I said nothink because I was scared—nigh scared to death!” + +“If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was +dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?” + +But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his desk; +not a creature in that court now believed the woman’s story. + +“Dark!” she answered dramatically. “Dark, almost black! If you can take +my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.” + +And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the +coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. + +Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. + +This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. +Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse +situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the +crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some food +he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, +breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been drawn +to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and because he +had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. + +Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much +from what this witness had said that the official description of The +Avenger had been composed—that description which had brought such +comfort to her, Ellen Bunting’s, soul. + +This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the +newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive. + +“It was a neat parcel,” she said, “done up with string.” + +She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man to +carry such a parcel—that was what had made her notice it. But when +pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night—so foggy +that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, though every step +was familiar. + +When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears told +of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna Cobbett, +there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had nothing to say +throwing any light on the investigation, save that she admitted +reluctantly that “Anny” would have been such a nice, respectable young +woman if it hadn’t been for the drink. + +Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that of +the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very +respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. +He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn’t seen his wife +for two years; he hadn’t had news of her for six months. Before she +took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and—and yes, mother. + +Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or +imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered +woman was in the box. He had had later news of his unfortunate daughter +than her husband had had, but of course he could throw no light at all +on her murder or murderer. + +A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the +public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He had +stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it looking cast +down, uneasy. + +And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly +unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made the +utmost much to Mrs. Bunting’s indignation. But neither coroner nor +jury—and they, after all, were the people who mattered—thought a great +deal of it. + +There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had been +heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, “They are now going +to call Dr. Gaunt. He’s been in every big murder case for the last +thirty years. He’s sure to have something interesting to say. It was +really to hear him _I_ came.” + +But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with which +he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a stir among +the general public, or, rather, among those spectators who stood near +the low wooden door which separated the official part of the court from +the gallery. + +The coroner’s officer, with an apologetic air, approached the coroner, +and handed him up an envelope. And again in an instant, there fell +absolute silence on the court. + +Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced +down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up. + +“Mr.—” then he glanced down again. “Mr.—ah—Mr.—is it Cannot?” he said +doubtfully, “may come forward.” + +There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned. + +A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, +with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from the +place where he had been standing among the general public, to the +witness-box. + +“This is somewhat out of order, Mr.—er—Cannot,” said the coroner +severely. “You should have sent me this note before the proceedings +began. This gentleman,” he said, addressing the jury, “informs me that +he has something of the utmost importance to reveal in connection with +our investigation.” + +“I have remained silent—I have locked what I knew within my own +breast”—began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, “because I am so afraid +of the Press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, that my +house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. . . . I have a +delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things—the state of things +I imagine—might cause her death—indeed, I hope she will never read a +report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she has an excellent trained +nurse—” + +“You will now take the oath,” said the coroner sharply. He already +regretted having allowed this absurd person to have his say. + +Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum which had been +lacking in most of those who had preceded him. + +“I will address myself to the jury,” he began. + +“You will do nothing of the sort,” broke in the coroner. “Now, please +attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who is the—the—” + +“The Avenger,” put in Mr. Cannot promptly. + +“The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met him +on the very night he committed the murder we are now investigating?” + +“I do so declare,” said Mr. Cannot confidently. “Though in the best of +health myself,”—he beamed round the court, a now amused, attentive +court—“it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to have only +ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private affairs, Mr. +Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out at so undue an +hour as one o’clock in the morning—” + +Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into broad +smiles. + +“Yes,” went on the witness solemnly, “I was with a sick friend—in fact, +I may say a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. I will not +reveal my exact dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my notepaper. It +is not necessary to reveal it, but you will understand me when I say +that in order to come home I had to pass through a portion of the +Regent’s Park; and it was there—to be exact, about the middle of +Prince’s Terrace—when a very peculiar-looking individual stopped and +accosted me.” + +Mrs. Bunting’s hand shot up to her breast. A feeling of deadly fear +took possession of her. + +“I mustn’t faint,” she said to herself hurriedly. “I mustn’t faint! +Whatever’s the matter with me?” She took out her bottle of +smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff. + +“He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. Coroner, with a very +odd-looking face. I should say an educated man—in common parlance, a +gentleman. What drew my special attention to him was that he was +talking aloud to himself—in fact, he seemed to be repeating poetry. I +give you my word, I had no thought of The Avenger, no thought at all. +To tell you the truth, I thought this gentleman was a poor escaped +lunatic, a man who’d got away from his keeper. The Regent’s Park, sir, +as I need hardly tell you, is a most quiet and soothing neighbourhood—” + +And then a member of the general public gave a loud guffaw. + +“I appeal to you; sir,” the old gentleman suddenly cried out “to +protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come here with any +other object than that of doing my duty as a citizen!” + +“I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant,” said the coroner +stiffly. “Time is going on, and I have another important witness to +call—a medical witness. Kindly tell me, as shortly as possible, what +made you suppose that this stranger could possibly be—” with an effort +he brought out for the first time since the proceedings began, the +words, “The Avenger?” + +“I am coming to that!” said Mr. Cannot hastily. “I am coming to that! +Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It was a foggy night, but +not as foggy as it became later. And just when we were passing one +another, I and this man, who was talking aloud to himself—he, instead +of going on, stopped and turned towards me. That made me feel queer and +uncomfortable, the more so that there was a very wild, mad look on his +face. I said to him, as soothingly as possible, ‘A very foggy night, +sir.’ And he said, ‘Yes—yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the +commission of dark and salutary deeds.’ A very strange phrase, sir, +that—‘dark and salutary deeds.’” He looked at the coroner expectantly— + +“Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person go off +in the direction of—of King’s Cross, for instance?” + +“No.” Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. “No, I must honestly say I +did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then he crossed +the road and was lost in the fog.” + +“That will do,” said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. “I thank you, +Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently consider +important information.” + +Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some of +those present tittered rather foolishly. + +As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked up +at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a murmur of +talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard quite distinctly +what it was that he said: + +“One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The man +carried a bag—a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left hand. It +was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled knife.” + +Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters’ table. She remembered suddenly +that she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth’s bag. +And then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a single +reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put down that last remark +of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one of them had heard it. + +Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And then +silence did fall on the court. + +“One word more,” he said in a quavering voice. “May I ask to be +accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see there +is some room left on the witnesses’ bench.” And, without waiting for +permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was +bending over her. + +“Perhaps you’d like to come along now,” he said urgently.—“I don’t +suppose you want to hear the medical evidence. It’s always painful for +a female to hear that. And there’ll be an awful rush when the inquest’s +over. I could get you away quietly now.” + +She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed him +obediently. + +Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty, +room downstairs. + +“I’ll let you out the back way,” he said. “I expect you’re tired, +ma’am, and will like to get home to a cup o’ tea.” + +“I don’t know how to thank you!” There were tears in her eyes. She was +trembling with excitement and emotion. “You _have_ been good to me.” + +“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said a little awkwardly. “I expect you went +though a pretty bad time, didn’t you?” + +“Will they be having that old gentleman again?” she spoke in a whisper, +and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look. + +“Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We’re troubled with a lot of those sort +of people, you know, ma’am, and they often do have funny names, too. +You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City, or what not; +then they retires when they gets about sixty, and they’re fit to hang +themselves with dulness. Why, there’s hundreds of lunies of the sort to +be met in London. You can’t go about at night and not meet ’em. Plenty +of ’em!” + +“Then you don’t think there was anything in what he said?” she +ventured. + +“In what that old gent said? Goodness—no!” he laughed good-naturedly. +“But I’ll tell you what I _do_ think. If it wasn’t for the time that +had gone by, I should believe that the second witness _had_ seen that +crafty devil—” he lowered his voice. “But, there, Dr. Gaunt declares +most positively—so did two other medical gentlemen—that the poor +creatures had been dead hours when they was found. Medical gentlemen +are always very positive about their evidence. They have to +be—otherwise who’d believe ’em? If we’d time I could tell you of a case +in which—well, ’twas all because of Dr. Gaunt that the murderer +escaped. We all knew perfectly well the man we caught did it, but he +was able to prove an alibi as to the time Dr. Gaunt _said_ the poor +soul was killed.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, +but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go to +Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think of nothing. + +Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she began +listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt that it +would do her more good to stay out in the air than take the train. Also +she would thus put off the moment—the moment to which she looked +forward with dread and dislike—when she would have to invent a +circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor, and what +the doctor had said to her. + +Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest in +other people’s ailments, the more interest that he was himself so +remarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn’t tell +him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that the doctor +had told her. + +As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, +and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest +edition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. “Avenger +Inquest?” they shouted exultantly. “All the latest evidence!” At one +place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the pavement +by stones, she stopped and looked down. “Opening of the Avenger +Inquest. What is he really like? Full description.” On yet another ran +the ironic query: “Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?” + +And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. +Bunting turned sick—so sick and faint that she did what she had never +done before in her life—she pushed her way into a public-house, and, +putting two pennies down on the counter, asked for, and received, a +glass of cold water. + +As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind +dwelling persistently—not on the inquest at which she had been present, +not even on The Avenger, but on his victims. + +Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the mortuary. +She seemed also to see that third body, which, though cold, must yet be +warmer than the other two, for at this time yesterday The Avenger’s +last victim had been alive, poor soul—alive and, according to a +companion of hers whom the papers had already interviewed, particularly +merry and bright. + +Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of The +Avenger’s victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered wearily if +this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear which +encompassed her night and day. + +As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. The +narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others exactly +like it in every single particular, save that their front yards were +not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, keep any +secret closely hidden. + +For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger’s victims receded from her mind. +She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were concentrated on +Bunting—Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what had happened during +her absence—whether the lodger had rung his bell, and, if so, how he +had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with him? + +She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a pleasant +feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must have been +watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, for before she +could either knock or ring he had opened the door. + +“I was getting quite anxious about you,” he exclaimed. “Come in, Ellen, +quick! You must be fair perished a day like now—and you out so little +as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all right?” He looked at +her with affectionate anxiety. + +And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. “No,” she +said slowly, “Doctor Evans wasn’t in. I waited, and waited, and waited, +but he never came in at all. ’Twas my own fault,” she added quickly. +Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though she had, in +a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, she had no sight +to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her years ago. “I ought +to have sent him a card yesterday night,” she said. “Of course, I was a +fool to go all that way, just on chance of finding a doctor in. It +stands to reason they’ve got to go out to people at all times of day.” + +“I hope they gave you a cup of tea?” he said. + +And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the doctor +had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have +been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained she’d known him +a long time. + +She compromised. “I was offered some,” she said, in a weak, tired +voice. “But there, Bunting, I didn’t feel as if I wanted it. I’d be +very grateful for a cup now—if you’d just make it for me over the +ring.” + +“’Course I will,” he said eagerly. “You just come in and sit down, my +dear. Don’t trouble to take your things off now—wait till you’ve had +tea.” + +And she obeyed him. “Where’s Daisy?” she asked suddenly. “I thought the +girl would be back by the time I got home.” + +“She ain’t coming home to-day”—there was an odd, sly, smiling look on +Bunting’s face. + +“Did she send a telegram?” asked Mrs. Bunting. + +“No. Young Chandler’s just come in and told me. He’s been over there +and,—would you believe it, Ellen?—he’s managed to make friends with +Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain’t it? He went over there +just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then Margaret told +him that her lady had sent her some money to go to the play, and she +actually asked Joe to go with them this evening—she and Daisy—to the +pantomime. Did you ever hear o’ such a thing?” + +“Very nice for them, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bunting absently. But she was +pleased—pleased to have her mind taken off herself. “Then when is that +girl coming home?” she asked patiently. + +“Well, it appears that Chandler’s got to-morrow morning off too—this +evening and to-morrow morning. He’ll be on duty all night, but he +proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early dinner. Will +that suit you, Ellen?” + +“Yes. That’ll be all right,” she said. “I don’t grudge the girl her bit +of pleasure. One’s only young once. By the way, did the lodger ring +while I was out?” + +Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to see +the kettle boil. “No,” he said. “Come to think of it, it’s rather a +funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. Sleuth a +thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all about +Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened while you was +out, Ellen.” + +“Something else happened?” she said in a startled voice. Getting up +from her chair she came towards her husband: “What happened? Who came?” + +“Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a +young lady’s birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter—one of +them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing—fell out just at the last +minute and so they had to send for me.” + +His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his old +friend’s business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very badly to +Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for ever so +long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this new man had +never employed him—no, not once. + +“I hope you didn’t make yourself too cheap?” said his wife jealously. + +“No, that I didn’t! I hum’d and haw’d a lot; and I could see the fellow +was quite worried—in fact, at the end he offered me half-a-crown more. +So I graciously consented!” + +Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long +time. + +“You won’t mind being alone, here? I don’t count the lodger—he’s no +good—” Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted to ask the +question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so unlike herself. +Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that she could be afraid +of being alone in the house. She had often been so in the days when he +got more jobs. + +She stared at him, a little suspiciously. “I be afraid?” she echoed. +“Certainly not. Why should I be? I’ve never been afraid before. What +d’you exactly mean by that, Bunting?” + +“Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone on +this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young fool +Chandler came, dressed up, to the door.” + +“I shouldn’t have been frightened if he’d just been an ordinary +stranger,” she said shortly. “He said something silly to me—just in +keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I feel +better now.” + +As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise +outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers. + +“I’ll just run out,” said Bunting apologetically, “and see what +happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue about +the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it—when he wasn’t +talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He’s on to-night, luckily +not till twelve o’clock; plenty of time to escort the two of ’em back +after the play. Besides, he said he’ll put them into a cab and blow the +expense, if the panto’ goes on too long for him to take ’em home.” + +“On to-night?” repeated Mrs. Bunting. “Whatever for?” + +“Well, you see, The Avenger’s always done ’em in couples, so to speak. +They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again to-night. However, even +so, Joe’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. Then he’ll go and +turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, Fine thing to be young, +ain’t it, Ellen?” + +“I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as this!” + +“What _do_ you mean?” said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken so +oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. + +“What do I mean?” she repeated—and a great fear clutched at her heart. +What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. + +“Why, by saying he won’t go out. Of course, he has to go out. Besides, +he’ll have been to the play as it is. ’Twould be a pretty thing if the +police didn’t go out, just because it was cold!” + +“I—I was thinking of The Avenger,” said Mrs. Bunting. She looked at her +husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter those true +words. + +“He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold,” said Bunting sombrely. “I +take it the man’s dead to all human feeling—saving, of course, +revenge.” + +“So that’s your idea about him, is it?” She looked across at her +husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between +them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. +“D’you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man +what passed her with a newspaper parcel?” + +“Let me see,” he said slowly. “I thought that ’twas from the bedroom +window a woman saw him?” + +“No, no. I mean the _other_ woman, what was taking her husband’s +breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most +respectable-looking woman of the two,” said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. + +And then, seeing her husband’s look of utter, blank astonishment, she +felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly mad to +have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. “There, +now,” she said; “here I am gossiping all about nothing when I ought to +be seeing about the lodger’s supper. It was someone in the train talked +to me about that person as thinks she saw The Avenger.” + +Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the gas, +and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to buy the +paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous discussion. + +As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, Mrs. +Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite +unnaturally cold even for the time of year. + +She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed by the +washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that stand aside +and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going to be out +to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and she didn’t +like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn’t suit her ideas that he +should do so. How if she did light the fire here, in their bedroom? It +would be nice for her to have bit of fire to cheer her up after he had +gone. + +Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little sleep +the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, at her +nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little ease, +listening—listening. . . . + +She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth’s +supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so as +not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so. + +Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she +listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good fire, +how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! But +unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was moving +restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his wont at this +time of the evening. + +She knocked, and then waited a moment. + +There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in the +lock of the chiffonnier cupboard—or so Mr. Sleuth’s landlady could have +sworn. + +There was a pause—she knocked again. + +“Come in,” said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and carried +in the tray. + +“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?” he +said, with a touch of irritation in his voice. + +“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ve been out. Perhaps I lost count of the +time. I thought you’d like your breakfast early, as you had dinner +rather sooner than usual.” + +“Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?” + +“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure! I meant supper.” He looked at her +fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible +questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes. + +“Aren’t you well?” he said slowly. “You don’t look well, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“No, sir,” she said. “I’m not well. I went over to see a doctor this +afternoon, to Ealing, sir.” + +“I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting”—the lodger’s voice had become +softer, kinder in quality. + +“It always does me good to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Bunting +evasively. + +And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth’s face. “Doctors are a +maligned body of men,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you speak well of +them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable to +err, but I assure you they do their best.” + +“That I’m sure they do, sir”—she spoke heartily, sincerely. Doctors had +always treated her most kindly, and even generously. + +And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger’s one hot dish upon +it, she went towards the door. “Wouldn’t you like me to bring up +another scuttleful of coals, sir? it’s bitterly cold—getting colder +every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in—” she looked at him +deprecatingly. + +And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. Pushing +his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full height. + +“What d’you mean?” he stammered. “Why did you say that, Mrs. Bunting?” + +She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an awful +questioning look over his face. + +“I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He’s got a job to-night. He’s going to +act as waiter at a young lady’s birthday party. I was thinking it’s a +pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, too”—she brought out +her words jerkily. + +Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. “Ah!” he +said. “Dear me—I’m sorry to hear that! I hope your husband will not +catch cold, Mrs. Bunting.” + +And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. + +Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy +washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. + +Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. + +“Time for you to dress,” she cried out cheerfully, “and I’ve got a +little bit of fire for you to dress by.” + +As he exclaimed at her extravagance, “Well, ’twill be pleasant for me, +too; keep me company-like while you’re out; and make the room nice and +warm when you come in. You’ll be fair perished, even walking that short +way,” she said. + +And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs +and cleared away Mr. Sleuth’s supper. + +The lodger said no word while she was so engaged—no word at all. + +He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him to +do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees. + +Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, a +great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting’s +heart. He was such a—a—she searched for a word in her mind, but could +only find the word “gentle”—he was such a nice, gentle gentleman, was +Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving his money about, as he +had done the first day or two, and with some concern his landlady had +seen that the store had diminished a good deal. A very simple +calculation had made her realise that almost the whole of that missing +money had come her way, or, at any rate, had passed through her hands. + +Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his +landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. And +Mrs. Bunting’s conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly ever used +that room upstairs—that room for which he had paid extra so generously. +If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty man in Baker +Street,—and now that the ice had been broken between them it was very +probable that he would do so, for he was a very well-trained, +experienced waiter—then she thought she would tell Mr. Sleuth that she +no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was now doing. + +She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. + +“Good-night, sir,” she said at last. + +Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. + +“I hope you’ll sleep well, sir.” + +“Yes, I’m sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a little +turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been studying +all day I require a little exercise.” + +“Oh, I wouldn’t go out to-night,” she said deprecatingly. “’Tisn’t fit +for anyone to be out in the bitter cold.” + +“And yet—and yet”—he looked at her attentively—“there will probably be +many people out in the streets to-night.” + +“A many more than usual, I fear, sir.” + +“Indeed?” said Mr. Sleuth quickly. “Is it not a strange thing, Mrs. +Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse themselves +should carry their revels far into the night?” + +“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking”—she +hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the +words, “of the police.” + +“The police?” He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or +three times with a nervous gesture. “But what is man—what is man’s puny +power or strength against that of God, or even of those over whose feet +God has set a guard?” + +Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up +his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then she +had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, +that—was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? + +“Very true, sir,” she said respectfully. “But Providence means us to +take care o’ ourselves too.” And then she closed the door behind her +and went downstairs. + +But Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She came +into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think the +next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger’s meal on her +table. 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. It even occurred +to her to do the one thing that might have quieted her excited brain—to +get a book, one of those detective stories of which Bunting had a +slender store in the next room, and then, lighting the gas, to sit up +and read. + +No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read in bed, +and she was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything that she had +been told was wrong. . . . + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +It was a very cold night—so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was the +atmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors. + +Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved a really +pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his way this evening, +all the more welcome because it was quite unexpected! The young lady at +whose birthday party he had been present in capacity of waiter had come +into a fortune that day, and she had had the gracious, the surprising +thought of presenting each of the hired waiters with a sovereign! + +This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had gone to +Bunting’s heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservative principles; +only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet, old-fashioned, +respectable, gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom those nasty +Radicals know nothing and care less! + +But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been. Slackening +his footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern of how queer his +wife had seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous, so “jumpy,” that +he didn’t know what to make of her sometimes. She had never been really +good-tempered—your capable, self-respecting woman seldom is—but she had +never been like what she was now. And she didn’t get better as the days +went on; in fact she got worse. Of late she had been quite hysterical, +and for no reason at all! Take that little practical joke of young Joe +Chandler. Ellen knew quite well he often had to go about in some kind +of disguise, and yet how she had gone on, quite foolish-like—not at all +as one would have expected her to do. + +There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in more +senses than one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had taken to +talking in her sleep. “No, no, no!” she had cried out, only the night +before. “It isn’t true—I won’t have it said—it’s a lie!” And there had +been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her usually quiet, mincing +voice. + +Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves. + +He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walking +more quickly. + +As he tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sight of +his lodger walking along the opposite side of the solitary street—one +of those short streets leading off the broad road which encircles +Regent’s Park. + +Well! This was a funny time o’ night to be taking a stroll for +pleasure, like! + +Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth’s tall, thin figure +was rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. His +left arm was thrust into his long Inverness cape, and so was quite +hidden, but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger +were carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung down straight. + +Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talked +aloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who live +much alone. It was clear that he had not yet become aware of the +proximity of his landlord. + +Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger was certainly a +most eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not, that that odd, +luny-like gentleman should have made all the difference to his, +Bunting’s, and Mrs. Bunting’s happiness and comfort in life? + +Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for the +first time, of this perfect lodger’s one fault—his odd dislike to meat, +and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food. + +But there, you can’t have everything! The more so that the lodger was +not one of those crazy vegetarians who won’t eat eggs and cheese. No, +he was reasonable in this, as in everything else connected with his +dealings with the Buntings. + +As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife. +Indeed, he had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr. Sleuth +had been with them, and when his landlord had had occasion to wait on +him the lodger had remained silent. Indeed, their gentleman had made it +very clear that he did not like either the husband or wife to come up +to his rooms without being definitely asked to do so. + +Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genial +conversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increased his +general comfortable sense of satisfaction. + +So it was that the butler, still an active man for his years, crossed +over the road, and, stepping briskly forward, began trying to overtake +Mr. Sleuth. But the more he hurried along, the more the other hastened, +and that without ever turning round to see whose steps he could hear +echoing behind him on the now freezing pavement. + +Mr. Sleuth’s own footsteps were quite inaudible—an odd circumstance, +when you came to think of it—as Bunting did think of it later, lying +awake by Mrs. Bunting’s side in the pitch darkness. What it meant of +course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes. Now Bunting +had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down to him to clean. +He had always supposed the lodger had only one pair of outdoor boots. + +The two men—the pursued and the pursuer—at last turned into the +Marylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home. +Plucking up courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly on +the still air: + +“Mr. Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!” + +The lodger stopped and turned round. + +He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physical +condition, that the sweat was pouring down his face. + +“Ah! So it’s you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and I +hurried on. I wish I’d known that it was you; there are so many queer +characters about at night in London.” + +“Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have business out +of doors would be out such a night as this. It _is_ cold, sir!” + +And then into Bunting’s slow and honest mind there suddenly crept the +query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth’s own business out could be on +this bitter night. + +“Cold?” the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words +came out sharp and quick through his thin lips. “I can’t say that I +find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air always becomes +milder.” + +“Yes, sir; but to-night there’s such a sharp east wind. Why, it freezes +the very marrow in one’s bones! Still, there’s nothing like walking in +cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, sir.” + +Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange +way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, on +the wall side, to his landlord. + +“I lost my way,” he said abruptly. “I’ve been over Primrose Hill to see +a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, and then, +coming back, I lost my way.” + +Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the +shabby, paved court in front of the house—that gate which now was never +locked. + +Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged +path, when, with a “By your leave, sir,” the ex-butler, stepping aside, +slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front door for +him. + +As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting’s bare left hand +brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was wearing, +and, to Bunting’s surprise, the stretch of cloth against which his hand +lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from stray flakes of +snow which had settled upon it, but wet—wet and gluey. + +Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other +that he placed the key in the lock of the door. + +The two men passed into the hall together. + +The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up road +outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the lodger, +there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of mortal terror, +an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful immediate danger. + +A stuffless voice—the voice of his first wife, the long-dead girl to +whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays—uttered into his ear the +words, “Take care!” + +And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, though not +loud. + +“I’m afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, +foul, on my coat? It’s too long a story to tell you now, but I brushed +up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful +soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill.” + +“No, sir, no. I didn’t notice nothing. 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. +Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and dipped a hand +into the water-jug. + +“Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?” came a voice +from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily. + +“I’m just washing my hands.” + +“Indeed, you’re doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such a +thing—putting your hand into the water in which I was going to wash my +face to-morrow morning!” + +“I’m very sorry, Ellen,” he said meekly; “I meant to throw it away. You +don’t suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?” + +She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting lay +staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more +uncomfortable than he was already. + +At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence by +telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, but +that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if it had +been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside. + +Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook +the bed. + +“I suppose that you don’t know that you’ve left the light burning in +the hall, wasting our good money?” she observed tartly. + +He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as she +had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money—or, +rather, Mr. Sleuth’s good money. Since he had come to be their lodger +they had not had to touch their rent money. + +Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and +so to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and wife +lay awake till dawn. + +The next morning Mr. Sleuth’s landlord awoke with a start; he felt +curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes. + +Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven +o’clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the +blind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the way +when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, curiously +still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage. As he had at +once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already lying on the mat. +It was probably the sound of its being pushed through the letter-box +which had waked him from his unrestful sleep. + +He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, shutting +the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper wide open on the +table, and bent over it. + +As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression of +intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he had felt +certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet was not there. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit the +gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea. + +While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: + +“Bunting!” she cried weakly. “Bunting!” Quickly he hurried in response +to her call. “Yes,” he said. “What is it, my dear? I won’t be a minute +with your tea.” And he smiled broadly, rather foolishly. + +She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face. + +“What are you grinning at?” she asked suspiciously. + +“I’ve had a wonderful piece of luck,” he explained. “But you was so +cross last night that I simply didn’t dare tell you about it.” + +“Well, tell me now,” she said in a low voice. + +“I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her +birthday party, Ellen, and she’d come into a nice bit of money, and she +gave each of us waiters a sovereign.” + +Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her +eyes. + +“What time d’you expect Daisy?” she asked languidly. “You didn’t say +what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about it +yesterday.” + +“Didn’t I? Well, I expect they’ll be in to dinner.” + +“I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?” said +Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting’s round +face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing if he +couldn’t have his own daughter for a bit—especially now that they were +doing so well! + +“Daisy’ll stay here just as long as she can,” he said shortly. “It’s +too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all she can; +and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, ’twould be cruel—cruel +to take the girl away just now, just as she and that young chap are +making friends-like. One would suppose that even you would see the +justice o’ that!” + +But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. + +Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling +now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, +his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill—ill and wizened. He +wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn’t saying anything. She +had never been one to grouse about herself. + +“The lodger and me came in together last night,” he observed genially. +“He’s certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn’t the sort of night +one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he must +’a been out a long time if what he said was true.” + +“I don’t wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded +streets,” she said slowly. “They gets worse every day—that they do! But +go along now; I want to get up.” + +He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire and put +a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. + +Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with a +feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible +thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his +head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No doubt +Mr. Sleuth’s nose had bled—that was what had happened; though, come to +think of it, he _had_ mentioned brushing up against a dead animal. + +Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn’t do for one to be always +thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It made one go +dotty—that’s what it did. + +And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a loud +knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before he had +time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had +rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl. + +“I’ll go,” she cried breathlessly. “I’ll go, Bunting; don’t you +trouble.” + +He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. + +She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the +telegram from the invisible boy. “You needn’t wait,” she said. “If +there’s an answer we’ll send it out ourselves.” Then she tore the +envelope open—“Oh!” she said with a gasp of relief. “It’s only from Joe +Chandler, to say he can’t go over to fetch Daisy this morning. Then +you’ll have to go.” + +She walked back into their sitting-room. “There!” she said. “There it +is, Bunting. You just read it.” + +“Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as +arranged.—CHANDLER.” + + +“I wonder why he’s on duty?” said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. “I +thought Joe’s hours was as regular as clockwork—that nothing could make +any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose it’ll do all +right if I start about eleven o’clock? It may have left off snowing by +then. I don’t feel like going out again just now. I’m pretty tired this +morning.” + +“You start about twelve,” said his wife quickly. + +“That’ll give plenty of time.” + +The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a letter +from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a little under a +week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at any rate, he made no +sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting often, stopped to listen, +while she was doing her room, there came no sounds at all from +overhead. + +Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more +cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a pleasant +little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, before going +down to prepare Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast. + +“Daisy will be surprised to see you—not to say disappointed!” she +observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at the +thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made him stay +on a little longer. “There’s no such great hurry as that,” she said +good-temperedly. “It’ll do quite well if you’re there by half-past +twelve. I’ll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn’t help with that. I +expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard.” + +But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and his +wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, less +heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming and +going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously along +through the slush. + +Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a +knock at the door—a now very familiar ring and knock. “Joe thinks +Daisy’s home again by now!” she said, smiling to herself. + +Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler’s voice. “Don’t be +scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!” But though not exactly scared, she did +give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to represent a +public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, with his +hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his seedy-looking, +ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. + +“I haven’t a minute,” he said a little breathlessly. “But I thought I’d +just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got my +telegram all right? I couldn’t send no other kind of message.” + +“She’s not back yet. Her father hasn’t been gone long after her.” Then, +struck by a look in his eyes, “Joe, what’s the matter?” she asked +quickly. + +There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, +while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very pale. + +“Well,” he said. “Well, Mrs. Bunting, I’ve no business to say anything +about it—but I _will_ tell _you!_” + +He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind +him. “There’s been another of ’em!” he whispered. “But this time no one +is to know anything about it—not for the present, I mean,” he corrected +himself hastily. “The Yard thinks we’ve got a clue—and a good clue, +too, this time.” + +“But where—and how?” faltered Mrs. Bunting. + +“Well, ’twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the +present”—he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. “The poor soul +was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by chance ’twas +one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his way home, over +Hampstead way. He knew where he’d be able to get an ambulance quick, +and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I ’spect he’ll get +promotion for that!” + +“What about the clue?” asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. “You said +there was a clue?” + +“Well, I don’t rightly understand about the clue myself. All I knows is +it’s got something to do with a public-house, ‘The Hammer and Tongs,’ +which isn’t far off there. They feels sure The Avenger was in the bar +just on closing-time.” + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural the +police should suspect a public-house loafer. “Then that’s why you +wasn’t able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?” + +He nodded. “Mum’s the word, Mrs. Bunting! It’ll all be in the last +editions of the evening newspapers—it can’t be kep’ out. There’d be too +much of a row if ’twas!” + +“Are you going off to that public-house now?” she asked. + +“Yes, I am. I’ve got a awk’ard job—to try and worm something out of the +barmaid.” + +“Something out of the barmaid?” repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. “Why, +whatever for?” + +He came and stood close to her. “They think ’twas a gentleman,” he +whispered. + +“A gentleman?” + +Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. “Whatever +makes them think such a silly thing as that?” + +“Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with a +leather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass of +milk. And what d’you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! He +wouldn’t take no change—just made the girl a present of it! That’s why +the young woman what served him seems quite unwilling to give him away. +She won’t tell now what he was like. She doesn’t know what he’s wanted +for, and we don’t want her to know just yet. That’s one reason why +nothing’s being said public about it. But there! I really must be going +now. My time’ll be up at three o’clock. I thought of coming in on the +way back, and asking you for a cup o’ tea, Mrs. Bunting.” + +“Do,” she said. “Do, Joe. You’ll be welcome,” but there was no welcome +in her tired voice. + +She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to her +kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast. + +The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Bunting and +Daisy might be home, and they’d want something, too. Margaret always +had breakfast even when “the family” were away, unnaturally early. + +As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of all +thought. But it is very difficult to do that when one is in a state of +torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler what they +supposed that man who had gone into the public-house was really like. +It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that inquisitive young +chap had never met face to face. + +At last Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang—a quiet little tinkle. But when she went +up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room. + +Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the cloth on +the table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps coming down +the stairs, and her quick ears detected the slight whirring sound which +showed that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had already lit the +stove; that meant that he would carry out some elaborate experiment +this afternoon. + +“Still snowing?” he said doubtfully. “How very, very quiet and still +London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known it quite as +quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A very pleasant +change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in the Marylebone +Road.” + +“Yes,” she said dully. “It’s awful quiet to-day—too quiet to my +thinking. ’Tain’t natural-like.” + +The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air. + +“Is that someone coming in here?” asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, +hissing breath. “Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window and +telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?” + +And his landlady obeyed him. + +“It’s only Bunting, sir—Bunting and his daughter.” + +“Oh! Is that all?” + +Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She had +never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that first day +when she had been showing him her rooms. + +Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if aware +that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face up +towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at the lodger, +whose face she could only dimly discern. + +“A very sweet-looking young girl,” said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. And +then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. Bunting very +much aback. + +“Wordsworth,” he murmured dreamily. “A poet too little read nowadays, +Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, for youth, +for innocence.” + +“Indeed, sir?” Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. “Your breakfast will +be getting cold, sir, if you don’t have it now.” + +He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child rebuked +might have done. + +And then his landlady left him. + +“Well?” said Bunting cheerily. “Everything went off quite all right. +And Daisy’s a lucky girl—that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her five +shillings.” + +But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought to +do. + +“I hope nothing’s happened to Mr. Chandler,” she said a little +disconsolately. “The very last words he said to me last night was that +he’d be there at ten o’clock. I got quite fidgety as the time went on +and he didn’t come.” + +“He’s been here,” said Mrs. Bunting slowly. + +“Been here?” cried her husband. “Then why on earth didn’t he go and +fetch Daisy, if he’d time to come here?” + +“He was on the way to his job,” his wife answered. “You run along, +child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself useful.” + +And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her stepmother +didn’t want her to hear. + +“I’ve something to tell you, Bunting.” + +“Yes?” He looked across uneasily. “Yes, Ellen?” + +“There’s been another o’ those murders. But the police don’t want +anyone to know about it—not yet. That’s why Joe couldn’t go over and +fetch Daisy. They’re all on duty again.” + +Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the +mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much +concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it. + +There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a great +effort to appear unconcerned. + +“And where did it happen?” he asked. “Close to the other one?” + +She hesitated, then: “I don’t know. He didn’t say. But hush!” she added +quickly. “Here’s Daisy! Don’t let’s talk of that horror in front of +her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I’d be mum.” + +And he acquiesced. + +“You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away the +lodger’s breakfast.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried +upstairs. + +Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. +“I don’t feel well to-day,” he said fretfully. “And, Mrs. Bunting? I +should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I saw +in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, but I +should like to do so now.” + +She flew downstairs. “Bunting,” she said a little breathlessly, “the +lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun.” + +Bunting handed it over to her. “I’ve read it through,” he observed. +“You can tell him that I don’t want it back again.” + +On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third of +the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in rather +large characters: + +“We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic +reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which was +almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his double +murder ten days ago.” + + +She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. + +“Kindly put the paper down on the table,” came Mr. Sleuth’s muffled +voice from the upper landing. + +She did so. “Yes, sir. And Bunting don’t want the paper back again, +sir. He says he’s read it.” And then she hurried out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, +listening and waiting—Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; Daisy +for the knock which would herald Joe Chandler. + +And about four there came the now familiar sound. + +Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the front +door she whispered, “We haven’t said anything to Daisy yet. Young girls +can’t keep secrets.” + +Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked the low character he had +assumed to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, and tired +out. + +Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of welcome, +when she saw how cleverly he was disguised. + +“I never!” she exclaimed. “What a difference it do make, to be sure! +Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. Chandler.” + +And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much that +he quite cheered up. Bunting had been very dull and quiet all that +afternoon. + +“It won’t take me ten minutes to make myself respectable again,” said +the young man rather ruefully. + +His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came to +the conclusion that he had been unsuccessful—that he had failed, that +is, in getting any information worth having. And though, in a sense, +they all had a pleasant tea together, there was an air of constraint, +even of discomfort, over the little party. + +Bunting felt it hard that he couldn’t ask the questions that were +trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during the +last month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, but now +it seemed almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of half suspense. +There was one important fact he longed to know, and at last came his +opportunity of doing so, for Joe Chandler rose to leave, and this time +it was Bunting who followed him out into the hall. + +“Where did it happen?” he whispered. “Just tell me that, Joe?” + +“Primrose Hill,” said the other briefly. “You’ll know all about it in a +minute or two, for it’ll be all in the last editions of the evening +papers. That’s what’s been arranged.” + +“No arrest I suppose?” + +Chandler shook his head despondently. “No,” he said, “I’m inclined to +think the Yard was on a wrong tack altogether this time. But one can +only do one’s best. I don’t know if Mrs. Bunting told you I’d got to +question a barmaid about a man who was in her place just before +closing-time. Well, she’s said all she knew, and it’s as clear as +daylight to me that the eccentric old gent she talks about was only a +harmless luny. He gave her a sovereign just because she told him she +was a teetotaller!” He laughed ruefully. + +Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. “Well, that’s a queer thing +for a barmaid to be!” he exclaimed. “She’s niece to the people what +keeps the public,” explained Chandler; and then he went out of the +front door with a cheerful “So long!” + +When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy had disappeared. She +had gone downstairs with the tray. “Where’s my girl?” he said +irritably. + +“She’s just taken the tray downstairs.” + +He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called out sharply, +“Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down there?” + +“Yes, father,” came her eager, happy voice. + +“Better come up out of that cold kitchen.” + +He turned and came back to his wife. “Ellen, is the lodger in? I +haven’t heard him moving about. Now mind what I says, please! I don’t +want Daisy to be mixed up with him.” + +“Mr. Sleuth don’t seem very well to-day,” answered Mrs. Bunting +quietly. “’Tain’t likely I should let Daisy have anything to do with +him. Why, she’s never even seen him. ’Tain’t likely I should allow her +to begin waiting on him now.” + +But though she was surprised and a little irritated by the tone in +which Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of the truth illumined her mind. +So accustomed had she become to bearing alone the burden of her awful +secret, that it would have required far more than a cross word or two, +far more than the fact that Bunting looked ill and tired, for her to +have come to suspect that her secret was now shared by another, and +that other her husband. + +Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trembled at the thought +of her house being invaded by the police, but that was only because she +had always credited the police with supernatural powers of detection. +That they should come to know the awful fact she kept hidden in her +breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a natural thing, but +that Bunting should even dimly suspect it appeared beyond the range of +possibility. + +And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering over +the fire—saying nothing, doing nothing. + +“Why, father, ain’t you well?” the girl asked more than once. + +And, looking up, he would answer, “Yes, I’m well enough, my girl, but I +feels cold. It’s awful cold. I never did feel anything like the cold +we’ve got just now.” + +At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside. + +“The Avenger again!” “Another horrible crime!” “Extra speshul +edition!”—such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through the +clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room. + +Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy’s cheeks grew pink +with excitement, and her eye sparkled. + +“Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D’you hear that?” she exclaimed childishly, +and even clapped her hands. “I do wish Mr. Chandler had been here. He +_would_ ’a been startled!” + +“Don’t, Daisy!” and Bunting frowned. + +Then, getting up, he stretched himself. “It’s fair getting on my mind,” +he said, “these horrible things happening. I’d like to get right away +from London, just as far as I could—that I would!” + +“Up to John-o’-Groat’s?” said Daisy, laughing. And then, “Why, father, +ain’t you going out to get a paper?” + +“Yes, I suppose I must.” + +Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, he +put on his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, and walked +down the flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped out on the +pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys now stood. + +The boy nearest to him only had the _Sun_—a late edition of the paper +he had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a ha’penny +rag of which he already knew the main contents. But there was nothing +else to do. + +Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was +bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked down +at the big headlines. For Bunting had been very unfair to the +enterprise of the editor of his favourite evening paper. This special +edition was full of new matter—new matter concerning The Avenger. + +First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement that +The Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had chosen +quite a new locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising ground known +to Londoners as Primrose Hill. + +“The police,” so Bunting read, “are very reserved as to the +circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger’s +latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess several +really important clues, and that one of them is concerned with the +half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to reproduce an outline +to-day. (See over page.)” + + +And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline +he had already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting to +be a facsimile of the imprint left by The Avenger’s rubber sole. + +He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the space +which should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, sinking +feeling of terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had been tracked +by the marks their boots or shoes had made at or near the scenes of +their misdoings. + +Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial kind +was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already visualised +early this very afternoon the little row with which he dealt each +morning—first came his wife’s strong, serviceable boots, then his own +two pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and next to his own Mr. +Sleuth’s strong, hardly worn, and expensive buttoned boots. Of late a +dear little coquettish high-heeled pair of outdoor shoes with thin, +paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for her trip to London, had ended the +row. The girl had worn these thin shoes persistently, in defiance of +Ellen’s reproof and advice, and he, Bunting, had only once had to clean +her more sensible country pair, and that only because the others had +become wet through the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to +Scotland Yard. + +Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going in +again, of hearing his wife’s sarcastic comments, of parrying Daisy’s +eager questions, had become intolerable. So he walked slowly, trying to +put off the evil moment when he would have to tell them what was in his +paper. + +The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite the +house. It was rather to the right of it. And when, having crossed over +the roadway, he walked along the pavement towards his own gate, he +heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side of the low wall +which shut off his little courtyard from the pavement. + +Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward to +drive out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had trouble, +before the cold weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter there. But +to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick with suspense and +fear. + +Was it possible that their place was being watched—already? He thought +it only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited the police +with almost supernatural powers, especially since he had paid that +visit to Scotland Yard. + +But to Bunting’s amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who +suddenly loomed up in the dim light. + +Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form had +been quite concealed till he stepped forward from behind the low wall +on to the flagged path leading to the front door. + +The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked along, +the new boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of hard +nail-studded heels rang out on the flat-stones of the narrow path. + +Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was his +lodger had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. Sleuth had +evidently been out to buy himself another pair of new boots, and then +he had gone inside the gate and had put them on, placing his old +footgear in the paper in which the new pair had been wrapped. + +The ex-butler waited—waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. +Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had time +to get well away, upstairs. + +Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in the +door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and coat up +in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out to him. Then +he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, he said sullenly: +“There it is! You can see it all for yourself—not that there’s very +much to see,” and groped his way to the fire. + +His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. “Whatever have you done to +yourself?” she exclaimed. “You’re ill—that’s what it is, Bunting. You +got a chill last night!” + +“I told you I’d got a chill,” he muttered. “’Twasn’t last night, +though; ’twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. Margaret +keeps that housekeeper’s room o’ hers like a hothouse—that’s what she +does. ’Twas going out from there into the biting wind, that’s what did +for me. It must be awful to stand about in such weather; ’tis a wonder +to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, can stand the life—being out +in all weathers like he is.” + +Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what +was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. + +“Those that keep out o’ doors all day never do come to no harm,” said +his wife testily. “But if you felt so bad, whatever was you out so long +for, Bunting? I thought you’d gone away somewhere! D’you mean you only +went to get the paper?” + +“I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp,” he muttered +apologetically. + +“That was a silly thing to do!” + +“Perhaps it was,” he admitted meekly. + +Daisy had taken up the paper. “Well, they don’t say much,” she said +disappointedly. “Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. Chandler ’ll +be in soon again. If so, he’ll tell us more about it.” + +“A young girl like you oughtn’t to want to know anything about +murders,” said her stepmother severely. “Joe won’t think any the better +of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I was you, Daisy, +I shouldn’t say nothing about it if he does come in—which I fair tell +you I hope he won’t. I’ve seen enough of that young chap to-day.” + +“He didn’t come in for long—not to-day,” said Daisy, her lip trembling. + +“I can tell you one thing that’ll surprise you, my dear”—Mrs. Bunting +looked significantly at her stepdaughter. She also wanted to get away +from that dread news—which yet was no news. + +“Yes?” said Daisy, rather defiantly. “What is it, Ellen?” + +“Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning. +He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that you +shouldn’t be told anything about it.” + +“Never!” cried Daisy, much mortified. + +“Yes,” went on her stepmother ruthlessly. “You just ask your father +over there if it isn’t true.” + +“’Tain’t a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings,” said +Bunting heavily. + +“If I was Joe,” went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage, +“I shouldn’t want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in to +have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that poor +young chap is set upon—mostly, I admit, by your father,” she looked at +her husband severely. “But you does your share, too, Daisy! You asks +him this, you asks him that—he’s fair puzzled sometimes. It don’t do to +be so inquisitive.” + +And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting’s part when +young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was said of +the new Avenger murder. + +Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though Daisy said a word, +it was but a word. And Joe Chandler thought he had never spent a +pleasanter evening in his life—for it was he and Daisy who talked all +the time, their elders remaining for the most part silent. + +Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Margaret. She described +the long, dull hours and the queer jobs her aunt set her to do—the +washing up of all the fine drawing-room china in a big basin lined with +flannel, and how terrified she (Daisy) had been lest there should come +even one teeny little chip to any of it. Then she went on to relate +some of the funny things Aunt Margaret had told her about “the family.” + +There came a really comic tale, which hugely interested and delighted +Chandler. This was of how Aunt Margaret’s lady had been taken in by an +impostor—an impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping out of +her carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the doorstep. Aunt +Margaret’s lady, being a soft one, had insisted on the man coming into +the hall, where he had been given all kinds of restoratives. When the +man had at last gone off, it was found that he had “wolfed” young +master’s best walking-stick, one with a fine tortoise-shell top to it. +Thus had Aunt Margaret proved to her lady that the man had been +shamming, and her lady had been very angry—near had a fit herself! + +“There’s a lot of that about,” said Chandler, laughing. “Incorrigible +rogues and vagabonds—that’s what those sort of people are!” + +And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an exceptionally +clever swindler whom he himself had brought to book. He was very proud +of that job, it had formed a white stone in his career as a detective. +And even Mrs. Bunting was quite interested to hear about it. + +Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang. For +awhile no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife. + +“Did you hear that?” he said. “I think, Ellen, that was the lodger’s +bell.” + +She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. + +“I rang,” said Mr. Sleuth weakly, “to tell you I don’t require any +supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump of +sugar in it. That is all I require—nothing more. I feel very very far +from well”—and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on his face. “And +then I thought your husband would like his paper back again, Mrs. +Bunting.” + +Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze of +which she was quite unconscious, answered, “Oh, no, sir! Bunting don’t +require that paper now. He read it all through.” Something impelled her +to add, ruthlessly, “He’s got another paper by now, sir. You may have +heard them come shouting outside. Would you like me to bring you up +that other paper, sir?” + +And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. “No,” he said querulously. “I much +regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it disturbed +me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it—there never is +in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers years ago, and I much +regret that I broke through my rule to-day.” + +As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more +conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in his +landlady’s presence. He went over to the fireplace and deliberately +turned his back on her. + +She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of sugar he +had asked for. + +Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the Book. + +When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting merrily. +She did not notice that the merriment was confined to the two young +people. + +“Well?” said Daisy pertly. “How about the lodger, Ellen? Is he all +right?” + +“Yes,” she said stiffly. “Of course he is!” + +“He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself—awful +lonely-like, I call it,” said the girl. + +But her stepmother remained silent. + +“Whatever does he do with himself all day?” persisted Daisy. + +“Just now he’s reading the Bible,” Mrs. Bunting answered, shortly and +dryly. + +“Well, I never! That’s a funny thing for a gentleman to do!” + +And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed—a long hearty peal of +amusement. + +“There’s nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Bunting sharply. “I should +feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected with the +Bible.” + +And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time +that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he +answered very humbly, “I beg pardon. I know I oughtn’t to have laughed +at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy said it so +funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a queer card, +Mrs. Bunting.” + +“He’s no queerer than many people I could mention,” she said quickly; +and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed of +aching fear and suspense. + +The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he should +pursue, and, according to his mood and to the state of his mind at any +particular moment, he would waver between various widely-differing +lines of action. + +He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the most +awful thing about it all was that _he wasn’t sure_. If only he could +have been _sure_, he might have made up his mind exactly what it was he +ought to do. + +But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was +vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting’s point of view, +almost any alternative would have been preferable to that which to +some, nay, perhaps to most, householders would have seemed the only +thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners of Bunting’s +class have an uneasy fear of the law. To his mind it would be ruin for +him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly in such a terrible +affair. No one concerned in the business would give them and their +future a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, and, +above all, it would make it quite impossible for them ever to get again +into a good joint situation. It was that for which Bunting, in his +secret soul, now longed with all his heart. + +No, some other way than going to the police must be found—and he racked +his slow brain to find it. + +The worst of it was that every hour that went by made his future course +more difficult and more delicate, and increased the awful weight on his +conscience. + +If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite sure! And then he +would tell himself that, after all, he had very little to go upon; only +suspicion—suspicion, and a secret, horrible certainty that his +suspicion was justified. + +And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution which he knew to be +indefensible from every point of view; he began to hope, that is, in +the depths of his heart, that the lodger would again go out one evening +on his horrible business and be caught—red-handed. + +But far from going out on any business, horrible or other, Mr. Sleuth +now never went out at all. He kept upstairs, and often spent quite a +considerable part of his day in bed. He still felt, so he assured Mrs. +Bunting, very far from well. He had never thrown off the chill he had +caught on that bitter night he and his landlord had met on their +several ways home. + +Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication to Daisy’s +father. The detective spent every waking hour that he was not on duty +with the Buntings; and Bunting, who at one time had liked him so well +and so cordially, now became mortally afraid of him. + +But though the young man talked of little else than The Avenger, and +though on one evening he described at immense length the +eccentric-looking gent who had given the barmaid a sovereign, picturing +Mr. Sleuth with such awful accuracy that both Bunting and Mrs. Bunting +secretly and separately turned sick when they listened to him, he never +showed the slightest interest in their lodger. + +At last there came a morning when Bunting and Chandler held a strange +conversation about The Avenger. The young fellow had come in earlier +than usual, and just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were starting +out to do some shopping. The girl would fain have stopped behind, but +her stepmother had given her a very peculiar, disagreeable look, daring +her, so to speak, to be so forward, and Daisy had gone on with a +flushed, angry look on her pretty face. + +And then, as young Chandler stepped through into the sitting-room, it +suddenly struck Bunting that the young man looked unlike +himself—indeed, to the ex-butler’s apprehension there was something +almost threatening in Chandler’s attitude. + +“I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting,” he began abruptly, falteringly. +“And I’m glad to have the chance now that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Daisy +are out.” + +Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words—the accusation of having +sheltered a murderer, the monster whom all the world was seeking, under +his roof. And then he remembered a phrase, a horrible legal +phrase—“Accessory after the fact.” Yes, he had been that, there wasn’t +any doubt about it! + +“Yes?” he said. “What is it, Joe?” and then the unfortunate man sat +down in his chair. “Yes?” he said again uncertainly; for young Chandler +had now advanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting fixedly—the +other thought threateningly. “Well, out with it, Joe! Don’t keep me in +suspense.” + +And then a slight smile broke over the young man’s face. “I don’t think +what I’ve got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bunting.” + +And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything—yes or +no, as the case might be. + +The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long +time to the elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe +Chandler brought out the words, “Well, I suppose you know what it is I +want to talk about. I’m sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look or two +she’s lately cast on me. It’s your daughter—it’s Miss Daisy.” + +And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, ’twixt a sob and a laugh. “My +girl?” he cried. “Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to talk about? +Why, you fair frightened me—that you did!” + +And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as he +stared across it at his daughter’s lover, that lover who was also the +embodiment of that now awful thing to him, the law. He smiled, rather +foolishly, at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp wave of +irritation, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. Daisy’s +father was an old stupid—that’s what he was. + +And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. “As far as +I’m concerned,” he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even a little +dignity, “you have my blessing, Joe. You’re a very likely young chap, +and I had a true respect for your father.” + +“Yes,” said Chandler, “that’s very kind of you, Mr. Bunting. But how +about her—her herself?” + +Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn’t given +herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing. + +“I can’t answer for Daisy,” he said heavily. “You’ll have to ask her +yourself—that’s not a job any other man can do for you, my lad.” + +“I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by our two selves,” said +Chandler, with some heat. “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Bunting, +that I never do see Miss Daisy alone,” he repeated. “I hear now that +she’s going away Monday, and I’ve only once had the chance of a walk +with her. Mrs. Bunting’s very particular, not to say pernickety in her +ideas, Mr. Bunting—” + +“That’s a fault on the right side, that is—with a young girl,” said +Bunting thoughtfully. + +And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as regarded other young chaps +Mrs. Bunting could not be too particular. + +“She’s been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has,” went on Bunting, +with some pride. “That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of her +sight.” + +“I was coming to the old aunt,” said Chandler heavily. “Mrs. Bunting +she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that old woman the +whole of her natural life—now is that right? That’s what I wants to ask +you, Mr. Bunting,—is that right?” + +“I’ll say a word to Ellen, don’t you fear,” said Bunting abstractedly. + +His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap, to +his now constant anxious preoccupation. “You come along to-morrow,” he +said, “and I’ll see you gets your walk with Daisy. It’s only right you +and she should have a chance of seeing one another without old folk +being by; else how’s the girl to tell whether she likes you or not! For +the matter of that, you hardly knows her, Joe—” He looked at the young +man consideringly. + +Chandler shook his head impatiently. “I knows her quite as well as I +wants to know her,” he said. “I made up my mind the very first time I +see’d her, Mr. Bunting.” + +“No! Did you really?” said Bunting. “Well, come to think of it, I did +so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. But I hope +_you’ll_ never want no second, Chandler.” + +“God forbid!” said the young man under his breath. And then he asked, +rather longingly, “D’you think they’ll be out long now, Mr. Bunting?” + +And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. “Sit down, sit down; +do!” he said hastily. “I don’t believe they’ll be very long. They’ve +only got a little bit of shopping to do.” + +And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, “And how +about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you’re all just +waiting for _the next time?_” + +“Aye—that’s about the figure of it.” Chandler’s voice had also changed; +it was now sombre, menacing. “We’re fair tired of it—beginning to +wonder when it’ll end, that we are!” + +“Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master’s +like?” asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that. + +“Yes,” said Joe slowly. “I’ve a sort of notion—a savage, fierce-looking +devil, the chap must be. It’s that description that was circulated put +us wrong. I don’t believe it was the man that knocked up against that +woman in the fog—no, not one bit I don’t. But I wavers, I can’t quite +make up my mind. Sometimes I think it’s a sailor—the foreigner they +talks about, that goes away for eight or nine days in between, to +Holland maybe, or to France. Then, again, I says to myself that it’s a +butcher, a man from the Central Market. Whoever it is, it’s someone +used to killing, that’s flat.” + +“Then it don’t seem to you possible—?” (Bunting got up and walked over +to the window.) “You don’t take any stock, I suppose, in that idea some +of the papers put out, that the man is”—then he hesitated and brought +out, with a gasp—“a gentleman?” + +Chandler looked at him, surprised. “No,” he said deliberately. “I’ve +made up my mind that’s quite a wrong tack, though I knows that some of +our fellows—big pots, too—are quite sure that the fellow what gave the +girl the sovereign is the man we’re looking for. You see, Mr. Bunting, +if that’s the fact—well, it stands to reason the fellow’s an escaped +lunatic; and if he’s an escaped lunatic he’s got a keeper, and they’d +be raising a hue and cry after him; now, wouldn’t they?” + +“You don’t think,” went on Bunting, lowering his voice, “that he could +be just staying somewhere, lodging like?” + +“D’you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some West-end +hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that ’ud be have +come to pass.” He smiled as if the notion was a funny one. + +“Yes, something o’ that sort,” muttered Bunting. + +“Well, if your idea’s correct, Mr. Bunting—” + +“I never said ’twas my idea,” said Bunting, all in a hurry. + +“Well, if that idea’s correct then, ’twill make our task more difficult +than ever. Why, ’twould be looking for a needle in a field of hay, Mr. +Bunting! But there! I don’t think it’s anything quite so unlikely as +that—not myself I don’t.” He hesitated. “There’s some of us”—he lowered +his voice—“that hopes he’ll betake himself off—The Avenger, I mean—to +another big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There’d be plenty of +work for him to do there,” and Chandler chuckled at his own grim joke. + +And then, to both men’s secret relief, for Bunting was now mortally +afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and his doings, they +heard Mrs. Bunting’s key in the lock. + +Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young Chandler +was still there. She had feared that when they got home he would be +gone, the more so that Ellen, just as if she was doing it on purpose, +had lingered aggravatingly long over each small purchase. + +“Here’s Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk,” blurted +out Bunting. + +“My mother says as how she’d like you to come to tea, over at +Richmond,” said Chandler awkwardly, “I just come in to see whether we +could fix it up, Miss Daisy.” And Daisy looked imploringly at her +stepmother. + +“D’you mean now—this minute?” asked Mrs. Bunting tartly. + +“No, o’ course not”—Bunting broke in hastily. “How you do go on, +Ellen!” + +“What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?” asked +Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically. + +Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day—in +fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to see Daisy at +all. But he had talked her round. + +“How about Saturday?” suggested Bunting. “That’s Daisy’s birthday. +’Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she’s going +back to Old Aunt on Monday.” + +“I can’t go Saturday,” said Chandler disconsolately. “I’m on duty +Saturday.” + +“Well, then, let it be Sunday,” said Bunting firmly. And his wife +looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her +presence. + +“What do you say, Miss Daisy?” said Chandler. + +“Sunday would be very nice,” said Daisy demurely. And then, as the +young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy +ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute. + +Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing of +Mrs. Bunting’s whispered remark: “When I was a young woman folk didn’t +gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to go to church +together, decent-like—” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +Daisy’s eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave her +what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth +birthday—a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which Bunting +had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy—it seemed a +long, long time ago now. + +Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but she +was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to trouble +much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generally had the good +sense not to interfere between her husband and his child. + +In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy himself +some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the last four +days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed on his leaving +service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite pleasure which +we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden fruit. + +His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his nerves +as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. But he had +been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him feel so “jumpy,” +so he assured himself, when he found himself starting at any casual +sound outside, or even when his wife spoke to him suddenly. + +Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting didn’t +quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only one pair of +stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly slipped out of the +house without telling Ellen that he was going out. + +In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above all, +he had avoided even passing the time of day to his acquaintances and +neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that they would talk to him +of a subject which, because it filled his mind to the exclusion of all +else, might make him betray the knowledge—no, not knowledge, rather +the—the suspicion—that dwelt within him. + +But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing for +human companionship—companionship, that is, other than that of his wife +and of his daughter. + +This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, +populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more people +there than usual just now, for the housewives of the neighbourhood were +doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The ex-butler turned into a +small old-fashioned shop where he generally bought his tobacco. + +Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two fell +into desultory talk, but to his customer’s relief and surprise the man +made no allusion to the subject of which all the neighbourhood must +still be talking. + +And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and +before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, +Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that Ellen, +his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer’s shop just +opposite. + +Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across the +road. + +“Ellen!” he gasped hoarsely, “you’ve never gone and left my little girl +alone in the house with the lodger?” + +Mrs. Bunting’s face went yellow with fear. “I thought you was indoors,” +she cried. “You _was_ indoors! Whatever made you come out for, without +first making sure I’d stay in?” + +Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in +exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew. + +They turned and scurried down the crowded street. “Don’t run,” he said +suddenly; “we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. People +are noticing you, Ellen. Don’t run.” + +He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear and by +excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. + +At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in front +of his wife. + +After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn’t know how he was feeling. + +He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment with +his latchkey. + +Opening wide the door, “Daisy!” he called out, in a wailing voice, +“Daisy, my dear! where are you?” + +“Here I am, father. What is it?” + +“She’s all right.” Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. “She’s all +right, Ellen.” + +He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. “It did +give me a turn,” he said, and then, warningly, “Don’t frighten the +girl, Ellen.” + +Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring +herself in the glass. + +“Oh, father,” she exclaimed, without turning round, “I’ve seen the +lodger! He’s quite a nice gentleman, though, to be sure, he does look a +cure. He rang his bell, but I didn’t like to go up; and so he came down +to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nice little chat—that we +had. I told him it was my birthday, and he asked me and Ellen to go to +Madame Tussaud’s with him this afternoon.” She laughed, a little +self-consciously. “Of course, I could see he was ’centric, and then at +first he spoke so funnily. ‘And who be you?’ he says, threatening-like. +And I says to him, ‘I’m Mr. Bunting’s daughter, sir.’ ‘Then you’re a +very fortunate girl’—that’s what he says, Ellen—‘to ’ave such a nice +stepmother as you’ve got. That’s why,’ he says, ‘you look such a good, +innocent girl.’ And then he quoted a bit of the Prayer Book. ‘Keep +innocency,’ he says, wagging his head at me. Lor’! It made me feel as +if I was with Old Aunt again.” + +“I won’t have you going out with the lodger—that’s flat.” + +Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his forehead with +one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the little +packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had forgotten to +pay. + +Daisy pouted. “Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat on my +birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn’t a very good day—at least, so +I’d heard—for Madame Tussaud’s. Then he said we could go early, while +the fine folk are still having their dinners.” She turned to her +stepmother, then giggled happily. “He particularly said you was to +come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, Ellen; if I was +father, I’d feel quite jealous!” + +Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door. + +Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it +possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door open, +and that _someone_, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had crept in +behind them? + +Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it was +only Mr. Sleuth—Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall hat he had +worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but he was wearing +a coat instead of his Inverness cape. + +“I heard you come in”—he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, whistling, +hesitating voice—“and so I’ve come down to ask you if you and Miss +Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud’s now. I have never seen those +famous waxworks, though I’ve heard of the place all my life.” + +As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden doubt +bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to Mr. Sleuth’s +landlord. + +Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered gentleman +could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting had now for +the terrible space of four days believed him to be! + +He tried to catch his wife’s eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, +staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and cloak +in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy was already +putting on her hat and coat. + +“Well?” said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed to his +landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. “Well?” + +“Yes, sir. We’ll come in a minute,” she said dully. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +Madame Tussaud’s had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. +In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there +part of their afternoon-out. + +The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of the +waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for “self +and lady.” But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been inside the +place since she had come to live almost next door, as it were, to the +big building. + +They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after the +ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the first +gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of those +curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so strangely death in life, +seemed to surprise and affright him. + +Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger’s hesitation and unease. + +“Oh, Ellen,” she cried, “do let us begin by going into the Chamber of +Horrors! I’ve never been in there. Old Aunt made father promise he +wouldn’t take me the only time I’ve ever been here. But now that I’m +eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never know.” + +Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over his +worn, gaunt face. + +“Yes,” he said, “let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that’s a good +idea, Miss Bunting. I’ve always wanted to see the Chamber of Horrors.” + +They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were +then kept, and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where +waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. + +Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband’s +old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting the +public to the Chamber of Horrors. + +“Well, you _are_ a stranger,” the man observed genially. “I do believe +that this is the very first time I’ve seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, +since you was married!” + +“Yes,” she said, “that is so. And this is my husband’s daughter, Daisy; +I expect you’ve heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this”—she hesitated a +moment—“is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth.” + +But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her +stepmother’s side, joined him. + +Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. Bunting +put down three sixpences. + +“Wait a minute,” said Hopkins; “you can’t go into the Chamber of +Horrors just yet. But you won’t have to wait more than four or five +minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It’s this way, you see; our boss is in there, +showing a party round.” He lowered his voice. “It’s Sir John Burney—I +suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?” + +“No,” she answered indifferently, “I don’t know that I ever heard of +him.” + +She felt slightly—oh, very sightly—uneasy about Daisy. She would have +liked her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and sound, but Mr. +Sleuth was now taking the girl down to the other end of the room. + +“Well, I hope you never _will_ know him—not in any personal sense, Mrs. +Bunting.” The man chuckled. “He’s the Commissioner of Police—the new +one—that’s what Sir John Burney is. One of the gentlemen he’s showing +round our place is the Paris Police boss—whose job is on all fours, so +to speak, with Sir John’s. The Frenchy has brought his daughter with +him, and there are several other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, +Mrs. Bunting; that’s our experience here. ‘Oh, take me to the Chamber +of Horrors’—that’s what they say the minute they gets into this here +building!” + +Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred to Mr. Hopkins +that she was very wan and tired; she used to look better in the old +days, when she was still in service, before Bunting married her. + +“Yes,” she said; “that’s just what my stepdaughter said just now. ‘Oh, +take me to the Chamber of Horrors’—that’s exactly what she did say when +we got upstairs.” + +A group of people, all talking and laughing together; were advancing, +from within the wooden barrier, toward the turnstile. + +Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them was +the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be +brought into personal contact; she thought she could pick him out among +the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome gentleman, with a +military appearance. + +Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. “Monsieur +Barberoux is quite right,” he was saying in a loud, cheerful voice, +“our English law is too kind to the criminal, especially to the +murderer. If we conducted our trials in the French fashion, the place +we have just left would be very much fuller than it is to-day. A man of +whose guilt we are absolutely assured is oftener than not acquitted, +and then the public taunt us with ‘another undiscovered crime!’” + +“D’you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? Take +the man who has been committing all these awful murders this last +month? I suppose there’s no doubt _he’ll_ be hanged—if he’s ever +caught, that is!” + +Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could hear every word that +was said. + +The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. “Well, no.” He spoke +very deliberately. “I doubt if that particular murderer ever will be +hanged.” + +“You mean that you’ll never catch him?” the girl spoke with a touch of +airy impertinence in her clear voice. + +“I think we shall end by catching him—because”—he waited a moment, then +added in a lower voice—“now don’t give me away to a newspaper fellow, +Miss Rose—because now I think we do know who the murderer in question +is—” + +Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and +incredulity. + +“Then why don’t you catch him?” cried the girl indignantly. + +“I didn’t say we knew _where_ he was; I only said we knew who he was, +or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that I personally have a very strong +suspicion of his identity.” + +Sir John’s French colleague looked up quickly. “De Leipsic and +Liverpool man?” he said interrogatively. + +The other nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’ve had the case turned up?” + +Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject +from his own mind, and from that of his auditors, he went on: + +“Four murders of the kind were committed eight years ago—two in +Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, in Liverpool,—and there were +certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear +they were committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, +fortunately for us, red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of his +last victim, for in Liverpool the murder was committed in a house. I +myself saw the unhappy man—I say unhappy, for there is no doubt at all +that he was mad”—he hesitated, and added in a lower tone—“suffering +from an acute form of religious mania. I myself saw him, as I say, at +some length. But now comes the really interesting point. I have just +been informed that a month ago this criminal lunatic, as we must of +course regard him, made his escape from the asylum where he was +confined. He arranged the whole thing with extraordinary cunning and +intelligence, and we should probably have caught him long ago, were it +not that he managed, when on his way out of the place, to annex a +considerable sum of money in gold, with which the wages of the asylum +staff were about to be paid. It is owing to that fact that his escape +was, very wrongly, concealed—” + +He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, and a moment +later the party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, Sir +John Burney leading the way. + +Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt—so she expressed it +to her husband later—as if she had been turned to stone. + +Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the time nor the power to +warn her lodger of his danger, for Daisy and her companion were now +coming down the room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of Police. +In another moment Mrs. Bunting’s lodger and Sir John Burney were face +to face. + +Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible change over his +pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and terror. + +But, to Mrs. Bunting’s relief—yes, to her inexpressible relief—Sir John +Burney and his friends swept on. They passed Mr. Sleuth and the girl by +his side, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that there was anyone else +in the room but themselves. + +“Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting,” said the turnstile-keeper; “you and your +friends will have the place all to yourselves for a bit.” From an +official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that +gallantly addressed pretty Daisy Bunting: “It seems strange that a +young lady like you should want to go in and see all those ’orrible +frights,” he said jestingly. + +“Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?” + +The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth’s lips. + +His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. + +“A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting.” The lodger’s face was still +distorted with fear and passion. “Do not think to escape the +consequences of your hideous treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, +and you betrayed me! But I am protected by a higher power, for I still +have much to do.” Then, his voice sinking to a whisper, he hissed out +“Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword. +Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps take hold on hell.” + +Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, dreadful words, he +was looking round, glancing this way and that, seeking a way of escape. + +At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed above a +curtain. “Emergency Exit” was written there. Mrs. Bunting thought he +was going to make a dash for the place; but Mr. Sleuth did something +very different. Leaving his landlady’s side, he walked over to the +turnstile, he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and then touched the +man on the arm. “I feel ill,” he said, speaking very rapidly; “very ill +indeed! It is the atmosphere of this place. I want you to let me out by +the quickest way. It would be a pity for me to faint here—especially +with ladies about.” + +His left hand shot out and placed what he had been fumbling for in his +pocket on the other’s bare palm. “I see there’s an emergency exit over +there. Would it be possible for me to get out that way?” + +“Well, yes, sir; I think so.” + +The man hesitated; he felt a slight, a very sight, feeling of +misgiving. He looked at Daisy, flushed and smiling, happy and +unconcerned, and then at Mrs. Bunting. She was very pale; but surely +her lodger’s sudden seizure was enough to make her feel worried. +Hopkins felt the half-sovereign pleasantly tickling his palm. The Paris +Prefect of Police had given him only half-a-crown—mean, shabby +foreigner! + +“Yes, sir; I can let you out that way,” he said at last, “and p’raps +when you’re standing out in the air, on the iron balcony, you’ll feel +better. But then, you know, sir, you’ll have to come round to the front +if you wants to come in again, for those emergency doors only open +outward.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. “I quite understand! If I feel +better I’ll come in by the front way, and pay another shilling—that’s +only fair.” + +“You needn’t do that if you’ll just explain what happened here.” + +The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put his shoulder against +the door. It burst open, and the light, for a moment, blinded Mr. +Sleuth. + +He passed his hand over his eyes. “Thank you,” he muttered, “thank you. +I shall get all right out there.” + +An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, of which the door +opened into a side street. + +Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did feel very ill—ill and +dazed. How pleasant it would be to take a flying leap over the balcony +railing and find rest, eternal rest, below. + +But no—he thrust the thought, the temptation, from him. Again a +convulsive look of rage came over his face. He had remembered his +landlady. How could the woman whom he had treated so generously have +betrayed him to his arch-enemy?—to the official, that is, who had +entered into a conspiracy years ago to have him confined—him, an +absolutely sane man with a great avenging work to do in the world—in a +lunatic asylum. + +He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, falling-to behind +him, blotted out the tall, thin figure from the little group of people +who had watched him disappear. + +Even Daisy felt a little scared. “He did look bad, didn’t he, now?” she +turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. + +“Yes, that he did, poor gentleman—your lodger, too?” he looked +sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. + +She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Yes,” she repeated dully, “my +lodger.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her pretty stepdaughter to +step through into the Chamber of Horrors. “I think we ought to go +straight home,” said Mr. Sleuth’s landlady decidedly. And Daisy meekly +assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a little scared by the +lodger’s sudden disappearance. Perhaps this unwonted feeling of hers +was induced by the look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on her +stepmother’s face. + +Slowly they made their way out of the building, and when they got home +it was Daisy who described the strange way Mr. Sleuth had been taken. + +“I don’t suppose he’ll be long before he comes home,” said Bunting +heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive look at his wife. She looked +as if stricken in a vital part; he saw from her face that there was +something wrong—very wrong indeed. + +The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill at ease. Daisy knew +there was no chance that young Chandler would come in to-day. + +About six o’clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She lit the gas in Mr. +Sleuth’s sitting-room and looked about her with a fearful glance. +Somehow everything seemed to speak to her of the lodger, there lay her +Bible and his Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly as he had +left them, when he had come downstairs and suggested that ill-starred +expedition to his landlord’s daughter. She took a few steps forward, +listening the while anxiously for the familiar sound of the click in +the door which would tell her that the lodger had come back, and then +she went over to the window and looked out. + +What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, homeless, +friendless, and, as she suspected with a pang, with but very little +money on him! + +Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger’s bedroom and opened the +drawer of the looking-glass. + +Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he had +taken his money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he had +enough on his person to secure a good night’s lodging, and then +suddenly she remembered that which brought relief to her mind. The +lodger had given something to that Hopkins fellow—either a sovereign or +half a sovereign, she wasn’t sure which. + +The memory of Mr. Sleuth’s cruel words to her, of his threat, did not +disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake—all a mistake. Far from +betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him—kept his awful secret as +she could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly suspected, the +horrible fact with which Sir John Burney’s words had made her +acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no temporary +aberration, but that he was, and had been for years, a madman, a +homicidal maniac. + +In her ears there still rang the Frenchman’s half careless yet +confident question, “De Leipsic and Liverpool man?” + +Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room, and +taking a black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the leaves of +the Bible. Then she opened the Book, and looked at the page the pin had +marked:— + +“My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . . There is +none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my curtains.” + +At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as +she opened the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her +stepmother. + +“I’ll go down and start getting the lodger’s supper ready for you,” +said the girl good-naturedly. “He’s certain to come in when he gets +hungry. But he did look upset, didn’t he, Ellen? Right down bad—that he +did!” + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy to +go down. + +“Mr. Sleuth won’t never come back no more,” she said sombrely, and then +she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which came +over her husband’s face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, of +right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, “That’s to +say, I don’t suppose he will.” + +And Bunting’s face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, the +look it had worn the last few days, returned. + +“What makes you think he mayn’t come back?” he muttered. + +“Too long to tell you now,” she said. “Wait till the child’s gone to +bed.” + +And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. + +And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where she +now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her husband to +follow her upstairs. + +Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the door. +And about this they had a few sharp whispered words. + +“You’re never going to shut him out?” she expostulated angrily, beneath +her breath. + +“I’m not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps walking +in any minute.” + +“Mr. Sleuth won’t hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt me,” +and she gave a half sob. + +Bunting stared at her. “What do you mean?” he said roughly. “Come +upstairs and tell me what you mean.” + +And then, in what had been the lodger’s sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting told +her husband exactly what it was that had happened. + +He listened in heavy silence. + +“So you see,” she said at last, “you see, Bunting, that ’twas me that +was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for his actions. +I never thought he was, for my part.” + +And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. “Depends on what you call +responsible—” he began argumentatively. + +But she would have none of that. “I heard the gentleman say myself that +he was a lunatic,” she said fiercely. And then, dropping her voice, “A +religious maniac—that’s what he called him.” + +“Well, he never seemed so to me,” said Bunting stoutly. “He simply +seemed to me ’centric—that’s all he did. Not a bit madder than many I +could tell you of.” He was walking round the room restlessly, but he +stopped short at last. “And what d’you think we ought to do now?” + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. “I don’t think we ought to do +nothing,” she said. “Why should we?” + +And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion +that irritated her. + +“If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he +would get it! And his money, too? I hate to feel it’s in there.” + +“Don’t you make any mistake—he’ll come back for that,” said Bunting, +with decision. + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. “Now,” she said, “you +go off up to bed. It’s no use us sitting up any longer.” + +And Bunting acquiesced. + +She ran down and got him a bedroom candle—there was no gas in the +little back bedroom upstairs. And then she watched him go slowly up. + +Suddenly he turned and came down again. “Ellen,” he said, in an urgent +whisper, “if I was you I’d take the chain off the door, and I’d lock +myself in—that’s what I’m going to do. Then he can sneak in and take +his dirty money away.” + +Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. Slowly she went +downstairs, and there she carried out half of Bunting’s advice. She +took, that is, the chain off the front door. But she did not go to bed, +neither did she lock herself in. She sat up all night, waiting. At +half-past seven she made herself a cup of tea, and then she went into +her bedroom. + +Daisy opened her eyes. + +“Why, Ellen,” she said, “I suppose I was that tired, and slept so +sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up—funny, wasn’t it?” + +“Young people don’t sleep as light as do old folks,” Mrs. Bunting said +sententiously. + +“Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he’s upstairs now?” + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head. “It looks as if ’twould be a fine day for +you down at Richmond,” she observed in a kindly tone. + +And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. + +That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler that +their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting had thought +carefully over what they would say, and so well did they carry out +their programme, or, what is more likely, so full was young Chandler of +the long happy day he and Daisy had spent together, that he took their +news very calmly. + +“Gone away, has he?” he observed casually. “Well, I hope he paid up all +right?” + +“Oh, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Bunting hastily. “No trouble of that sort.” + +And Bunting said shamefacedly, “Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an +honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such a +poor, gentle chap—not the sort o’ man one likes to think of as +wandering about by himself.” + +“You always said he was ’centric,” said Joe thoughtfully. + +“Yes, he was that,” said Bunting slowly. “Regular right-down queer. +Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch,” and, as he tapped his head +significantly, both young people burst out laughing. + +“Would you like a description of him circulated?” asked Joe +good-naturedly. + +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another. + +“No, I don’t think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. ’Twould upset him +awfully, you see.” + +And Joe acquiesced. “You’d be surprised at the number o’ people who +disappears and are never heard of again,” he said cheerfully. And then +he got up, very reluctantly. + +Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into the +passage, and shut the sitting-room door behind her. + +When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting in +his easy chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round his +neck. + +Then she bent down her head. “Father,” she said, “I’ve a bit of news +for you!” + +“Yes, my dear?” + +“Father, I’m engaged! Aren’t you surprised?” + +“Well, what do _you_ think?” said Bunting fondly. Then he turned round +and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss. + +“What’ll Old Aunt say, I wonder?” he whispered. + +“Don’t you worry about Old Aunt,” exclaimed his wife suddenly. “I’ll +manage Old Aunt! I’ll go down and see her. She and I have always got on +pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, Daisy.” + +“Yes,” said Daisy a little wonderingly. “I know you have, Ellen.” + +Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many nights +had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click of the lock +which she at once hoped and feared would herald her lodger’s return. + +As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the “Avenger” murders +stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when a gardener, +working in the Regent’s Park, found a newspaper in which was wrapped, +together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, a long, +peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though of considerable interest to +the police, was not chronicled in any newspaper, but about the same +time a picturesque little paragraph went the round of the press +concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been anonymously +forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about “Old Aunt,” +and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in a +more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to do. +She only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks leave +a house in charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to follow—a +remark which Daisy resented much more than did her Joe. + +Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old lady, by +whom they are feared as well as respected, and whom they make very +comfortable. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + +***** This file should be named 2014-0.txt or 2014-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/1/2014/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Lodger</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December, 1999 [eBook #2014]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 22, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER ***</div> + +<h1>The Lodger</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Marie Belloc Lowndes</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="letter"> +“Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into +darkness.”<br /> +P<small>SALM</small> lxxxviii. 18 +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning, +carefully-banked-up fire. +</p> + +<p> +The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house standing in a +grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare, was exceptionally clean and +well-cared-for. A casual stranger, more particularly one of a Superior class to +their own, on suddenly opening the door of that sitting-room; would have +thought that Mr. and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of +comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep leather +arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance what he had been +for many years of his life—a self-respecting man-servant. +</p> + +<p> +On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, the +marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they were there all the +same—in her neat black stuff dress, and in her scrupulously clean, plain +collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been what is known as a +useful maid. +</p> + +<p> +But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn English proverb as +to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were sitting in a very +nice room and in their time—how long ago it now seemed!—both +husband and wife had been proud of their carefully chosen belongings. +Everything in the room was strong and substantial, and each article of +furniture had been bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, drizzling +atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, and yet they might +have been warranted to last another thirty years. A great bargain also had been +the excellent Axminster carpet which covered the floor; as, again, the +arm-chair in which Bunting now sat forward, staring into the dull, small fire. +In fact, that arm-chair had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had +wanted her husband to be comfortable after the day’s work was done, and +she had paid thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had +tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at it, +guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve shillings and +sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping their arm-chair. +</p> + +<p> +But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, much as that +is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the walls of the sitting-room, +hung neatly framed if now rather faded photographs—photographs of Mr. and +Mrs. Bunting’s various former employers, and of the pretty country houses +in which they had separately lived during the long years they had spent in a +not unhappy servitude. +</p> + +<p> +But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than usually deceitful +with regard to these unfortunate people. In spite of their good +furniture—that substantial outward sign of respectability which is the +last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to dispose of—they +were almost at the end of their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, +and they were beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober +man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago by Bunting. +And even Mrs. Bunting—prim, prudent, careful woman as she was in her +way—had realised what this must mean to him. So well, indeed, had she +understood that some days back she had crept out and bought him a packet of +Virginia. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting had been touched—touched as he had not been for years by any +woman’s thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced themselves +into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in their odd, unemotional +way, moved to the heart. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately he never guessed—how could he have guessed, with his slow, +normal, rather dull mind?—that his poor Ellen had since more than once +bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha’penny, for they were now very near +the soundless depths which divide those who dwell on the safe tableland of +security—those, that is, who are sure of making a respectable, if not a +happy, living—and the submerged multitude who, through some lack in +themselves, or owing to the conditions under which our strange civilisation has +become organised, struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or +prison. +</p> + +<p> +Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they belonged to the +great company of human beings technically known to so many of us as the poor, +there would have been friendly neighbours ready to help them, and the same +would have been the case had they belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, +if unimaginative, folk whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving. +</p> + +<p> +There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought to help +them. That was an aunt of Bunting’s first wife. With this woman, the +widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, Bunting’s only child +by his first wife, and during the last long two days he had been trying to make +up his mind to write to the old lady, and that though he suspected that she +would almost certainly retort with a cruel, sharp rebuff. +</p> + +<p> +As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, they had +gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but one friend who often +came to see them in their deep trouble. This was a young fellow named Chandler, +under whose grandfather Bunting had been footman years and years ago. Joe +Chandler had never gone into service; he was attached to the police; in fact +not to put too fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective. +</p> + +<p> +When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they both +thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap to come often, +for his tales were well worth listening to—quite exciting at times. But +now poor Bunting didn’t want to hear that sort of stories—stories +of people being cleverly “nabbed,” or stupidly allowed to escape +the fate they always, from Chandler’s point of view, richly deserved. +</p> + +<p> +But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing his calls +that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him—nay, more, he had +done that which showed him to have a good and feeling heart. He had offered his +father’s old acquaintance a loan, and Bunting, at last, had taken 30s. +Very little of that money now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few +coppers in his pocket; and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that and the rent they +would have to pay in five weeks, was all they had left. Everything of the +light, portable sort that would fetch money had been sold. Mrs. Bunting had a +fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put her feet in such a place, and +she declared she never would—she would rather starve first. +</p> + +<p> +But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual disappearance of +various little possessions she knew that Bunting valued, notably of the +old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been given to him after the death of +his first master, a master he had nursed faithfully and kindly through a long +and terrible illness. There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a +large mourning ring, both gifts of former employers. +</p> + +<p> +When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure from the +insecure—when they see themselves creeping closer and closer to its dread +edge—they are apt, however loquacious by nature, to fall into long +silences. Bunting had always been a talker, but now he talked no more. Neither +did Mrs. Bunting, but then she had always been a silent woman, and that was +perhaps one reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment +he had seen her. +</p> + +<p> +It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as butler, and he +had been shown, by the man whose place he was to take, into the dining-room. +There, to use his own expression, he had discovered Ellen Green, carefully +pouring out the glass of port wine which her then mistress always drank at +11.30 every morning. And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this +task, as he had watched her carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into +the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, “That is the woman for +me!” +</p> + +<p> +But now her stillness, her—her dumbness, had got on the unfortunate +man’s nerves. He no longer felt like going into the various little shops, +close by, patronised by him in more prosperous days, and Mrs. Bunting also went +afield to make the slender purchases which still had to be made every day or +two, if they were to be saved from actually starving to death. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there came the +muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting outside—boys +crying the late afternoon editions of the evening papers. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily paper had been, +after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And the paper was an older habit +than the tobacco, for servants are great readers of newspapers. +</p> + +<p> +As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask curtains, +Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him. +</p> + +<p> +It was a shame—a damned shame—that he shouldn’t know what was +happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing news of +what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those shouts, those hoarse, +sharp cries must portend that something really exciting had happened, something +warranted to make a man forget for the moment his own intimate, gnawing +troubles. +</p> + +<p> +He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to listen. +There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused babel of hoarse +shouts, the one clear word “Murder!” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly Bunting’s brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some sort +of connected order. Yes, that was it—“Horrible Murder! Murder at +St. Pancras!” Bunting remembered vaguely another murder which had been +committed near St. Pancras—that of an old lady by her servant-maid. It +had happened a great many years ago, but was still vividly remembered, as of +special and natural interest, among the class to which he had belonged. +</p> + +<p> +The newsboys—for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual thing +in the Marylebone Road—were coming nearer and nearer; now they had +adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they were crying. They +were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he could only hear a word or two +now and then. Suddenly “The Avenger! The Avenger at his work +again!” broke on his ear. +</p> + +<p> +During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had been +committed in London and within a comparatively small area. +</p> + +<p> +The first had aroused no special interest—even the second had only been +awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a small +paragraph. +</p> + +<p> +Then had come the third—and with that a wave of keen excitement, for +pinned to the dress of the victim—a drunken woman—had been found a +three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red ink, and in printed +characters, the words, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“THE AVENGER” +</p> + +<p> +It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to investigate +such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world of men and women who take +an intelligent interest in such sinister mysteries, that the same miscreant had +committed all three crimes; and before that extraordinary fact had had time to +soak well into the public mind there took place yet another murder, and again +the murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some obscure and +terrible lust for vengeance possessed him. +</p> + +<p> +Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the man who left +their ha’porth of milk at the door each morning had spoken to Bunting +about them that very day. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild excitement. +Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of weary, mournful absorption, +a wave of irritation swept through him. He felt he could have shaken her! +</p> + +<p> +Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had come back to +bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had said. In fact, she had been +quite nasty about it, intimating that she didn’t like hearing about such +horrid things. +</p> + +<p> +It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of pathos and +sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to the details of a breach of +promise action, she shrank from stories of immorality or of physical violence. +In the old, happy days, when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more +than one paper daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some +exciting “case” or “mystery” which was affording him +pleasant mental relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen. +</p> + +<p> +But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she felt. +</p> + +<p> +Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards the door; +when there he turned half round, and there came over his close-shaven, round +face the rather sly, pleading look with which a child about to do something +naughty glances at its parent. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders just showed +above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, bolt upright, staring +before her as if into vacancy. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into the dark +hall—they had given up lighting the gas there some time ago—and +opened the front door. +</p> + +<p> +Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron gate which +gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. The coppers in his pocket +seemed to have shrunk in number, and he remembered ruefully how far Ellen could +make even four pennies go. +</p> + +<p> +Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, being +sorely tempted—fell. “Give me a <i>Sun</i>,” he said roughly, +“<i>Sun</i> or <i>Echo!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. “Only +penny papers left,” he gasped. “What’ll yer ’ave, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny out of his +pocket and took a paper—it was the <i>Evening Standard</i>—from the +boy’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, cold air, +up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass a happy +hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, miserable self. It +irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments of respite from carking care +would not be shared with his poor wife, with careworn, troubled Ellen. +</p> + +<p> +A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen would never +have spent that penny on herself—he knew that well enough—and if it +hadn’t been so cold, so foggy, so—so drizzly, he would have gone +out again through the gate and stood under the street lamp to take his +pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread the glance of Ellen’s cold, +reproving light-blue eye. That glance would tell him that he had had no +business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well he knew it! +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he heard a familiar voice saying +crossly, yet anxiously, “What on earth are you doing out there, Bunting? +Come in—do! You’ll catch your death of cold! I don’t want to +have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!” Mrs. Bunting rarely +uttered so many words at once nowadays. +</p> + +<p> +He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. “I went out +to get a paper,” he said sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money as she had; +for the matter of that the money on which they were now both living had been +lent, nay, pressed on him—not on Ellen—by that decent young chap, +Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done all he could; he had pawned everything +he could pawn, while Ellen, so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding +ring. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew she grudged +him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and contempt for himself, and +giving himself the luxury of a mild, a very mild, oath—Ellen had very +early made it clear she would have no swearing in her presence—he lit the +hall gas full-flare. +</p> + +<p> +“How can we hope to get lodgers if they can’t even see the +card?” he shouted angrily. +</p> + +<p> +And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the gas, the +oblong card, though not the word “Apartments” printed on it, could +be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned fanlight above the front +door. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, and then, +sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little banked-up fire. It was +the first time Bunting had poked the fire for many a long day, and this +exertion of marital authority made him feel better. A man has to assert himself +sometimes, and he, Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. +</p> + +<p> +A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting’s pale face. She was not used to +be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly upset, was the mildest +of men. +</p> + +<p> +She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible touch of dust +here, straightening a piece of furniture there. +</p> + +<p> +But her hands trembled—they trembled with excitement, with self-pity, +with anger. A penny? It was dreadful—dreadful to have to worry about a +penny! But they had come to the point when one has to worry about pennies. +Strange that her husband didn’t realise that. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen to leave +off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by now, a little bit +ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, and she soon gave over what +irritated him of her own accord. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have liked her +to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, irritated her, and +made her long to get away from him. Opening the door which separated the +sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and—shutting out the aggravating +vision of Bunting sitting comfortably by the now brightly burning fire, with +the <i>Evening Standard</i> spread out before him—she sat down in the cold +darkness, and pressed her hands against her temples. +</p> + +<p> +Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so—so broken as now. Where was the +good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting woman all her +life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading poverty and wretchedness? +She and Bunting were just past the age which gentlefolk think proper in a +married couple seeking to enter service together, unless, that is, the wife +happens to be a professed cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice +situation. But Mrs. Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple +things any lodger she might get would require, but that was all. +</p> + +<p> +Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For it had been +her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands. +</p> + +<p> +Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. There they +had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still pretty well; and then had +come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and that had meant ruin for them, and for +dozens, nay, hundreds, of other luckless people. Then had followed a business +experiment which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in +debt—in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a +good-natured former employer. +</p> + +<p> +After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have done, perhaps, +either together or separately, they had made up their minds to make one last +effort, and they had taken over, with the trifle of money that remained to +them, the lease of this house in the Marylebone Road. +</p> + +<p> +In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, impersonal, and, +above all, financially easy existence which is the compensation life offers to +those men and women who deliberately take upon themselves the yoke of domestic +service, they had both lived in houses overlooking Regent’s Park. It had +seemed a wise plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that +Bunting, who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection which +enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private parties. +</p> + +<p> +But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. Two of his +former masters had moved to another part of London, and a caterer in Baker +Street whom he had known went bankrupt. +</p> + +<p> +And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had one been offered +him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had not asked his wife’s +permission to do this, as so good a husband ought to have done. He had just +gone out and done it. And she had not had the heart to say anything; nay, it +was with part of the money that he had handed her silently the evening he did +it that she had bought that last packet of tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, there +suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, uncertain +double knock. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment listening in +the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line of light under the door +behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. +</p> + +<p> +And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock; not a +knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any good. Would-be lodgers gave +sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. No; this must be some kind of beggar. The +queerest people came at all hours, and asked—whining or +threatening—for money. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and +women—especially women—drawn from that nameless, mysterious class +made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every great city. +But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the passage unlit at night she +had been very little troubled with that kind of visitors, those human bats +which are attracted by any kind of light but leave alone those who live in +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting’s place to go to +the front door, but she knew far better than he did how to deal with difficult +or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she would have liked him to go to-night. +But Bunting sat on, absorbed in his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the +bedroom door opening was to look up and say, “Didn’t you hear a +knock?” +</p> + +<p> +Without answering his question she went out into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly she opened the front door. +</p> + +<p> +On the top of the three steps which led up to the door, there stood the long, +lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an old-fashioned top hat. +He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, perhaps dazzled by the light of +the gas in the passage. Mrs. Bunting’s trained perception told her at +once that this man, odd as he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to +the class with whom her former employment had brought her in contact. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?” he asked, and there was +something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” she said uncertainly—it was a long, long time +since anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they could +think of taking into their respectable house. +</p> + +<p> +Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger walked past +her, and so into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a narrow bag in +his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong brown leather. +</p> + +<p> +“I am looking for some quiet rooms,” he said; then he repeated the +words, “quiet rooms,” in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered +them he looked nervously round him. +</p> + +<p> +Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully furnished, and +was very clean. +</p> + +<p> +There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger’s weary feet +fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which matched in colour the +flock-paper on the walls. +</p> + +<p> +A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior lodging-house +keeper. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d find my rooms quite quiet, sir,” she said gently. +“And just now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband +and me, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too good to be +true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a lodger who spoke in the +pleasant, courteous way and voice which recalled to the poor woman her happy, +far-off days of youth and of security. +</p> + +<p> +“That sounds very suitable,” he said. “Four rooms? Well, +perhaps I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see all +four before I make my choice.” +</p> + +<p> +How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the gas! But for +that circumstance this gentleman would have passed them by. +</p> + +<p> +She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation that the +front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom she already in her mind +described as “the lodger,” who turned and rather quickly walked +down the passage and shut it. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you, sir!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry you +should have had the trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment their eyes met. “It’s not safe to leave a front door +open in London,” he said, rather sharply. “I hope you do not often +do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken courteously, but +he was evidently very much put out. +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open,” she answered +hastily. “You needn’t be at all afraid of that!” +</p> + +<p> +And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the sound of +Bunting coughing—it was just a little, hard cough, but Mrs. +Bunting’s future lodger started violently. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” he said, putting out a hand and clutching her +arm. “Whatever was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes ago, and +the cold just caught him, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband—?” he looked at her intently, suspiciously. +“What—what, may I ask, is your husband’s occupation?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting’s occupation was +no one’s business but theirs. Still, it wouldn’t do for her to show +offence. “He goes out waiting,” she said stiffly. “He was a +gentleman’s servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you should you +require him to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. +</p> + +<p> +At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to herself, +called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a sitting-room in front, and a +bedroom behind. She opened the door of the sitting-room and quickly lit the +chandelier. +</p> + +<p> +This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little over-encumbered +with furniture. Covering the floor was a green carpet simulating moss; four +chairs were placed round the table which occupied the exact middle of the +apartment, and in the corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a +roomy, old-fashioned chiffonnier. +</p> + +<p> +On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits of early +Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, clipped from an old +Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these pictures; she thought they +gave the drawing-room a note of elegance and refinement. +</p> + +<p> +As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that she had +summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the room a thorough +turn-out. +</p> + +<p> +It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been left by its +last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been scared into going away by +Bunting’s rough threats of the police. But now it was in apple-pie order, +with one paramount exception, of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There +were no white curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied +if this gentleman really took the lodgings. +</p> + +<p> +But what was this—? The stranger was looking round him rather dubiously. +“This is rather—rather too grand for me,” he said at last +“I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er—” +</p> + +<p> +“—Bunting,” she said softly. “Bunting, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and settled on +her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, after all—or +rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but perhaps this gentleman was +a poor gentleman—too poor, that is, to afford the rent of more than one +room, say eight or ten shillings a week; eight or ten shillings a week would be +very little use to her and Bunting, though better than nothing at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “no. I think I should like to see what you +have farther up the house, Mrs.—,” and then, as if making a +prodigious mental effort, he brought out her name, “Bunting,” with +a kind of gasp. +</p> + +<p> +The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the drawing-room floor. +But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact that they were bare of any +kind of ornament. Very little trouble had been taken over their arrangement; in +fact, they had been left in much the same condition as that in which the +Buntings had found them. +</p> + +<p> +For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel sitting-room +out of an apartment of which the principal features are a sink and a big gas +stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete pattern, was fed by a tiresome, +shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. It had been the property of the people from +whom the Buntings had taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be +of no monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they had left +behind. +</p> + +<p> +What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as everything +belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a bare, +uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry that she had done +nothing to make it appear more attractive. +</p> + +<p> +To her surprise, however, her companion’s dark, sensitive, hatchet-shaped +face became irradiated with satisfaction. “Capital! Capital!” he +exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he held at his feet, and +rubbing his long, thin hands together with a quick, nervous movement. +</p> + +<p> +“This is just what I have been looking for.” He walked with long, +eager strides towards the gas stove. “First-rate—quite first-rate! +Exactly what I wanted to find! You must understand, +Mrs.—er—Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all +sorts of experiments, and I often require the—ah, well, the presence of +great heat.” +</p> + +<p> +He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the stove. +“This, too, will be useful—exceedingly useful, to me,” and he +touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing touch. +</p> + +<p> +He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare forehead; then, +moving towards a chair, he sat down—wearily. “I’m +tired,” he muttered in a low voice, “tired—tired! I’ve +been walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down +upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London streets. They do so +on the Continent. In some ways they are far more humane on the Continent than +they are in England, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir,” she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, +she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, +“Then you mean to take my rooms, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“This room, certainly,” he said, looking round. “This room is +exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last few +days;” and then hastily he added, “I mean this kind of place is +what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would be surprised if +you knew how difficult it is to get anything of the sort. But now my weary +search has ended, and that is a relief—a very, very great relief to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And then, +“Where’s my bag?” he asked suddenly, and there came a note of +sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman standing before +him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of fright shoot through her. +It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far away, right down the house. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a perquisite, as +it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of the well-educated. +Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like other people, and her new +lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. “Surely I had a bag when I came +in?” he said in a scared, troubled voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is, sir,” she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it up +and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the bag was not at all +heavy; it was evidently by no means full. +</p> + +<p> +He took it eagerly from her. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered. +“But there is something in that bag which is very precious to +me—something I procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could never +get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. That must be the +excuse for my late agitation.” +</p> + +<p> +“About terms, sir?” she said a little timidly, returning to the +subject which meant so much, so very much to her. +</p> + +<p> +“About terms?” he echoed. And then there came a pause. “My +name is Sleuth,” he said suddenly,—“S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a +hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you’ll never forget my name. I could provide you +with a reference—” (he gave her what she described to herself as a +funny, sideways look), “but I should prefer you to dispense with that, if +you don’t mind. I am quite willing to pay you—well, shall we say a +month in advance?” +</p> + +<p> +A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting’s cheeks. She felt sick with +relief—nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known till that +moment how hungry she was—how eager for—a good meal. “That +would be all right, sir,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“And what are you going to charge me?” There had come a kindly, +almost a friendly note into his voice. “With attendance, mind! I shall +expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if you can cook, Mrs. +Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, sir,” she said. “I am a plain cook. What would you +say to twenty-five shillings a week, sir?” She looked at him +deprecatingly, and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, “You +see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best of attendance +and careful cooking—and my husband, sir—he would be pleased to +valet you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t want anything of that sort done for me,” said +Mr. Sleuth hastily. “I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used to +waiting on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to sharing +lodgings—” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted eagerly, “I could let you have the use of the two floors +for the same price—that is, until we get another lodger. I +shouldn’t like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It’s +such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir—do your work and +your experiments up here, and then have your meals in the drawing-room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that sounds a good plan. And if +I offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your not taking +another lodger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’d be very glad only to have +you to wait on, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? I +don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working.” +</p> + +<p> +He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, “I suppose you +have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, sir, there’s a key—a very nice little key. The +people who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door.” +She went over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round disk had +been fitted above the old keyhole. +</p> + +<p> +He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if absorbed in +thought, “Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will suit me perfectly. +And I’ll begin now by paying my first month’s rent in advance. Now, +four times forty-two shillings is”—he jerked his head back and +stared at his new landlady; for the first time he smiled, a queer, wry +smile—“why, just eight pounds eight shillings, Mrs. Bunting!” +</p> + +<p> +He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long cape-like coat and +took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began putting these down in a row on +the bare wooden table which stood in the centre of the room. +“Here’s five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten +pounds. You’d better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, for I shall want +you to do some shopping for me to-morrow morning. I met with a misfortune +to-day.” But the new lodger did not speak as if his misfortune, whatever +it was, weighed on his spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir. I’m sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Bunting’s +heart was going thump—thump—thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, +dizzy with relief and joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things I +managed to bring away with me.” His voice dropped suddenly. “I +shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “I was a fool to say +that!” Then, more loudly, “Someone said to me, ‘You +can’t go into a lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn’t +take you in.’ But <i>you</i> have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I’m +grateful for—for the kind way you have met me—” He looked at +her feelingly, appealingly, and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to +feel very kindly towards her new lodger. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I know a gentleman when I see one,” she said, with a break +in her staid voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. +Bunting.” Again he looked at her appealingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I expect you’d like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you +tell me what you’d like for supper? We haven’t much in the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, anything’ll do,” he said hastily. “I don’t +want you to go out for me. It’s a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. +If you have a little bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite +satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a nice sausage,” she said hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning for +Bunting’s supper; as to herself, she had been going to content herself +with a little bread and cheese. But now—wonderful, almost, intoxicating +thought—she could send Bunting out to get anything they both liked. The +ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort and good cheer. +</p> + +<p> +“A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh +meat,” he said; “it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, +Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it indeed, sir?” She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, +“And will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth’s pale +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. I +had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer—” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am, sir, lifelong. And so’s Bunting been since we +married.” She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such +confidences, that she had made Bunting abstain very early in their +acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing that first +made her believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense that he talked to +her, in those far-away days of his courting. Glad she was now that he had taken +the pledge as a younger man; but for that nothing would have kept him from the +drink during the bad times they had gone through. +</p> + +<p> +And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom which opened +out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. Bunting’s own room just +underneath, excepting that everything up here had cost just a little more, and +was therefore rather better in quality. +</p> + +<p> +The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of content and +peace stealing over his worn face. “A haven of rest,” he muttered; +and then, “‘He bringeth them to their desired haven.’ +Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone had quoted +the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to set the seal, as it +were, on Mr. Sleuth’s respectability. +</p> + +<p> +What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one lodger, and that +a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! Very peculiar married couples +had drifted in and out of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s lodgings, not only here, +in London, but at the seaside. +</p> + +<p> +How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to London not a +single pair of lodgers had been even moderately respectable and kindly. The +last lot had belonged to that horrible underworld of men and women who, having, +as the phrase goes, seen better days, now only keep their heads above water +with the help of petty fraud. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean +towels,” she said, going to the door. +</p> + +<p> +And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. “Mrs. Bunting”—and +as he spoke he stammered a little—“I—I don’t want you +to interpret the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off +your feet for me. I’m accustomed to look after myself.” +</p> + +<p> +And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed—even a little +snubbed. “All right, sir,” she said. “I’ll only just +let you know when I’ve your supper ready.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy of going +down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune which had fallen +their way? +</p> + +<p> +Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. In the +hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still her agitation. +She had always disliked and despised any show of emotion; she called such +betrayal of feeling “making a fuss.” +</p> + +<p> +Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment looking at her +husband’s bent back, and she realised, with a pang of pain, how the last +few weeks had aged him. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He put the paper +he had been holding down on to the table: “Well,” he said, +“well, who was it, then?” +</p> + +<p> +He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have answered the +door and done all that parleying of which he had heard murmurs. +</p> + +<p> +And then in a moment his wife’s hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns +fell in a little clinking heap on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Look there!” she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her +voice. “Look there, Bunting!” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. +</p> + +<p> +He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion that his wife +had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this ten pounds represented all +their nice furniture upstairs. If that were so, then it was the beginning of +the end. That furniture in the first-floor front had cost—Ellen had +reminded him of the fact bitterly only yesterday—seventeen pounds nine +shillings, and every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she +had only got ten pounds for it. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he hadn’t the heart to reproach her. +</p> + +<p> +He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that troubled, +rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve a new lodger!” she cried. “And—and, +Bunting? He’s quite the gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks +in advance, at two guineas a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, never!” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, +fascinated by the little heap of gold. “But there’s ten sovereigns +here,” he said suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the gentleman said I’d have to buy some things for him +to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he’s so well spoken, I really felt +that—I really felt that—” and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a +step or two sideways, sat down, and throwing her little black apron over her +face burst into gasping sobs. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting patted her back timidly. “Ellen?” he said, much moved by +her agitation, “Ellen? Don’t take on so, my dear—” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t,” she sobbed, “I—I won’t! +I’m a fool—I know I am! But, oh, I didn’t think we was ever +going to have any luck again!” +</p> + +<p> +And then she told him—or rather tried to tell him—what the lodger +was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing she did impress on +her husband’s mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was eccentric, as so many +clever people are eccentric—that is, in a harmless way—and that he +must be humoured. +</p> + +<p> +“He says he doesn’t want to be waited on much,” she said at +last wiping her eyes, “but I can see he will want a good bit of looking +after, all the same, poor gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound of a loud +ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled again and again. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. “I think I’d better go up, eh, +Ellen?” he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. For the +matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something again. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, “you go up! Don’t keep him +waiting! I wonder what it is he wants? I said I’d let him know when his +supper was ready.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on his face. +“Whatever d’you think he wanted?” he whispered mysteriously. +And as she said nothing, he went on, “He’s asked me for the loan of +a Bible!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t see anything so out of the way in that,” she +said hastily, “’specially if he don’t feel well. I’ll +take it up to him.” +</p> + +<p> +And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, Mrs. +Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her as a wedding +present by a married lady with whose mother she had lived for several years. +</p> + +<p> +“He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper,” said +Bunting; and, then, “Ellen? He’s a queer-looking cove—not +like any gentleman I ever had to do with.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a gentleman,” said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, that’s all right.” But still he looked at her +doubtfully. “I asked him if he’d like me to just put away his +clothes. But, Ellen, he said he hadn’t got any clothes!” +</p> + +<p> +“No more he hasn’t;” she spoke quickly, defensively. +“He had the misfortune to lose his luggage. He’s one dishonest folk +’ud take advantage of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, one can see that with half an eye,” Bunting agreed. +</p> + +<p> +And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting put down on a +little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband to go out and buy for +her. She handed him the list, together with a sovereign. “Be as quick as +you can,” she said, “for I feel a bit hungry. I’ll be going +down now to see about Mr. Sleuth’s supper. He only wants a glass of milk +and two eggs. I’m glad I’ve never fallen to bad eggs!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sleuth,” echoed Bunting, staring at her. “What a queer name! +How d’you spell it—S-l-u-t-h?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she shot out, “S-l-e—u—t—h.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“He said, ‘Think of a hound and you’ll never forget my +name,’” and Mrs. Bunting smiled. +</p> + +<p> +When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: “We’ll now be able +to pay young Chandler back some o’ that thirty shillings. I am +glad.” She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. +</p> + +<p> +And then each went about his and her business—Bunting out into the +drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +The lodger’s tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and daintily +arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly remembered +Mr. Sleuth’s request for a Bible. Putting the tray down in the hall, she +went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; but when back in the hall she +hesitated a moment as to whether it was worth while to make two journeys. But, +no, she thought she could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her +arm, and taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth’s landlady +opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped the tray. She +actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy thud to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the early +Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, with their faces +to the wall! +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the tray down on +the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It troubled her that the Book +should have fallen to the ground; but really she hadn’t been able to help +it—it was mercy that the tray hadn’t fallen, too. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth got up. “I—I have taken the liberty to arrange the room +as I should wish it to be,” he said awkwardly. “You see, +Mrs.—er—Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women’s eyes +followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave me quite an +eerie feeling.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the table. She made +no answer to her lodger’s remark, for the good reason that she did not +know what to say. +</p> + +<p> +Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a long pause, he +spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting,” he spoke with some agitation. +“As a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about me for +a long time.” And then, at last his landlady answered him, in a composed, +soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. “I quite understand, +sir. And when Bunting comes in he shall take the pictures all down. We have +plenty of space in our own rooms for them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you—thank you very much.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. +</p> + +<p> +“And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understood you wanted the +loan of it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing himself, +he said, “Yes, yes, I do. There is no reading like the Book. There is +something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of body +too—” +</p> + +<p> +“Very true, sir.” And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what +really looked a very appetising little meal, turned round and quietly shut the +door. +</p> + +<p> +She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for Bunting, +instead of going to the kitchen to clear up. And as she did so there came to +her a comfortable recollection, an incident of her long-past youth, in the days +when she, then Ellen Green, had maided a dear old lady. +</p> + +<p> +The old lady had a favourite nephew—a bright, jolly young gentleman, who +was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. Algernon—that +was his rather peculiar Christian name—had had the impudence to turn to +the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings done by the famous Mr. Landseer! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only occurred +yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. +</p> + +<p> +It was quite early; she had come down—for in those days maids +weren’t thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the upper +housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid’s duty to be down very +early—and, there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. Algernon engaged +in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, his aunt thought all the world of +those pictures, and Ellen had felt quite concerned, for it doesn’t do for +a young gentleman to put himself wrong with a kind aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir,” she had exclaimed in dismay, “whatever are you +doing?” And even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had +answered, “I am doing my duty, fair Helen”—he had always +called her “fair Helen” when no one was listening. “How can I +draw ordinary animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all +the time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?” That was +what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what he repeated +in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when that dear old lady had +come downstairs. In fact he had declared, quite soberly, that the beautiful +animals painted by Mr. Landseer put his eye out! +</p> + +<p> +But his aunt had been very much annoyed—in fact, she had made him turn +the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he just had to put +up with what he called “those half-human monsters.” Mrs. Bunting, +sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth’s odd behaviour over, +was glad to recall that funny incident of her long-gone youth. It seemed to +prove that her new lodger was not so strange as he appeared to be. Still, when +Bunting came in, she did not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She +told herself that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the +pictures in the drawing-room herself. +</p> + +<p> +But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady went +upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the sound +of—was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she waited a moment on +the landing outside the drawing-room door, then she realised that it was only +the lodger reading aloud to himself. There was something very awful in the +words which rose and fell on her listening ears: +</p> + +<p> +“A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for a prey, +and increaseth the transgressors among men.” +</p> + +<p> +She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, and again there +broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, sing-song voice, “Her +house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.” +</p> + +<p> +It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up courage, +knocked, and walked in. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d better clear away, sir, had I not?” she said. And Mr. +Sleuth nodded. +</p> + +<p> +Then he got up and closed the Book. “I think I’ll go to bed +now,” he said. “I am very, very tired. I’ve had a long and a +very weary day, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed up on a chair +and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. Sleuth. Each left an +unsightly mark on the wall—but that, after all, could not be helped. +</p> + +<p> +Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried them down, +two by two, and stood them behind her bed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had felt for a +very, very long time. +</p> + +<p> +For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different—and +then she suddenly remembered. +</p> + +<p> +How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, lay, in the +well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction at an auction held in a +Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two guineas a week! Something +seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would be “a permanency.” In any +case, it wouldn’t be her fault if he wasn’t. As to his—his +queerness, well, there’s always something funny in everybody. But after +she had got up, and as the morning wore itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little +anxious, for there came no sound at all from the new lodger’s rooms. At +twelve, however, the drawing-room bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. She +was painfully anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His coming had only +been in the nick of time to save them from terrible disaster. +</p> + +<p> +She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was sitting at the round table +which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his landlady’s large +Bible lay open before him. +</p> + +<p> +As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see how tired +and worn he seemed. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not happen,” he asked, “to have a Concordance, Mrs. +Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head; she had no idea what a Concordance could be, but she was +quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. +</p> + +<p> +And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he desired her to buy +for him. She had supposed the bag he had brought with him to contain certain +little necessaries of civilised life—such articles, for instance, as a +comb and brush, a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say nothing of a couple of +nightshirts—but no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth required +all these things to be bought now. +</p> + +<p> +After having cooked him a nice breakfast Mrs. Bunting hurried out to purchase +the things of which he was in urgent need. +</p> + +<p> +How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse again—not +only someone else’s money, but money she was now in the very act of +earning so agreeably. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber’s shop close by. It +was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It was a funny, +rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as she could, the more so +that the foreigner who served her insisted on telling her some of the strange, +peculiar details of this Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours +before, and in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn’t want to think of anything +painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. +</p> + +<p> +Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. Sleuth was +pleased with everything, and thanked her most courteously. But when she +suggested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked quite put out. +</p> + +<p> +“Please wait till this evening,” he said hastily. “It is my +custom to stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when the +lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem a little, just a +little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed to. And I must ask you to +understand that I must not be disturbed when thinking out my +problems—” He broke off short, sighed, then added solemnly, +“for mine are the great problems of life and death.” +</p> + +<p> +And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her prim manner +and love of order, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady was a true woman—she had, +that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries and oddities. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady met with a surprise; +but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had been upstairs, talking to +the lodger, Bunting’s young friend, Joe Chandler, the detective, had come +in, and as she walked into the sitting-room she saw that her husband was +pushing half a sovereign across the table towards Joe. +</p> + +<p> +Joe Chandler’s fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction: not at +seeing his money again, mark you, but at the news Bunting had evidently been +telling him—that news of the sudden wonderful change in their fortunes, +the coming of an ideal lodger. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sleuth don’t want me to do his bedroom till he’s gone +out!” she exclaimed. And then she sat down for a bit of a rest. +</p> + +<p> +It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good breakfast, and +there was no need to think of him for the present. In a few minutes she would +be going down to make her own and Bunting’s dinner, and she told Joe +Chandler that he might as well stop and have a bite with them. +</p> + +<p> +Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood which seldom +surprised her—a mood to be pleased with anything and everything. Nay, +more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler about the last of those awful +Avenger murders, she even listened with a certain languid interest to all he +had to say. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that very day three +columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery which was now beginning to be +the one topic of talk all over London, West and East, North and South. Bunting +had read out little bits about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite +of herself Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. +</p> + +<p> +“They do say,” observed Bunting cautiously, “They do say, +Joe, that the police have a clue they won’t say nothing about?” He +looked expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was +attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police invested the young +man with a kind of sinister glory—especially just now, when these awful +and mysterious crimes were amazing and terrifying the town. +</p> + +<p> +“Them who says that says wrong,” answered Chandler slowly, and a +look of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face. +“’Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a +clue.” +</p> + +<p> +And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. “Why that, Joe?” she said, +smiling indulgently; the young man’s keenness about his work pleased her. +And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took his job very +seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’tis this way,” he explained. “From to-day +I’m on this business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard’s +nettled—that’s what it is, and we’re all on our +mettle—that we are. I was right down sorry for the poor chap who was on +point duty in the street where the last one happened—” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Bunting incredulously. “You don’t mean there +was a policeman there, within a few yards?” +</p> + +<p> +That fact hadn’t been recorded in his newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +Chandler nodded. “That’s exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting! The +man is near off his head, so I’m told. He did hear a yell, so he says, +but he took no notice—there are a good few yells in that part o’ +London, as you can guess. People always quarrelling and rowing at one another +in such low parts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes his +name?” inquired Bunting eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those three-cornered +pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims’ skirts, on which was roughly +written in red ink and in printed characters the words “The +Avenger.” +</p> + +<p> +His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his elbows on the +table, and stared across expectantly at the young man. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have,” said Joe briefly. +</p> + +<p> +“A funny kind of visiting card, eh!” Bunting laughed; the notion +struck him as downright comic. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting coloured. “It isn’t a thing to make a joke +about,” she said reprovingly. +</p> + +<p> +And Chandler backed her up. “No, indeed,” he said feelingly. +“I’ll never forget what I’ve been made to see over this job. +And as for that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting—or, rather, those grey +bits of paper”—he corrected himself hastily—“you know +they’ve three of them now at the Yard—well, they gives me the +horrors!” +</p> + +<p> +And then he jumped up. “That reminds me that I oughtn’t to be +wasting my time in pleasant company—” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you stay and have a bit of dinner?” said Mrs. Bunting +solicitously. +</p> + +<p> +But the detective shook his head. “No,” he said, “I had a +bite before I came out. Our job’s a queer kind of job, as you know. A +lot’s left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don’t leave us +much time for lazing about, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate carelessness he +inquired, “Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London again soon?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very fond of his +only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. “No,” he said, +“I’m afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, keeps +Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite put about that +week the child was up with us last June.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Well, so long!” +</p> + +<p> +After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, “Joe +seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly dislike the +girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting’s daughter was being +managed by that old aunt of hers—an idle, good-for-nothing way, very +different from the fashion in which she herself had been trained at the +Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting as a little child had known no other home, no other +family than those provided by good Captain Coram. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe Chandler’s too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls +yet awhile,” she said tartly. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you’re right,” Bunting agreed. “Times be +changed. In my young days chaps always had time for that. ’Twas just a +notion that came into my head, hearing him asking, anxious-like, after +her.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +About five o’clock, after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. Sleuth +went out, and that same evening there came two parcels addressed to his +landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But it was quite clear to Mrs. +Bunting’s eyes that they were not new clothes. In fact, they had +evidently been bought in some good second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for +a real gentleman like Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had given up all hope +of getting back his lost luggage. +</p> + +<p> +When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him, of that Mrs. +Bunting was positive. And yet, though she searched high and low for it, she +could not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept it. And at last, had it not been +that she was a very clear-headed woman, with a good memory, she would have been +disposed to think that the bag had never existed, save in her imagination. +</p> + +<p> +But no, she could not tell herself that! She remembered exactly how it had +looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange, queer-looking figure of a +man, on her doorstep. +</p> + +<p> +She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of the top +front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he had asked her +eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was—only to find it +safely lodged at his feet! +</p> + +<p> +As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, for, strange +and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth’s bag again. But, of course, +she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. The brown leather bag which had +formed Mr. Sleuth’s only luggage the afternoon of his arrival was almost +certainly locked up in the lower part of the drawing-room chiffonnier. Mr. +Sleuth evidently always carried the key of the little corner cupboard about his +person; Mrs. Bunting had also had a good hunt for that key, but, as was the +case with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never saw either the one or the +other again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped the next few days. Already +life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. +Bunting could manage to do easily, and without tiring herself. +</p> + +<p> +It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred to be waited on only by +one person, and that person his landlady. He gave her very little trouble. +Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the lodger; it even did her good that +he was not like other gentlemen; for the fact occupied her mind, and in a way +it amused her. The more so that whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had none of +those tiresome, disagreeable ways with which landladies are only too familiar, +and which seem peculiar only to those human beings who also happen to be +lodgers. To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did not ask to be called unduly +early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen into the way of lying rather late in +the morning, and it was a great comfort not to have to turn out to make the +lodger a cup of tea at seven, or even half-past seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom +required anything before eleven. +</p> + +<p> +But odd he certainly was. +</p> + +<p> +The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth had brought in a book of +which the queer name was Cruden’s Concordance. That and the +Bible—Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a relation between +the two books—seemed to be the lodger’s only reading. He spent +hours each day, generally after he had eaten the breakfast which also served +for luncheon, poring over the Old Testament and over that strange kind of index +to the Book. +</p> + +<p> +As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, Mr. Sleuth was +everything—everything that the most exacting landlady could have wished. +Never had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman. On the very first +day he had been with them he had allowed his money—the considerable sum +of one hundred and eighty-four sovereigns—to lie about wrapped up in +little pieces of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing-table. That had quite +upset Mrs. Bunting. She had allowed herself respectfully to point out to him +that what he was doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But as only answer he had +laughed, and she had been startled when the loud, unusual and discordant sound +had issued from his thin lips. +</p> + +<p> +“I know those I can trust,” he had answered, stuttering rather, as +was his way when moved. “And—and I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that I +hardly have to speak to a human being—especially to a woman” (and +he had drawn in his breath with a hissing sound) “before I know exactly +what manner of person is before me.” +</p> + +<p> +It hadn’t taken the landlady very long to find out that her lodger had a +queer kind of fear and dislike of women. When she was doing the staircase and +landings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading aloud to himself passages in +the Bible that were very uncomplimentary to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no +very great opinion of her sister woman, so that didn’t put her out. +Besides, where one’s lodger is concerned, a dislike of women is better +than—well, than the other thing. +</p> + +<p> +In any case, where would have been the good of worrying about the +lodger’s funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he +hadn’t been, as Bunting funnily styled it, “just a leetle touched +upstairs,” he wouldn’t be here, living this strange, solitary life +in lodgings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way with some of +his relatives, or with a friend of his own class. +</p> + +<p> +There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back—as even the least +imaginative of us are apt to look back to any part of our own past lives which +becomes for any reason poignantly memorable—wondered how soon it was that +she had discovered that her lodger was given to creeping out of the house at a +time when almost all living things prefer to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +She brought herself to believe—but I am inclined to doubt whether she was +right in so believing—that the first time she became aware of this +strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth’s happened to be during the night +which preceded the day on which she had observed a very curious circumstance. +This very curious circumstance was the complete disappearance of one of Mr. +Sleuth’s three suits of clothes. +</p> + +<p> +It always passes my comprehension how people can remember, over any length of +time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is natural enough, but +the day, the hour, the minute when these happenings took place! Much as she +thought about it afterwards, even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind +whether it was during the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth’s stay +under her roof that she became aware that he had gone out at two in the morning +and had only come in at five. +</p> + +<p> +But that there did come such a night is certain—as certain as is the fact +that her discovery coincided with various occurrences which were destined to +remain retrospectively memorable. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was intensely dark, intensely quiet—the darkest quietest hour of the +night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, dreamless sleep by +sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She knew at once what those sounds +were. They were those made by Mr. Sleuth, first coming down the stairs, and +walking on tiptoe—she was sure it was on tiptoe—past her door, and +finally softly shutting the front door behind him. +</p> + +<p> +Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to sleep again. +There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting should waken up too, till +she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, creep back into the house and so up to +bed. +</p> + +<p> +Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the morning she felt very +tired, so tired indeed, that she had been very glad when Bunting good-naturedly +suggested that he should go out and do their little bit of marketing. +</p> + +<p> +The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of catering it +was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, and that though he +always tried to appear pleased. This perfect lodger had one serious fault from +the point of view of those who keep lodgings. Strange to say, he was a +vegetarian. He would not eat meat in any form. He sometimes, however, +condescended to a chicken, and when he did so condescend he generously +intimated that Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were welcome to a share in it. +</p> + +<p> +Now to-day—this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. +Bunting’s mind so very long, and to remain so very vivid, it had been +arranged that Mr. Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, while what he +left was to be “done up” to serve for his simple supper. +</p> + +<p> +Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour, for he was a gregarious +soul, and liked to have a gossip in the shops he frequented, Mrs. Bunting rose +and dressed in a leisurely manner; then she went and “did” her +front sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after a broken night, and it +was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Sleuth was not likely to ring before +twelve. +</p> + +<p> +But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged through the quiet house. +She knew it for the front door bell. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened one of those tiresome people +who come round for old bottles and such-like fal-lals. +</p> + +<p> +She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then her face cleared, for it was +that good young chap, Joe Chandler, who stood waiting outside. +</p> + +<p> +He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked over-quickly through the +moist, foggy air. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Joe?” said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. “Come in—do! +Bunting’s out, but he won’t be very long now. You’ve been +quite a stranger these last few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting—” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Then, suddenly +she remembered. Why, of course, Joe was on a big job just now—the job of +trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had alluded to the fact again and +again when reading out to her little bits from the halfpenny evening paper he +was taking again. +</p> + +<p> +She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good thing Bunting had insisted +on lighting the fire before he went out, for now the room was nice and +warm—and it was just horrible outside. She had felt a chill go right +through her as she had stood, even for that second, at the front door. +</p> + +<p> +And she hadn’t been alone to feel it, for, “I say, it is jolly to +be in here, out of that awful cold!” exclaimed Chandler, sitting down +heavily in Bunting’s easy chair. +</p> + +<p> +And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the young man was tired, as well +as cold. He was pale, almost pallid under his usual healthy, tanned +complexion—the complexion of the man who lives much out of doors. +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t you like me just to make you a cup of tea?” she +said solicitously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful for one, Mrs. +Bunting!” Then he looked round, and again he said her name, “Mrs. +Bunting—?” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. “Yes, what +is it, Joe?” she asked. And then, in sudden terror, “You’ve +never come to tell me that anything’s happened to Bunting? He’s not +had an accident?” +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But—but, Mrs. Bunting, +there’s been another of them!” +</p> + +<p> +His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with unhappy, it +seemed to her terror-filled, eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Another of them?” She looked at him, bewildered—at a loss. +And then what he meant flashed across her—“another of them” +meant another of these strange, mysterious, awful murders. +</p> + +<p> +But her relief for the moment was so great—for she really had thought for +a second that he had come to give her ill news of Bunting—that the +feeling that she did experience on hearing this piece of news was actually +pleasurable, though she would have been much shocked had that fact been brought +to her notice. +</p> + +<p> +Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested in the +amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination of the whole of +London’s nether-world. Even her refined mind had busied itself for the +last two or three days with the strange problem so frequently presented to it +by Bunting—for Bunting, now that they were no longer worried, took an +open, unashamed, intense interest in “The Avenger” and his doings. +</p> + +<p> +She took the kettle off the gas-ring. “It’s a pity Bunting +isn’t here,” she said, drawing in her breath. “He’d +a-liked so much to hear you tell all about it, Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. +</p> + +<p> +But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. “Why, you +do look bad!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad—very bad indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t help it,” he said, with a kind of gasp. “It +was your saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn queer. +You see, this time I was one of the first there, and it fairly turned me +sick—that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. Bunting! Don’t talk of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with sympathetic interest. “Why, Joe,” she said, +“I never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, that +anything could upset you like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“This isn’t like anything there’s ever been before,” he +said. “And then—then—oh, Mrs. Bunting, ’twas I that +discovered the piece of paper this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it <i>is</i> true,” she cried eagerly. “It <i>is</i> The +Avenger’s bit of paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in +that practical joker.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” said Chandler reluctantly. “You see, there are some +queer fellows even—even—” (he lowered his voice, and looked +round him as if the walls had ears)—“even in the Force, Mrs. +Bunting, and these murders have fair got on our nerves.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, never!” she said. “D’you think that a Bobby might +do a thing like that?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn’t worth answering. Then, +“It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while the poor +soul was still warm,”—he shuddered—“that brought me out +West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince Albert Terrace, +and I had to go and tell him all about it. They never offered me a bit or a +sup—I think they might have done that, don’t you, Mrs. +Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said absently. “Yes, I do think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, there, I don’t know that I ought to say that,” went on +Chandler. “He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very +considerate-like to me while I was telling him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have a bit of something now?” she said suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, I couldn’t eat anything,” he said hastily. “I +don’t feel as if I could ever eat anything any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll only make you ill.” Mrs. Bunting spoke rather +crossly, for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite out of +the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him. +</p> + +<p> +“I expect you’re right,” he said. “And I’ve a +goodish heavy day in front of me. Been up since four, too—” +</p> + +<p> +“Four?” she said. “Was it then they found—” she +hesitated a moment, and then said, “it?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “It was just a chance I was near by. If I’d been half a +minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have knocked up +against that—that monster. But two or three people do think they saw him +slinking away.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was he like?” she asked curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful fog. +But there’s one thing they all agree about. He was carrying a +bag—” +</p> + +<p> +“A bag?” repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. “Whatever +sort of bag might it have been, Joe?” +</p> + +<p> +There had come across her—just right in her middle, like—such a +strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering. +</p> + +<p> +She was at a loss to account for it. +</p> + +<p> +“Just a hand-bag,” said Joe Chandler vaguely. “A woman I +spoke to—cross-examining her, like—who was positive she had seen +him, said, ‘Just a tall, thin shadow—that’s what he was, a +tall, thin shadow of a man—with a bag.’” +</p> + +<p> +“With a bag?” repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. “How very +strange and peculiar—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does the deed +with in something, Mrs. Bunting. We’ve always wondered how he hid it. +They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do they, indeed?” Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, +wondering way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the +lodger had done with his bag. It was possible—in fact, when one came to +think of it, it was very probable—that he had just lost it, being so +forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone out, as she knew he was +fond of doing, into the Regent’s Park. +</p> + +<p> +“There’ll be a description circulated in an hour or two,” +went on Chandler. “Perhaps that’ll help catch him. There +isn’t a London man or woman, I don’t suppose, who wouldn’t +give a good bit to lay that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you wait a bit longer for Bunting?” she said +hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I can’t do that. But I’ll come in, maybe, either this +evening or to-morrow, and tell you any more that’s happened. Thanks +kindly for the tea. It’s made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ve had enough to unman you, Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, that I have,” he said heavily. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had quite a little +tiff—the first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth became their lodger. +</p> + +<p> +It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting was angry that +Mrs. Bunting hadn’t got more details of the horrible occurrence which had +taken place that morning, out of Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean to say, Ellen, that you can’t even tell me +where it happened?” he said indignantly. “I suppose you put +Chandler off—that’s what you did! Why, whatever did he come here +for, excepting to tell us all about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He came to have something to eat and drink,” snapped out Mrs. +Bunting. “That’s what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. +He could hardly speak of it at all—he felt so bad. In fact, he +didn’t say a word about it until he’d come right into the room and +sat down. He told me quite enough!” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had +written his name was square or three-cornered?” demanded Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“No; he did not. And that isn’t the sort of thing I should have +cared to ask him.” +</p> + +<p> +“The more fool you!” And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys +were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful discovery which +had been made that morning—that of The Avenger’s fifth murder. +Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took the things he had brought in +down to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened Mr. Sleuth, +for his landlady hadn’t been in the kitchen ten minutes before his bell +rang. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang again. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since he +had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at once. But when +there came the second imperative tinkle—for electric bells had not been +fitted into that old-fashioned house—she made up her mind to go upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, sitting +comfortably in their parlour, heard his wife stepping heavily under the load of +the well-laden tray. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute!” he called out. “I’ll help you, +Ellen,” and he came out and took the tray from her. +</p> + +<p> +She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room floor +landing. +</p> + +<p> +There she stopped him. “Here,” she whispered quickly, “you +give me that, Bunting. The lodger won’t like your going in to him.” +And then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she added +in a rather acid tone, “You might open the door for me, at any rate! How +can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on my hands?” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised—rather put +out. Ellen wasn’t exactly what you’d call a lively, jolly woman, +but when things were going well—as now—she was generally equable +enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had spoken to her +about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder. +</p> + +<p> +However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, and as +soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked into the room. +</p> + +<p> +And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, of +lightness of heart. +</p> + +<p> +As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow—she could not have told you why, she would not willingly have +told herself—she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth <i>looking different</i>. But +no, he appeared to be exactly the same—in fact, as he glanced up at her a +pleasanter smile than usual lighted up his thin, pallid face. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Bunting,” he said genially, “I overslept myself +this morning, but I feel all the better for the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad of that, sir,” she answered, in a low voice. +“One of the ladies I once lived with used to say, ‘Rest is an +old-fashioned remedy, but it’s the best remedy of all.’” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden’s Concordance off the +table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady laying the cloth. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the morning. “I +think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you outside the door just +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I give you a good deal of trouble,” he said +hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +But she answered quickly, “Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was only +saying yesterday that we’ve never had a lodger that gave us as little +trouble as you do, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat +peculiar.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of denial to +this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and truthful woman. It never +occurred to her to question his statement. Mr. Sleuth’s habits were +somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at night, or rather in the early +morning, for instance? So she remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +After she had laid the lodger’s breakfast on the table she prepared to +leave the room. “I suppose I’m not to do your room till you goes +out, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. “No, no!” he said. “I never +want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. Bunting. +But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a somewhat elaborate +experiment—upstairs. If I go out at all” he waited a moment, and +again he looked at her fixedly “—I shall wait till night-time to do +so.” And then, coming back to the matter in hand, he added hastily, +“Perhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs, about five +o’clock—if that time is convenient to you, that is?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, sir! That’ll do nicely!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself wordlessly, +ruthlessly to task, but she did not face—even in her inmost +heart—the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken her. She only +repeated to herself again and again, “I’ve got +upset—that’s what I’ve done,” and then she spoke aloud, +“I must get myself a dose at the chemist’s next time I’m out. +That’s what I must do.” +</p> + +<p> +And just as she murmured the word “do,” there came a loud double +knock on the front door. +</p> + +<p> +It was only the postman’s knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar +visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was nervous, +that’s what was the matter with her,—so she told herself angrily. +No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must have relations and +acquaintances somewhere in the world. All gentlefolk have. But when she picked +the small envelope off the hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her +husband’s daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Bunting!” she called out sharply. “Here’s a letter for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there was her +husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading a paper. And as +she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting felt a sudden thrill of +sharp irritation. There he was, doing nothing—in fact, doing worse than +nothing—wasting his time reading all about those horrid crimes. +</p> + +<p> +She sighed—a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into idle ways, +bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she prevent it? He had been such +an active, conscientious sort of man when they had first made acquaintance. . . +</p> + +<p> +She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, that first +meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland Terrace. As she had +stood there, pouring out her mistress’s glass of port wine, she had not +been too much absorbed in her task to have a good out-of-her-eye look at the +spruce, nice, respectable-looking fellow who was standing over by the window. +How superior he had appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would +succeed as butler! +</p> + +<p> +To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past rose before +her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. +</p> + +<p> +Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed the door +softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various little things to put +away and clean up, as well as their dinner to cook. And all the time she was +down there she fixed her mind obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the +problem of Bunting. She wondered what she’d better do to get him into +good ways again. +</p> + +<p> +Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A week ago +everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if nothing could save them +from disaster. But everything was now changed! +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor of that +registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed hands. It would be a +good thing for Bunting to get even an occasional job—for the matter of +that he could now take up a fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. +Bunting knew that it isn’t easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has +acquired those ways. +</p> + +<p> +When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of what she +had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid it very nicely, +too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellen?” he cried eagerly, “here’s news! Daisy’s +coming to-morrow! There’s scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks +she’d better come away for a few days. So, you see, she’ll be here +for her birthday. Eighteen, that’s what she be on the nineteenth! It do +make me feel old—that it do!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. “I can’t have the girl here just +now,” she said shortly. “I’ve just as much to do as I can +manage. The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish!” he said sharply. “I’ll help you with the +lodger. It’s your own fault you haven’t had help with him before. +Of course, Daisy must come here. Whatever other place could the girl go +to?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting felt pugnacious—so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. But as +he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction vanished. +Ellen’s face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill—ill and +horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and behave like +this—just when they were beginning to get on nicely again. +</p> + +<p> +“For the matter of that,” he said suddenly, “Daisy’ll +be able to help you with the work, Ellen, and she’ll brisk us both up a +bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. And then she +said languidly, “You might as well show me the girl’s +letter.” +</p> + +<p> +He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“D<small>EAR</small> F<small>ATHER</small> (it ran)—I hope this finds you as well at it leaves +me. Mrs. Puddle’s youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks I had +better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few days. Please tell +Ellen I won’t give her no trouble. I’ll start at ten if I +don’t hear nothing.—Your loving daughter, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“D<small>AISY</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here,” Mrs. Bunting slowly. +“It’ll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her +life.” +</p> + +<p> +And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content himself. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. +Sleuth’s landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She remembered +that this was the signal for her to go and do his room. +</p> + +<p> +He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things about as so many +gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. No, he kept everything +scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the various articles Mrs. Bunting had +bought for him during the first two days he had been there, were carefully +arranged in the chest of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. +Those he had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes with +rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first day that he never +wished them to go down to be cleaned. +</p> + +<p> +A funny idea—a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after midnight +in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were glad to be at home, snug +in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself admitted that he was a funny sort of +gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the sitting-room and gave +it a good dusting. This room was not kept quite as nice as she would have liked +it to be. Mrs. Bunting longed to give the drawing-room something of a good turn +out; but Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself was +in his bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. Delighted as he +had seemed to be with the top room, he only used it when making his mysterious +experiments, and never during the day-time. +</p> + +<p> +And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with longing +eyes—she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture a slight shake. +If only the doors would fly open, as the locked doors of old cupboards +sometimes do, even after they have been securely fastened, how pleased she +would be, how much more comfortable somehow she would feel! +</p> + +<p> +But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +About eight o’clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just for a +few minutes’ chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the morning, +but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting listened in silence, +intensely interested in spite of herself, while he and Bunting talked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “I’m as right as a trivet now! +I’ve had a good rest—laid down all this afternoon. You see, the +Yard thinks there’s going to be something on to-night. He’s always +done them in pairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he has,” exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. “So he has! Now, +I never thought o’ that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster’ll +be on the job again to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler nodded. “Yes. And I think there’s a very good chance of +his being caught too—” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose there’ll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think there will be! How many of our men d’you think +there’ll be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean extra,” suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice. +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand?” ventured Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Five thousand, Mr. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” exclaimed Bunting, amazed. +</p> + +<p> +And even Mrs. Bunting echoed “Never!” incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!” +Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. “Just listen +to this: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“‘The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to +the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any surprise at +the information that a popular attack has been organised on the Chief +Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even talk of an indignation +mass meeting.’ +</p> + +<p> +“What d’you think of that? That’s not a pleasant thing for a +gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it does seem queer that the police can’t catch him, now +doesn’t it?” said Bunting argumentatively. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it’s queer at all,” said young Chandler +crossly. “Now you just listen again! Here’s a bit of the truth for +once—in a newspaper.” And slowly he read out: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“‘The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind +man’s buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes +bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through the slums of a +great city.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever does that mean?” said Bunting. “Your hands +aren’t tied, and your eyes aren’t bandaged, Joe?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s metaphorical-like that it’s intended, Mr. Bunting. We +haven’t got the same facilities—no, not a quarter of +them—that the French ’tecs have.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: “What was that word, +Joe—‘perpetrators’? I mean that first bit you read +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, turning to her eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then do they think there’s more than one of them?” she said, +and a look of relief came over her thin face. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some of our chaps thinks it’s a gang,” said +Chandler. “They say it can’t be the work of one man.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do <i>you</i> think, Joe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don’t know what to think. I’m fair +puzzled.” +</p> + +<p> +He got up. “Don’t you come to the door. I’ll shut it all +right. So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps.” As he had done the other +evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s visitor stopped at the door. “Any +news of Miss Daisy?” he asked casually. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; she’s coming to-morrow,” said her father. +“They’ve got scarlet fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks +she’d better clear out.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting found she +could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, the half-hours, the +quarters chime out from the belfry of the old church close by. +</p> + +<p> +And then, just as she was dozing off—it must have been about one +o’clock—she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been +expecting to hear, that of the lodger’s stealthy footsteps coming down +the stairs just outside her room. +</p> + +<p> +He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. +</p> + +<p> +But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him come in +again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder still, it was +she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going out into the passage, picked +up the newspaper which had just been pushed through the letter-box. +</p> + +<p> +But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into her bedroom. +Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning up against the wall to +steady herself, for she was trembling with cold and fatigue, she opened the +paper. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, there was the heading she sought: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“T<small>HE</small> A<small>VENGER</small> M<small>URDERS</small>” +</p> + +<p> +But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report +concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, and, indeed, +staggering not only London, but the whole civilised world, and which would seem +to be the work of some woman-hating teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, +when the last of these dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to the +perpetrator, or perpetrators, has been obtained, though several arrests were +made in the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested were able +to prove a satisfactory alibi.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, a little lower down: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that even a +stranger to London would know that something very unusual was in the air. As +for the place where the murder was committed last night—” +</p> + +<p> +“Last night!” thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised +that “last night,” in this connection, meant the night before last. +</p> + +<p> +She began the sentence again: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all +approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds of onlookers, +though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of traces of the +tragedy.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its original +creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the mat where she had +found it. She then turned out the gas, and going back into bed she lay down by +her still sleeping husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything the matter?” Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. +“Anything the matter, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange gladness, +“No, nothing, Bunting—nothing the matter! Go to sleep again, my +dear.” +</p> + +<p> +They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting rejoiced at +the thought of his daughter’s coming, and even Daisy’s stepmother +told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl about the house to help +her a bit. +</p> + +<p> +About ten o’clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought back +with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy’s dinner, and three +mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the sauce. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<p> +Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. +</p> + +<p> +It brought Daisy—pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy—a sight +to gladden any father’s heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad,” she +cried out joyously. +</p> + +<p> +There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King’s Cross, as all the +world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, but the man +clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that he had done the young +lady a favour in bringing her at all. +</p> + +<p> +While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, walked up +the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was awaiting her. +</p> + +<p> +As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, ’twas a mere peck +on Mrs. Bunting’s part, there fell, with startling suddenness, loud cries +on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they sounded strangely sad as +they rose and fell across the distant roar of traffic in the Edgware Road. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. “Why, +whatever’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +The cabman lowered his voice. “Them’s ’a-crying out that +’orrible affair at King’s Cross. He’s done for two of +’em this time! That’s what I meant when I said I might ’a got +a better fare. I wouldn’t say nothink before little missy there, but folk +’ave been coming from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty +of toffs, too—but there, there’s nothing to see now!” +</p> + +<p> +“What? Another woman murdered last night?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand constables been +about to let such a dreadful thing happen? +</p> + +<p> +The cabman stared at him, surprised. “Two of ’em, I tell +yer—within a few yards of one another. He ’ave—got a +nerve—But, of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the +drink!” +</p> + +<p> +“Have they caught him?” asked Bunting perfunctorily. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, no! They’ll never catch ’im! It must ’ave +happened hours and hours ago—they was both stone cold. One each end of a +little passage what ain’t used no more. That’s why they +didn’t find ’em before.” +</p> + +<p> +The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer—two news vendors trying to +outshout each other. +</p> + +<p> +“’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross!” they yelled +exultingly. “The Avenger again!” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting, with his daughter’s large straw hold-all in his hand, ran +forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for a halfpenny +paper. +</p> + +<p> +He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with young Joe +Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He hoped that Chandler +would come in soon and tell them all about it, as he had done yesterday morning +when he, Bunting, had unluckily been out. +</p> + +<p> +As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy’s +voice—high, voluble, excited—giving her stepmother a long account +of the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt’s neighbours had +thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. +</p> + +<p> +But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there came a note of +sharp alarm in his daughter’s voice, and he heard her cry, “Why, +Ellen, whatever is the matter? You <i>do</i> look bad!” and his wife’s +muffled answer, “Open the window—do.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross—a clue at +last!” yelled the newspaper-boys triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, and laughed, +and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an ecstasy of mirth. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, father, whatever’s the matter with her?” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy looked quite scared. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s in ’sterics—that’s what it is,” he +said shortly. “I’ll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous—that’s what she +was, to be so easily upset. +</p> + +<p> +The lodger’s bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either that +sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical effect on Mrs. +Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all over, but mentally composed. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go up,” she said a little chokingly. “As for you, +child, just run down into the kitchen. You’ll find a piece of pork +roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the sauce.” +</p> + +<p> +As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made of cotton +wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the banister for support. +But soon, making a great effort over herself, she began to feel more steady; +and after waiting for a few moments on the landing, she knocked at the door of +the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth’s voice answered her from the bedroom. “I’m not +well,” he called out querulously; “I think I’ve caught a +chill. I should be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and +put it outside my door, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer and giddy, so +instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his cup of tea over her +sitting-room gas-ring. +</p> + +<p> +During their midday dinner the husband and wife had a little discussion as to +where Daisy should sleep. It had been settled that a bed should be made up for +her in the top back room, but Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. +“I think ’twould be better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, +and you was to sleep upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellen was probably +right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, after all, they +didn’t know much about the lodger, though he seemed a respectable +gentleman enough. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make herself +useful to her stepmother. “I’ll wash up; don’t you bother to +come downstairs,” she said cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him a furtive glance; +she wondered what he was thinking about. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you get a paper?” she said at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course I did,” he answered hastily. “But I’ve +put it away. I thought you’d rather not look at it, as you’re that +nervous.” +</p> + +<p> +Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as +usual—he evidently meant just what he said and no more. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought they was shouting something in the street—I mean just +before I was took bad.” +</p> + +<p> +It was now Bunting’s turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather +furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, of +hysterics—call it what you might—had been due to the shouting +outside. She was not the only woman in London who had got the Avenger murders +on her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lot of women were afraid to go +out alone. Was it possible that the curious way she had been taken just now had +had nothing to do with the shouts and excitement outside? +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know what it was they were calling out?” he asked +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a very great deal to be +able to lie, to pretend that she did not know what those dreadful cries had +portended. But when it came to the point she found she could not do so. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said dully. “I heard a word here and there. +There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two other murders,” he said soberly. +</p> + +<p> +“Two? That’s worse news!” She turned so pale—a sallow +greenish-white—that Bunting thought she was again going queer. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellen?” he said warningly, “Ellen, now do have a care! I +can’t think what’s come over you about these murders. Turn your +mind away from them, do! We needn’t talk about them—not so much, +that is—” +</p> + +<p> +“But I wants to talk about them,” cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table, the man with +his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the door. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and disturbed. She +really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure looked shrunk. For the first +time, so he told himself ruefully, Ellen was beginning to look her full age. +Her slender hands—she had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman +who has never done rough work—grasped the edge of the table with a +convulsive movement. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting didn’t at all like the look of her. “Oh, dear,” he +said to himself, “I do hope Ellen isn’t going to be ill! That would +be a to-do just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me about it,” she commanded, in a low voice. +“Can’t you see I’m waiting to hear? Be quick now, +Bunting!” +</p> + +<p> +“There isn’t very much to tell,” he said reluctantly. +“There’s precious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what +brought Daisy told me—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I said just now. There’s two of ’em this time, and +they’d both been drinking heavily, poor creatures.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it where the others was done?” she asked looking at her +husband fearfully. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said awkwardly. “No, it wasn’t, Ellen. It was +a good bit farther West—in fact, not so very far from here. Near +King’s Cross—that’s how the cabman knew about it, you see. +They seems to have been done in a passage which isn’t used no +more.” And then, as he thought his wife’s eyes were beginning to +look rather funny, he added hastily. “There, that’s enough for the +present! We shall soon be hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. +He’s pretty sure to come in some time to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the five thousand constables weren’t no use?” said Mrs. +Bunting slowly. +</p> + +<p> +She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more upright. +</p> + +<p> +“No use at all,” said Bunting briefly. “He is artful and no +mistake about it. But wait a minute—” he turned and took up the +paper which he had laid aside, on a chair. “Yes they says here that they +has a clue.” +</p> + +<p> +“A clue, Bunting?” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away +voice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the table. +</p> + +<p> +But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paper close up to +his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable satisfaction: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“‘It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last +believe they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the arrest of +the—’” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed round the table. +</p> + +<p> +His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the floor, taking +with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay there in what appeared to be a +dead faint. And Bunting, scared out of his wits, opened the door and screamed +out, “Daisy! Daisy! Come up, child. Ellen’s took bad again.” +</p> + +<p> +And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource which even at +this anxious moment roused her fond father’s admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Get a wet sponge, Dad—quick!” she cried, “a +sponge,—and, if you’ve got such a thing, a drop o’ brandy. +I’ll see after her!” And then, after he had got the little medicine +flask, “I can’t think what’s wrong with Ellen,” said +Daisy wonderingly. “She seemed quite all right when I first came in. She +was listening, interested-like, to what I was telling her, and then, +suddenly—well, you saw how she was took, father? ’Tain’t like +Ellen this, is it now?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he whispered. “No, ’tain’t. But you see, +child, we’ve been going through a pretty bad time—worse nor I +should ever have let you know of, my dear. Ellen’s just feeling it +now—that’s what it is. She didn’t say nothing, for +Ellen’s a good plucked one, but it’s told on her—it’s +told on her!” +</p> + +<p> +And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and instinctively +put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was all right. +</p> + +<p> +She hadn’t really been quite “off.” It would have been better +for her if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she couldn’t +stand up—more, that she must fall down. Bunting’s words touched a +most unwonted chord in the poor woman’s heart, and the eyes which she +opened were full of tears. She had not thought her husband knew how she had +suffered during those weeks of starving and waiting. +</p> + +<p> +But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her such betrayal +betokened “foolishness,” and so all she said was, +“There’s no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. +I never was right off, Daisy.” +</p> + +<p> +Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly poured a +little brandy. “I wouldn’t touch such stuff—no, not if I was +dying!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of the table, +on to her feet. “Go down again to the kitchen, child”; but there +was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t been eating properly, Ellen—that’s +what’s the matter with you,” said Bunting suddenly. “Now I +come to think of it, you haven’t eat half enough these last two days. I +always did say—in old days many a time I telled you—that a woman +couldn’t live on air. But there, you never believed me!” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, pretty +face. “I’d no idea you’d had such a bad time, father,” +she said feelingly. “Why didn’t you let me know about it? I might +have got something out of Old Aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“We didn’t want anything of that sort,” said her stepmother +hastily. “But of course—well, I expect I’m still feeling the +worry now. I don’t seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, +of—of—” she restrained herself; another moment and the word +“starving” would have left her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“But everything’s all right now,” said Bunting eagerly, +“all right, thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. +“Yes, we’re all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it’s all +along of Mr. Sleuth.” +</p> + +<p> +She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. “I’m just a little +tottery still,” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a whisper, but not +so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, “Don’t you think Ellen +ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her something that would pull her +round.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t see no doctor!” said Mrs. Bunting with sudden +emphasis. “I saw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors +in ten months did my poor missis have. Just determined on having ’em she +was! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit sooner.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen,” began Bunting +aggressively. +</p> + +<p> +Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress died. +They might have been married some months before they were married but for that +fact. Bunting had always resented it. +</p> + +<p> +His wife smile wanly. “We won’t have no words about that,” +she said, and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. +“Daisy? If you won’t go down to the kitchen again, then I +must”—she turned to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the +room. +</p> + +<p> +“I think the child grows prettier every minute,” said Bunting +fondly. +</p> + +<p> +“Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep,” said +his wife. She was beginning to feel better. “But still, I do agree, +Bunting, that Daisy’s well enough. And she seems more willing, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say, we mustn’t forget the lodger’s dinner,” Bunting +spoke uneasily. “It’s a bit of fish to-day, isn’t it? +Hadn’t I better just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up +to him, as you’re not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth’s +luncheon,” she said quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak +of the lodger’s dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. +Sleuth had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot her +lodger was a gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn’t he? I can manage +all right. Don’t you worry,” she added after a long pause. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<p> +Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later than usual, +Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs with far heartier an +appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice slice of roast pork downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you’re feeling a little better, sir,” Mrs. Bunting +had forced herself to say when she first took in his tray. +</p> + +<p> +And he had answered plaintively, querulously, “No, I can’t say I +feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired—very tired. And as I lay in +bed I seemed to hear so many sounds—so much crying and shouting. I trust +the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy thoroughfare, Mrs. +Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, sir, I don’t think that. We’re generally reckoned +very quiet indeed, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +She waited a moment—try as she would, she could not allude to what those +unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. “I expect you’ve got a +chill, sir,” she said suddenly. “If I was you, I shouldn’t go +out this afternoon; I’d just stay quietly indoors. There’s a lot of +rough people about—” Perhaps there was an undercurrent of warning, +of painful pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated in some way to the +brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and an uneasy, watchful look +came into his luminous grey eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think I’ll take +your advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss to know +what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of Books.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’re not afraid about your eyes, sir?” said Mrs. +Bunting curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted her +to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about him downstairs. +It seemed to banish the terror which filled her soul—aye, and her body, +too—at other times. When she was with him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so +reasonable, so—so grateful. +</p> + +<p> +Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely wouldn’t +hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentric—so much must be admitted. +But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric folk, eccentric women rather +than eccentric men, in her long career as useful maid. +</p> + +<p> +Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced woman, she had +never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on certain things she had learnt +as to the aberrations of which human nature is capable—even well-born, +well-nurtured, gentle human nature—as exemplified in some of the +households where she had served. It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now +became morbid or—or hysterical. +</p> + +<p> +So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she had talked +during the first few days of Mr. Sleuth’s stay in her house, that she +exclaimed, “Well, sir, I’ll be up again to clear away in about half +an hour. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I hope you will stay in +and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather—that’s what it is! If +there’s any little thing you want, me or Bunting can go out and get +it.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It must have been about four o’clock when there came a ring at the front +door. +</p> + +<p> +The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up—she +really was saving her stepmother a good bit of trouble—and the girl was +now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Aunt’s pernickety ways. +</p> + +<p> +“Whoever can that be?” said Bunting, looking up. “It’s +too early for Joe Chandler, surely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go,” said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her +chair. “I’ll go! We don’t want no strangers in here.” +</p> + +<p> +And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, “A +clue? What clue?” +</p> + +<p> +But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from her. +“Why, Joe? We never thought ’twas you! But you’re very +welcome, I’m sure. Come in.” +</p> + +<p> +And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, fair young +face. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to know—” he +began, in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. She +didn’t want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler might be +going to say. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk so loud,” she said a little sharply. “The +lodger is not very well to-day. He’s had a cold,” she added +hastily, “and during the last two or three days he hasn’t been able +to go out.” +</p> + +<p> +She wondered at her temerity, her—her hypocrisy, and that moment, those +few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Bunting’s life. It was the first time +she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was one of those women—there +are many, many such—to whom there is a whole world of difference between +the suppression of the truth and the utterance of an untruth. +</p> + +<p> +But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. “Has Miss Daisy arrived?” +he asked, in a lower voice. +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father and +daughter were sitting. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Bunting, starting up. “Well, Joe? Now you can +tell us all about that mysterious clue. I suppose it’d be too good news +to expect you to tell us they’ve caught him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If they’d caught +him,” said Joe ruefully, “well, I don’t suppose I should be +here, Mr. Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. +And—well, they’ve found his weapon!” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” cried Bunting excitedly. “You don’t say so! +Whatever sort of a thing is it? And are they sure ’tis his?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’tain’t sure, but it seems to be likely.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. But she +was still standing with her back against the door, looking at the group in +front of her. None of them were thinking of her—she thanked God for that! +She could hear everything that was said without joining in the talk and +excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to this!” cried Joe Chandler exultantly. +“’Tain’t given out yet—not for the public, that +is—but we was all given it by eight o’clock this morning. Quick +work that, eh?” He read out: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“WANTED +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height approximately 5 ft. 8 +in. Complexion dark. No beard or whiskers. Wearing a black diagonal coat, hard +felt hat, high white collar, and tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very +respectable appearance.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of unutterable +relief. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the chap!” said Joe Chandler triumphantly. +“And now, Miss Daisy”—he turned to her jokingly, but there +was a funny little tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice—“if +you knows of any nice, likely young fellow that answers to that +description—well, you’ve only got to walk in and earn your reward +of five hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Five hundred pounds!” cried Daisy and her father simultaneously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That’s what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private +bloke—nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred from taking +that reward, worse luck. And it’s too bad, for we has all the trouble, +after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?” said Bunting. +“I’d like to con it over to myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. +</p> + +<p> +A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. “Well, it’s +clear enough, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And there’s hundreds—nay, thousands—of young +fellows that might be a description of,” said Chandler sarcastically. +“As a pal of mine said this morning, ‘There isn’t a chap will +like to carry a newspaper parcel after this.’ And it won’t do to +have a respectable appearance—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy’s voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly +appreciated Mr. Chandler’s witticism. +</p> + +<p> +“Why on earth didn’t the people who saw him try and catch +him?” asked Bunting suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, “Yes, Joe—that seems +odd, don’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Joe Chandler coughed. “Well, it’s this way,” he said. +“No one person did see all that. The man who’s described here is +just made up from the description of two different folk who <i>think</i> they saw him. +You see, the murders must have taken place—well, now, let me +see—perhaps at two o’clock this last time. Two +o’clock—that’s the idea. Well, at such a time as that not +many people are about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one woman declares she +saw a young chap walking away from the spot where ’twas done; and another +one—but that was a good bit later—says The Avenger passed by her. +It’s mostly her they’re following in this ’ere description. +And then the boss who has charge of that sort of thing looked up what other +people had said—I mean when the other crimes was committed. That’s +how he made up this ‘Wanted.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?” said +Bunting slowly, disappointedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description fits him +all right,” said Chandler; but he also spoke in a hesitating voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?” observed Bunting +insinuatingly. +</p> + +<p> +He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on—in fact, that she +even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She had come up close to +them, and now looked quite her old self again. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. They believe they’ve found the weapon what he does his awful +deeds with,” said Chandler. “At any rate, within a hundred yards of +that little dark passage where they found the bodies—one at each end, +that was—there was discovered this morning a very peculiar kind o’ +knife—‘keen as a razor, pointed as a +dagger’—that’s the exact words the boss used when he was +describing it to a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that clue than +of the other—I mean than of the description people gave of the chap who +walked quickly by with a newspaper parcel. But now there’s a pretty job +in front of us. Every shop where they sell or might a’ sold, such a thing +as that knife, including every eating-house in the East End, has got to be +called at!” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever for?” asked Daisy. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling +about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the time. But, +Mr. Bunting”—Chandler’s voice changed; it became +businesslike, official—“they’re not going to say anything +about that—not in newspapers—till to-morrow, so don’t you go +and tell anybody. You see, we don’t want to frighten the fellow off. If +he knew they’d got his knife—well, he might just make himself +scarce, and they don’t want that! If it’s discovered that any knife +of that kind was sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways are known, +then—then—” +</p> + +<p> +“What’ll happen then?” said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, nothing’ll be put about it in the papers at +all,” said Chandler deliberately. “The only objec’ of letting +the public know about it would be if nothink was found—I mean if the +search of the shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try and +find out someone—some private person-like, who’s watched that knife +in the criminal’s possession. It’s there the reward—the five +hundred pounds will come in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’d give anything to see that knife!” exclaimed Daisy, +clasping her hands together. +</p> + +<p> +“You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!” cried her stepmother passionately. +</p> + +<p> +They all looked round at her, surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Ellen!” said Bunting reprovingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it <i>is</i> a horrible idea!” said his wife sullenly. “To go +and sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +But Daisy was offended. “Of course I’d like to see it!” she +cried defiantly. “I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. +Chandler said that! I only said I’d like to see the knife.” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler looked at her soothingly. “Well, the day may come when you <i>will</i> +see it,” he said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +A great idea had come into his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“No! What makes you think that?” +</p> + +<p> +“If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our Black +Museum at the Yard, you’ll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. They +keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this weapon <i>should</i> lead +to the conviction of The Avenger—well, then, that knife ’ull be +there, and you’ll see it!” +</p> + +<p> +“The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your place +for?” asked Daisy wonderingly. “I thought there was only the +British Museum—” +</p> + +<p> +And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, laughed aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a goosey girl!” said her father fondly. “Why, +there’s a lot of museums in London; the town’s thick with +’em. Ask Ellen there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when +we was courting—if the weather was bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“But our museum’s the one that would interest Miss Daisy,” +broke in Chandler eagerly. “It’s a regular Chamber of +’Orrors!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before,” said Bunting +excitedly. “D’you really mean that there’s a museum where +they keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives +murders have been committed with?” +</p> + +<p> +“Knives?” cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of +attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even Mrs. Bunting +looked at him expectantly. “Much more than knives, Mr. Bunting! Why, +they’ve got there, in little bottles, the real poison what people have +been done away with.” +</p> + +<p> +“And can you go there whenever you like?” asked Daisy wonderingly. +She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable privileges are +attached to the position of a detective member of the London Police Force. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose I <i>could</i>—” Joe smiled. “Anyway I can +certainly get leave to take a friend there.” He looked meaningly at +Daisy, and Daisy looked eagerly at him. +</p> + +<p> +But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? Ellen was so +prim, so—so irritatingly proper. But what was this father was saying? +“D’you really mean that, Joe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course I do!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, look here! If it isn’t asking too much of a favour, I +should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don’t want to +wait till The Avenger’s caught”—Bunting smiled broadly. +“I’d be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum +o’ yours. Ellen, there,”—he looked across at his +wife—“don’t agree with me about such things. Yet I +don’t think I’m a bloodthirsty man! But I’m just terribly +interested in all that sort of thing—always have been. I used to +positively envy the butler in that Balham Mystery!” +</p> + +<p> +Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man—it was a look which +contained and carried a great many things backwards and forwards, such +as—“Now, isn’t it funny that your father should want to go to +such a place? But still, I can’t help it if he does want to go, so we +must put up with his company, though it would have been much nicer for us to go +just by our two selves.” And then Daisy’s look answered quite as +plainly, though perhaps Joe didn’t read her glance quite as clearly as +she had read his: “Yes, it is tiresome. But father means well; and +’twill be very pleasant going there, even if he does come too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what d’you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? +I’d call for you here about—shall we say half-past two?—and +just take you and Miss Daisy down to the Yard. ’Twouldn’t take very +long; we could go all the way by bus, right down to Westminster Bridge.” +He looked round at his hostess: “Wouldn’t you join us, Mrs. +Bunting? ’Tis truly a wonderful interesting place.” +</p> + +<p> +But his hostess shook her head decidedly. “’Twould turn me +sick,” she exclaimed, “to see the bottle of poison what had done +away with the life of some poor creature! +</p> + +<p> +“And as for knives—!” a look of real horror, of startled +fear, crept over her pale face. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there!” said Bunting hastily. “Live and let +live—that’s what I always say. Ellen ain’t on in this turn. +She can just stay at home and mind the cat—I beg his pardon, I mean the +lodger!” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t have Mr. Sleuth laughed at,” said Mrs. Bunting +darkly. “But there! I’m sure it’s very kind of you, Joe, to +think of giving Bunting and Daisy such a rare treat”—she spoke +sarcastically, but none of the three who heard her understood that. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<p> +The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the stranger to +that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart of that great organism +which fights the forces of civilised crime, Daisy Bunting felt that she had +indeed become free of the Kingdom of Romance. Even the lift in which the three +of them were whirled up to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to +the girl a new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, +quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this was the +first time a lift had come her way. +</p> + +<p> +With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler marched his +friends down a wide, airy corridor. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy clung to her father’s arm, a little bewildered, a little oppressed +by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was stilled by the awe she felt at +the wonderful place where she found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of +great rooms full of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling—or so she +supposed—the mysteries of crime. +</p> + +<p> +They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped short. +“Look in there,” he said, in a low voice, addressing the father +rather than the daughter, “that’s the Finger-Print Room. +We’ve records here of over two hundred thousand men’s and +women’s finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once +we’ve got the print of a man’s five finger-tips, well, he’s +done for—if he ever does anything else, that is. Once we’ve got +that bit of him registered he can’t never escape us—no, not if he +tries ever so. But though there’s nigh on a quarter of a million records +in there, yet it don’t take—well, not half an hour, for them to +tell whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful +thought, ain’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful!” said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a +troubled look came over his stolid face. “Wonderful, but also a very +fearful thought for the poor wretches as has got their finger-prints in, +Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +Joe laughed. “Agreed!” he said. “And the cleverer ones knows +that only too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was here +safe, managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just so as to make a +blurred impression—you takes my meaning? But there, at the end of six +weeks the skin grew all right again, and in exactly the same little creases as +before!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor devil!” said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came +over Daisy’s bright eager face. +</p> + +<p> +They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they came to a +half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than that of the Finger-Print +Identification Room. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’ll glance in there,” said Joe briefly, +“you’ll see how we finds out all about any man whose finger-tips +has given him away, so to speak. It’s here we keeps an account of what +he’s done, his previous convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where +I told you, and his record in there—just connected by a number.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful!” said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was +longing to get on—to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe and her +father were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the matter of that not +worth taking the trouble to understand. However, she had not long to wait. +</p> + +<p> +A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on very friendly +terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, unlocking a +common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of three through into the +Black Museum. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment and +surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they called the +Science Room in the public library of the town where she lived with Old Aunt. +Here, as there, the centre was taken up with plain glass cases fixed at a +height from the floor which enabled their contents to be looked at closely. +</p> + +<p> +She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The exhibits +shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, the sort of things +one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in an untidy house—old +medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what looked like a child’s broken +lantern, even a box of pills. . . +</p> + +<p> +As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking objects; bits of +old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and leather, and so on. +</p> + +<p> +It was really rather disappointing. +</p> + +<p> +Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf just below +the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the great room look so +light and shadowless, was a row of life-size white plaster heads, each head +slightly inclined to the right. There were about a dozen of these, not +more—and they had such odd, staring, helpless, <i>real</i>-looking faces. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever’s those?” asked Bunting in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy clung a thought closer to her father’s arm. Even she guessed that +these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of those men and +women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains that the murderer shall be, +in his turn, done to death. +</p> + +<p> +“All hanged!” said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. +“Casts taken after death.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting smiled nervously. “They don’t look dead somehow. They looks +more as if they were listening,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the fault of Jack Ketch,” said the man facetiously. +“It’s his idea—that of knotting his patient’s necktie +under the left ear! That’s what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom +he has to act valet on just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a bit to +one side. You look here—?” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed with his +finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each neck; running from +this indentation was a curious little furrow, well ridged above, showing how +tightly Jack Ketch’s necktie had been drawn when its wearer was hurried +through the gates of eternity. +</p> + +<p> +“They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or—or hurt,” +said Bunting wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring faces. +</p> + +<p> +But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, “Well, +a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his plans brought to +naught—and knowing he’s only got a second to live—now +wouldn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose he would,” said Bunting slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere of the place +was beginning to tell on her. She now began to understand that the shabby +little objects lying there in the glass case close to her were each and all +links in the chain of evidence which, in almost every case, had brought some +guilty man or woman to the gallows. +</p> + +<p> +“We had a yellow gentleman here the other day,” observed the +guardian suddenly; “one of those Brahmins—so they calls themselves. +Well, you’d a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He +declared—what was the word he used?”—he turned to Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +“He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, mind +you—queer to say, he left them out—exuded evil, that was the word +he used! Exuded—squeezed out it means. He said that being here made him +feel very bad. And twasn’t all nonsense either. He turned quite green +under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him out quick. He didn’t feel +better till he’d got right to the other end of the passage!” +</p> + +<p> +“There now! Who’d ever think of that?” said Bunting. “I +should say that man ’ud got something on his conscience, wouldn’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I needn’t stay now,” said Joe’s good-natured +friend. “You show your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place +nearly as well as I do, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled at Joe’s visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed that he +could not tear himself away after all. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said to Bunting. “In this here little case +are the tools of Charles Peace. I expect you’ve heard of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think I have!” cried Bunting eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of all. +Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he would have been, +had he been put in the way of it. Here’s his ladder; you see it folds up +quite compactly, and makes a nice little bundle—just like a bundle of old +sticks any man might have been seen carrying about London in those days without +attracting any attention. Why, it probably helped him to look like an honest +working man time and time again, for on being arrested he declared most +solemnly he’d always carried that ladder openly under his arm.” +</p> + +<p> +“The daring of that!” cried Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could reach from the ground +to the second storey of any old house. And, oh! how clever he was! Just open +one section, and you see the other sections open automatically; so Peace could +stand on the ground and force the thing quietly up to any window he wished to +reach. Then he’d go away again, having done his job, with a mere bundle +of old wood under his arm! My word, he was artful! I wonder if you’ve +heard the tale of how Peace once lost a finger. Well, he guessed the constables +were instructed to look out for a man missing a finger; so what did he +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Put on a false finger,” suggested Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do without a hand altogether. +Here’s his false stump: you see, it’s made of wood—wood and +black felt? Well, that just held his hand nicely. Why, we considers that one of +the most ingenious contrivances in the whole museum.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. With Chandler in delighted +attendance, she had moved away to the farther end of the great room, and now +she was bending over yet another glass case. “Whatever are those little +bottles for?” she asked wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +There were five small phials, filled with varying quantities of cloudy liquids. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re full of poison, Miss Daisy, that’s what they are. +There’s enough arsenic in that little whack o’ brandy to do for you +and me—aye, and for your father as well, I should say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then chemists shouldn’t sell such stuff,” said Daisy, +smiling. Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little +bottles only brought a pleasant thrill. +</p> + +<p> +“No more they don’t. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was. +Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was really +going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband. She’d got a bit +tired of him, I suspect.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with,” +said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they began to laugh +aloud in unison. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?” asked Chandler, +becoming suddenly serious. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. “That was +the wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother. +They’ve got her in Madame Tussaud’s. But Ellen, she won’t let +me go to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn’t let father take me there +last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow I don’t +feel as if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Chandler slowly, “we’ve a case full of +relics of Mrs. Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that’s at +Madame Tussaud’s—at least so they claim, I can’t say. Now +here’s something just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that +man’s jacket there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed, +frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had been taken +queer. +</p> + +<p> +“A burglar shot a man dead who’d disturbed him, and by mistake he +went and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one of the +buttons was broken in two. Well, that don’t seem much of a clue, does it, +Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you that that other bit of button +was discovered, and that it hanged the fellow? And ’twas the more +wonderful because all three buttons was different!” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which had hung a +man. “And whatever’s that!” she asked, pointing to a piece of +dirty-looking stuff. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Chandler reluctantly, “that’s rather a +horrible thing—that is. That’s a bit o’ shirt that was buried +with a woman—buried in the ground, I mean—after her husband had cut +her up and tried to burn her. ’Twas that bit o’ shirt that brought +him to the gallows.” +</p> + +<p> +“I considers your museum’s a very horrid place!” said Daisy +pettishly, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly lighted, +cheerful-looking, sinister room. +</p> + +<p> +But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types of +infernal machines. “Beautiful little works of art some of them +are,” said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree. +</p> + +<p> +“Come along—do, father!” said Daisy quickly. +“I’ve seen about enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer +it ’ud give me the horrors. I don’t want to have no nightmares +to-night. It’s dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the +world. Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without knowing +it, mightn’t we?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not you, Miss Daisy,” said Chandler smilingly. “I +don’t suppose you’ll ever come across even a common swindler, let +alone anyone who’s committed a murder—not one in a million does +that. Why, even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder +case!” +</p> + +<p> +But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every moment of the +time. Just now he was studying intently the various photographs which hung on +the walls of the Black Museum; especially was he pleased to see those connected +with a famous and still mysterious case which had taken place not long before +in Scotland, and in which the servant of the man who died had played a +considerable part—not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose a good many murderers get off?” he said musingly. +</p> + +<p> +And Joe Chandler’s friend nodded. “I should think they did!” +he exclaimed. “There’s no such thing as justice here in England. +’Tis odds on the murderer every time. ’Tisn’t one in ten that +come to the end he should do—to the gallows, that is.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what d’you think about what’s going on now—I mean +about those Avenger murders?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already moving towards +the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe he’ll ever be caught,” said the other +confidentially. “In some ways ’tis a lot more of a job to catch a +madman than ’tis to run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of +course—leastways to my thinking—The Avenger <i>is</i> a madman—one +of the cunning, quiet sort. Have you heard about the letter?” his voice +dropped lower. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. “What letter +d’you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s a letter—it’ll be in this museum some +day—which came just before that last double event. ’Twas signed +‘The Avenger,’ in just the same printed characters as on that bit +of paper he always leaves behind him. Mind you, it don’t follow that it +actually was The Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly +like it, and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where was it posted?” asked Bunting. “That might be a +bit of a clue, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said the other. “They always goes a very long way +to post anything—criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But this +particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office.” +</p> + +<p> +“What? Close to us?” said Bunting. “Goodness! +dreadful!” +</p> + +<p> +“Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don’t suppose +The Avenger’s in any way peculiar-looking—in fact we know he +ain’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?” asked +Bunting hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Our description was made up from what she said,” answered the +other cautiously. “But, there, you can’t tell! In a case like that +it’s groping—groping in the dark all the time—and it’s +just a lucky accident if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it’s +upsetting us all very much here. You can’t wonder at that!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed,” said Bunting quickly. “I give you my word, +I’ve hardly thought of anything else for the last month.” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage she was +listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was saying. +</p> + +<p> +He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother lived, at +Richmond—that it was a nice little house, close to the park. He was +asking her whether she could manage to come out there one afternoon, explaining +that his mother would give them tea, and how nice it would be. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see why Ellen shouldn’t let me,” the girl said +rebelliously. “But she’s that old-fashioned and pernickety is +Ellen—a regular old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I’m +staying with them, father don’t like for me to do anything that Ellen +don’t approve of. But she’s got quite fond of you, so perhaps if +you ask her—?” She looked at him, and he nodded sagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you be afraid,” he said confidently. “I’ll +get round Mrs. Bunting. But, Miss Daisy”—he grew very +red—“I’d just like to ask you a question—no offence +meant—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” said Daisy a little breathlessly. “There’s +father close to us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you’ve never +walked out with any young fellow?” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her cheek. +“No,” she said sadly. “No, Mr. Chandler, that I have +not.” In a burst of candour she added, “You see, I never had the +chance!” +</p> + +<p> +And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<p> +By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found herself for +close on an hour quite alone in the house during her husband’s and +Daisy’s jaunt with young Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on this particular +afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was falling, he suddenly +observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, and his landlady eagerly +acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the drawing-room +floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two rooms a good dusting; but +Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, that it was not so much the dusting +of Mr. Sleuth’s sitting-room she wanted to do—as to engage in a +vague search for—she hardly knew for what. +</p> + +<p> +During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always had a deep, +wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who read their +employers’ private letters, and who furtively peeped into desks and +cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of discovering family +skeletons. +</p> + +<p> +But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to do herself +what she had once so scorned others for doing. +</p> + +<p> +Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He was a very +tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, under-garments, and so on, +were in apple-pie order. She had early undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to +do the very little bit of washing he required done, with her own and +Bunting’s. Luckily he wore soft shirts. +</p> + +<p> +At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with this +tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at it herself. The +only things she had to send out were Bunting’s shirts. Everything else +she managed to do herself. +</p> + +<p> +From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the dressing-table. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he generally left +it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned looking-glass. And now, in a +perfunctory way, his landlady pulled out the little drawer, but she did not +touch what was lying there; she only glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a +few bits of silver. The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the +clothes he required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost, +making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely comforted +Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a little way, +but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap of paper. And at last, +when more or less giving up the search, as she came and went between the two +rooms, leaving the connecting door wide open, her mind became full of uneasy +speculation and wonder as to the lodger’s past life. +</p> + +<p> +Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible sort of way, +having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct as have other people of +his class. He was queer about the drink—one might say almost crazy on the +subject—but there, as to that, he wasn’t the only one! She, Ellen +Bunting, had once lived with a lady who was just like that, who was quite +crazed, that is, on the question of drink and drunkards—She looked round +the neat drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place +where anything could be kept concealed—that place was the substantial if +small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one +she had never thought of before. +</p> + +<p> +After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly bring Mr. +Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the corner where the +chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her not very great physical +strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece of furniture. +</p> + +<p> +As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,—something rolling about +on the second shelf, something which had not been there before Mr. +Sleuth’s arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier +backwards and forwards—once, twice, thrice—satisfied, yet strangely +troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the +disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by its owner. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Bunting’s mind. She +hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside the cupboard. +A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady realised that +the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier must become known to her lodger, +for a thin trickle of some dark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the +bottom of the little cupboard door. +</p> + +<p> +She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red, on her +finger. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. In fact the +colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over. +</p> + +<p> +It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset—that was all! How could she +have thought it was anything else? +</p> + +<p> +It was the more silly of her—so she told herself in scornful +condemnation—because she knew that the lodger used red ink. Certain pages +of Cruden’s Concordance were covered with notes written in Mr. +Sleuth’s peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some places you +couldn’t see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarks and notes +of interrogation. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in the +chiffonnier—that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done; and it +was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to know things she would be +none the better, none the happier, for knowing, that this accident had taken +place. +</p> + +<p> +She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallen on the +green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily told herself, foolishly +upset she went once more into the back room. +</p> + +<p> +It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She would have expected +him to have made that one of his first purchases—the more so that paper +is so very cheap, especially that rather dirty-looking grey Silurian paper. +Mrs. Bunting had once lived with a lady who always used two kinds of notepaper, +white for her friends and equals, grey for those whom she called “common +people.” She, Ellen Green, as she then was, had always resented the fact. +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. +</p> + +<p> +Again she opened the drawer of the old-fashioned wardrobe and lifted up the few +pieces of underclothing Mr. Sleuth now possessed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. £21 5s 0d.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last she went downstairs to await Mr. Sleuth’s return. +</p> + +<p> +When she heard the key turn in the door, she came out into the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry to say I’ve had an accident, sir,” she said +a little breathlessly. “Taking advantage of your being out I went up to +dust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the chiffonnier it +tilted. I’m afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that was inside may have +got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, sir. But I hope there’s no +harm done. I wiped it up as well as I could, seeing that the doors of the +chiffonnier are locked.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. But Mrs. +Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now than she had felt before +he came in. Then she had been so frightened that she had nearly gone out of the +house, on to the pavement, for company. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger’s brow cleared. +</p> + +<p> +“I was aware you used ink, sir,” Mrs. Bunting went on, “for I +have seen you marking that book of yours—I mean the book you read +together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you another +bottle, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr. Sleuth. “No, I thank you. I will at once +proceed upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you I shall +ring.” +</p> + +<p> +He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room bell did ring. +</p> + +<p> +At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier was wide open, +and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle of red ink which had turned +over and now lay in a red pool of its own making on the lower shelf. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps I +was ill-advised to keep my ink in there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, sir! That doesn’t matter at all. Only a drop or two fell +out on to the carpet, and they don’t show, as you see, sir, for +it’s a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth hesitated. “No,” he said, after a long pause, “I +think not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the ink remaining in +the bottle will do quite well, especially if I add a little water, or better +still, a little tea, to what already remains in the bottle. I only require it +to mark up passages which happen to be of peculiar interest in my +Concordance—a work, Mrs. Bunting, which I should have taken great +pleasure in compiling myself had not this—ah—this gentleman called +Cruden, been before.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter in her manner +than usual that evening. She listened to all they had to say about their +interesting visit to the Black Museum, and did not snub either of +them—no, not even when Bunting told of the dreadful, haunting, +silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged. +</p> + +<p> +But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked her a question, +Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she had not heard the last few +words he had been saying. +</p> + +<p> +“A penny for your thoughts!” he said jocularly. But she shook her +head. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came back dressed up in +a blue-and-white check silk gown. +</p> + +<p> +“My!” said her father. “You do look fine, Daisy. I’ve +never seen you wearing that before.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!” observed Mrs. Bunting +sarcastically. And then, “I suppose this dressing up means that +you’re expecting someone. I should have thought both of you must have +seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that young chap does +his work—that I do! He never seems too busy to come and waste an hour or +two here.” +</p> + +<p> +But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. And even Daisy +noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlike herself. She went about her +cooking and the various little things she had to do even more silently than was +her wont. +</p> + +<p> +Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was the storm of dread, +of sombre anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense, which shook her soul, and which +so far affected her poor, ailing body that often she felt as if she could not +force herself to accomplish her simple round of daily work. +</p> + +<p> +After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a penny evening +paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather rueful smile, that he had +read so much of that nasty little print this last week or two that his eyes +hurt him. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me read aloud a bit to you, father,” said Daisy eagerly, and +he handed her the paper. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock echoed through +the house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<p> +It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him “Joe” now, and no +longer “Chandler,” as he had mostly used to do. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. She wasn’t +going to have any strangers pushing in past her. +</p> + +<p> +To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel which must be +defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty horde <i>with right on their +side</i>. And she was always expecting that first single spy who would herald the +battalion against whom her only weapon would be her woman’s wit and +cunning. +</p> + +<p> +But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her face +relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look it assumed the +moment she turned her back on her husband and stepdaughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Joe,” she whispered, for she had left the door open behind +her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had bidden her. +“Come in, do! It’s fairly cold to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news. +</p> + +<p> +Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? Well, he +didn’t feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the sooner where he was +now. +</p> + +<p> +Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the double murder +which had been committed early in the morning of the day Daisy had arrived in +London. And though the thousands of men belonging to the Metropolitan +Police—to say nothing of the smaller, more alert body of detectives +attached to the Force—were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to +feel that there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with horror, +breeds contempt. +</p> + +<p> +But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something happened to revive +and keep alive the mingled horror and interest this strange, enigmatic series +of crimes had evoked. Even the more sober organs of the Press went on +attacking, with gathering severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; +and at the huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent +speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary. +</p> + +<p> +But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little house in the +Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle of dreams, to which his +thoughts were ever turning when he had a moment to spare from what had grown to +be a wearisome, because an unsatisfactory, job. He secretly agreed with one of +his pals who had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last +double crime, “Why, ’twould be easier to find a needle in a rick +o’ hay than this—bloke!” +</p> + +<p> +And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now—after nine +long, empty days had gone by? +</p> + +<p> +Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. Then he +put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. Bunting to wait a +moment. From where he stood in the hall the father and daughter made a pleasant +little picture of contented domesticity. Joe Chandler’s honest heart +swelled at the sight. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her stepmother +and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left side of the fire, while +Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable arm-chair, was listening, his hand +to his ear, in an attitude—as it was the first time she had caught him +doing it, the fact brought a pang to Mrs. Bunting—which showed that age +was beginning to creep over the listener. +</p> + +<p> +One of Daisy’s duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of reading +the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her accomplishment. +</p> + +<p> +Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been asking, “Shall I +read this, father?” And Bunting had answered quickly, “Aye, do, my +dear.” +</p> + +<p> +He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the door, he had +only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming so frequent a visitor as +to be almost one of themselves. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy read out: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“T<small>HE</small> A<small>VENGER</small>: A—” +</p> + +<p> +And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. Bravely, +however, she went on. “A the-o-ry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go in—do!” whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. “Why +should we stay out here in the cold? It’s ridiculous.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to interrupt Miss Daisy,” whispered Chandler +back, rather hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll hear it all the better in the room. Don’t think +she’ll stop because of you, bless you! There’s nothing shy about +our Daisy!” +</p> + +<p> +The young man resented the tart, short tone. “Poor little girl!” he +said to himself tenderly. “That’s what it is having a stepmother, +instead of a proper mother.” But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then he was +pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright blush came over her +pretty face. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe begs you won’t stop yet awhile. Go on with your +reading,” commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. “Now, Joe, you can go and +sit over there, close to Daisy, and then you won’t miss a word.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed that, but +he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went and sat on a chair +just behind Daisy. From there he could note with reverent delight the charming +way her fair hair grew upwards from the nape of her slender neck. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“T<small>HE</small> A<small>VENGER</small>: A T<small>HE-O-RY</small>” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +began Daisy again, clearing her throat. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“D<small>EAR</small> S<small>IR</small>—I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think +there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable that The +Avenger—to give him the name by which he apparently wishes to be +known—comprises in his own person the peculiarities of Jekyll and Hyde, +Mr. Louis Stevenson’s now famous hero.<br/> + “The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, pleasant-looking +gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of London. He has, however, a +tragedy in his past life. He is the husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of +course, under care, and is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe +with his widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he has +become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, occupying +himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy nights, once the quiet +household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out of the house, maybe between one +and two o’clock, and swiftly makes his way straight to what has become +The Avenger’s murder area. Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her +with Judas-like gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly +home again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once more the +quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, esteemed and even +beloved by a large circle of friends and acquaintances. Meantime, the police +are searching about the scene of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual +type of criminal lunatic.<br/> + “I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that I am +amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to the part of London +where these murders have been actually committed. I am quite sure from all that +has come out—and we must remember that full information is never given to +the newspapers—The Avenger should be sought for in the West and not in +the East End of London—Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very +truly—” +</p> + +<p> +Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the word +“Gab-o-ri-you,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“What a funny name!” said Bunting wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +And then Joe broke in: “That’s the name of a French chap what wrote +detective stories,” he said. “Pretty good, some of them are, +too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, I take +it?” said Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” Joe spoke with confidence. “Whoever’s written +that silly letter just signed that name for fun.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a silly letter,” Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. +“I wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman!” cried Daisy, +in an awe-struck voice. “There’d be a how-to-do!” +</p> + +<p> +“There may be something in the notion,” said her father +thoughtfully. “After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute +he must be somewhere a-hiding of himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course he’s somewhere,” said Mrs. Bunting scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. ’Twould soon be time for +the lodger’s supper. +</p> + +<p> +She hurried on: “But what I do say is that—that—he has +nothing to do with the West End. Why, they say it’s a sailor from the +Docks—that’s a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, +I’m fair sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this +house. The Avenger this—The Avenger that—” +</p> + +<p> +“I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night,” said Bunting +cheerfully. “Well, Joe, is there anything new?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say, father, just listen to this!” Daisy broke in excitedly. She +read out: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“B<small>LOODHOUNDS TO BE</small> S<small>ERIOUSLY</small> +C<small>ONSIDERED</small>” +</p> + +<p> +“Bloodhounds?” repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her +tone. “Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. “Why, ’twould be a +very good idea, if ’twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. But, +there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers’ shops, to say +nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o’ that sort?” +</p> + +<p> +But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother’s shrinking ear there seemed a +horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her fresh young voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark to this,” she said: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn was +traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious instincts of +the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and hanged.” +</p> + +<p> +“La, now! Who’d ever have thought of such a thing?” Bunting +exclaimed, in admiration. “The newspapers do have some useful hints in +sometimes, Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +But young Chandler shook his head. “Bloodhounds ain’t no +use,” he said; “no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the +suggestions that the last few days have brought in—well, all I can say is +our work would be cut out for us—not but what it’s cut out for us +now, if it comes to that!” He sighed ruefully. He was beginning to feel +very tired; if only he could stay in this pleasant, cosy room listening to +Daisy Bunting reading on and on for ever, instead of having to go out, as he +would presently have to do, into the cold and foggy night! +</p> + +<p> +Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There was a lot of +unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, even in the house where he +lived, and in the little cook-shop where he habitually took his meals, the +people round him had taken to taunt him with the remissness of the police. More +than that one of his pals, a man he’d always looked up to, because the +young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had +spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent speech, not +only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but also against the +Home Secretary. +</p> + +<p> +But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the possession +of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading just yet. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s another notion!” she exclaimed. “Another +letter, father!” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“P<small>ARDON TO</small> A<small>CCOMPLICES</small>. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“D<small>EAR</small> S<small>IR</small>—During the last day or two several of the more +Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, whoever he may +be, must be known to a certain number of persons. It is impossible that the +perpetrator of such deeds, however nomad he may be in his habits—” +</p> + +<p> +“Now I wonder what ‘nomad’ can be?” Daisy interrupted +herself, and looked round at her little audience. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve always declared the fellow had all his senses about +him,” observed Bunting confidently. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy went on, quite satisfied: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“—however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat +where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person who knows the +terrible secret is evidently withholding information in expectation of a +reward, or maybe because, being an accessory after the fact, he or she is now +afraid of the consequences. My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary +promise a free pardon. The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought +to justice. Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly +difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for English law looks +very askance at circumstantial evidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s something worth listening to in that letter,” said +Joe, leaning forward. +</p> + +<p> +Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as she turned her +gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he was saying. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Chandler?” she said interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, d’you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in a +railway carriage? He took refuge with someone—a woman his mother had +known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. But at last she gave him +up, and she got a big reward, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I’d like to give anybody up for a +reward,” said Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting,” said Chandler confidently. +“You’d only be doing what it’s the plain duty of +everyone—everyone, that is, who’s a good citizen. And you’d +be getting something for doing it, which is more than most people gets as does +their duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common +informer,” went on Bunting obstinately. “And no man ’ud care +to be called that! It’s different for you, Joe,” he added hastily. +“It’s your job to catch those who’ve done anything wrong. And +a man’d be a fool who’d take refuge—like with you. He’d +be walking into the lion’s mouth—” Bunting laughed. +</p> + +<p> +And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: “If I’d done anything I +wouldn’t mind going for help to Mr. Chandler,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, “No. And if you did you needn’t +be afraid I’d give you up, Miss Daisy!” +</p> + +<p> +And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, sitting +with bowed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience and anger, and, it +seemed to those listening, of pain. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ellen, don’t you feel well?” asked Bunting quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like,” answered the poor +woman heavily. “It’s over now. Don’t mind me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t believe—no, that I don’t—that +there’s anybody in the world who knows who The Avenger is,” went on +Chandler quickly. “It stands to reason that anybody’d give him +up—in their own interest, if not in anyone else’s. Who’d +shelter such a creature? Why, ’twould be dangerous to have him in the +house along with one!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s your idea that he’s not responsible for the wicked +things he does?” Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at +Chandler with eager, anxious eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d be sorry to think he wasn’t responsible enough to +hang!” said Chandler deliberately. “After all the trouble +he’s been giving us, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hanging’d be too good for that chap,” said Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Not if he’s not responsible,” said his wife sharply. +“I never heard of anything so cruel—that I never did! If the +man’s a madman, he ought to be in an asylum—that’s where he +ought to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark to her now!” Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. +“Contrary isn’t the word for her! But there, I’ve noticed the +last few days that she seemed to be taking that monster’s part. +That’s what comes of being a born total abstainer.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. “What nonsense you do +talk!” she said angrily. “Not but what it’s a good thing if +these murders have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. +England’s drink is England’s shame—I’ll never depart +from that! Now, Daisy, child, get up, do! Put down that paper. We’ve +heard quite enough. You can be laying the cloth while I goes down the +kitchen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you mustn’t be forgetting the lodger’s supper,” +called out Bunting. “Mr. Sleuth don’t always ring—” he +turned to Chandler. “For one thing, he’s often out about this +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not often—just now and again, when he wants to buy +something,” snapped out Mrs. Bunting. “But I hadn’t forgot +his supper. He never do want it before eight o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me take up the lodger’s supper, Ellen,” Daisy’s +eager voice broke in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was +now laying the cloth. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You have +your work cut out looking after things down here—that’s where I +wants you to help me.” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn’t like to be doing nothing while +Daisy was so busy. “Yes,” he said, looking across at Mrs. Bunting, +“I’d forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman,” said Bunting. +“He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth.” +</p> + +<p> +His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy laughed. +“You’ll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I’ve never seen +this wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she does! If I was +father I’d be jealous!” +</p> + +<p> +Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too funny. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<p> +“All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can’t always do +just what one wants to do—not in this world, at any rate!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, though both +her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She was standing by the +table, staring straight before her, and as she spoke she avoided looking at +either Bunting or Daisy. There was in her voice a tone of cross decision, of +thin finality, with which they were both acquainted, and to which each listener +knew the other would have to bow. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, “I +don’t see why I should go if I don’t want to!” she cried. +“You’ll allow I’ve been useful to you, Ellen? +’Tisn’t even as if you was quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite well—perfectly well!” snapped out Mrs. Bunting, +and she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her stepdaughter. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tain’t often I has a chance of being with you and +father.” There were tears in Daisy’s voice, and Bunting glanced +deprecatingly at his wife. +</p> + +<p> +An invitation had come to Daisy—an invitation from her own dead +mother’s sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave Square. +“The family” had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and Aunt +Margaret—Daisy was her godchild—had begged that her niece might +come and spend two or three days with her. +</p> + +<p> +But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was like in the +great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt Margaret was one of those +old-fashioned servants for whom the modern employer is always sighing. While +“the family” were away it was her joy—she regarded it as a +privilege—to wash sixty-seven pieces of very valuable china contained in +two cabinets in the drawing-room; she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep +them all well aired. These were the two duties with which she intended her +young niece to assist her, and Daisy’s soul sickened at the prospect. +</p> + +<p> +But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an hour ago, +containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret was not one to be +trifled with. +</p> + +<p> +Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the very first +Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go—that there was no doubt +about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But discuss it they all did, and +for once Bunting stood up to his wife. But that, as was natural, only made his +Ellen harder and more set on her own view. +</p> + +<p> +“What the child says is true,” he observed. “It isn’t +as if you was quite well. You’ve been took bad twice in the last few +days—you can’t deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn’t I just take a +bus and go over and see Margaret? I’d tell her just how it is. +She’d understand, bless you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t have you doing nothing of the sort!” cried Mrs. +Bunting, speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. +“Haven’t I a right to be ill, haven’t I a right to be took +bad, aye, and to feel all right again—same as other people?” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. “Oh, Ellen!” she cried; +“do say that you can’t spare me! I don’t want to go across to +that horrid old dungeon of a place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do as you like,” said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. “I’m fair +tired of you both! There’ll come a day, Daisy, when you’ll know, +like me, that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and when your +Aunt Margaret’s left her savings to somebody else just because you +wouldn’t spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you’ll know +what it’s like to go without—you’ll know what a fool you +were, and that nothing can’t alter it any more!” +</p> + +<p> +And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it snatched from +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellen is right,” Bunting said heavily. “Money does +matter—a terrible deal—though I never thought to hear Ellen say +’twas the only thing that mattered. But ’twould be +foolish—very, very foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. +It’ll only be two days after all—two days isn’t a very long +time.” +</p> + +<p> +But Daisy did not hear her father’s last words. She had already rushed +from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her childish tears of +disappointment—the childish tears which came because she was beginning to +be a woman, with a woman’s natural instinct for building her own human +nest. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange young man, and +she had a peculiar dislike to the police. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’d ever have thought she’d have minded as much as +that!” Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart +was misgiving him. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s plain enough why she’s become so fond of us all of a +sudden,” said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at +her uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, “as plain as the +nose on your face, my man.” +</p> + +<p> +“What d’you mean?” he said. “I daresay I’m a bit +slow, Ellen, but I really don’t know what you’d be at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe +Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only foolishness +then, but I’ve come round to your view—that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of coming very +often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome Scotland Yard museum, +but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested in the Avenger murders that he +hadn’t thought of Joe in any other connection—not this time, at any +rate. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think Daisy likes him?” There was an unwonted tone of +excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly smile by any +means, lit up her pale face. “I’ve never been one to +prophesy,” she answered deliberately. “But this I don’t mind +telling you, Bunting—Daisy’ll have plenty o’ time to get +tired of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she might do worse,” said Bunting ruminatingly. +“He’s as steady as God makes them, and he’s already earning +thirty-two shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt’d like the notion? +I don’t see her parting with Daisy before she must.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing as +that!” cried Mrs. Bunting. “No, not for millions of gold!” +And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a very different +tune now to what she’d sung a few minutes ago, when she was so keen about +the girl going to Belgrave Square. +</p> + +<p> +“If she still seems upset while she’s having her dinner,” +said his wife suddenly, “well, you just wait till I’ve gone out for +something, and then you just say to her, ‘Absence makes the heart grow +fonder’—just that, and nothing more! She’ll take it from you. +And I shouldn’t be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot.” +</p> + +<p> +“For the matter of that, there’s no reason why Joe Chandler +shouldn’t go over and see her there,” said Bunting hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, there is,” said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. +“Plenty of reason. Daisy’ll be a very foolish girl if she allows +her aunt to know any of her secrets. I’ve only seen that woman once, but +I know exactly the sort Margaret is. She’s just waiting for Old Aunt to +drop off and then she’ll want to have Daisy herself—to wait on her, +like. She’d turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young fellow what +stood in her way.” +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at the clock, the pretty little eight-day clock which had been a +wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. It had mysteriously +disappeared during their time of trouble, and had as mysteriously reappeared +three or four days after Mr. Sleuth’s arrival. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve time to go out with that telegram,” she said +briskly—somehow she felt better, different to what she had done the last +few days—“and then it’ll be done. It’s no good having +more words about it, and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait +till the child comes upstairs again.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather wonderingly. Ellen +very seldom spoke of Daisy as “the child”—in fact, he could +only remember her having done so once before, and that was a long time ago. +They had been talking over their future life together, and she had said, very +solemnly, “Bunting, I promise I will do my duty—as much as lies in +my power, that is—by the child.” +</p> + +<p> +But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. As not +infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to do, that particular +duty had been taken over by someone else who had no mind to let it go. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?” asked Bunting, rather +nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them that Ellen +had offered to go out in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, she had +forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so—strange, and, +to herself, very comfortable and pleasant. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door and say I’ll be +back in a few minutes—that I had to go out with a message. He’s +quite a reasonable gentleman.” She went into the back room to put on her +bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold—getting colder every minute. +</p> + +<p> +As she stood, buttoning her gloves—she wouldn’t have gone out +untidy for the world—Bunting suddenly came across to her. “Give us +a kiss, old girl,” he said. And his wife turned up her face. +</p> + +<p> +“One ’ud think it was catching!” she said, but there was a +lilt in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“So it is,” Bunting briefly answered. “Didn’t that old +cook get married just after us? She’d never ’a thought of it if it +hadn’t been for you!” +</p> + +<p> +But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. Sleuth +revenged himself for his landlady’s temporary forgetfulness. +</p> + +<p> +During the last two days the lodger had been queer, odder than usual, unlike +himself, or, rather, very much as he had been some ten days ago, just before +that double murder had taken place. +</p> + +<p> +The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadful place to which +Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs. Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth +moving about overhead, restlessly walking up and down his sitting-room. And +later, when she took up his supper, she had listened a moment outside the door, +while he read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in—terrible +texts telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with the curious +personality of her lodger, that she did not look where she was going, and +suddenly a young woman bumped up against her. +</p> + +<p> +She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young person muttered a +word of apology;—then she again fell into deep thought. +</p> + +<p> +It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the problem of +Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She, Ellen, was sorry she had +spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after all it wasn’t wonderful that +she had been snappy. This last night she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she +had lain awake listening—and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake +listening for a sound that never comes. +</p> + +<p> +The house had remained so still you could have heard a pin drop. Mr. Sleuth, +lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. Had he stirred his +landlady was bound to have heard him, for his bed was, as we know, just above +hers. No, during those long hours of darkness Daisy’s light, regular +breathing was all that had fallen on Mrs. Bunting’s ears. +</p> + +<p> +And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined effort to +expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe had said +only last evening, it was full time that he should again turn that awful, +mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. Bunting always visioned The +Avenger as a black shadow in the centre a bright blinding light—but the +shadow had no form or definite substance. Sometimes he looked like one thing, +sometimes like another . . . +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the street where there was +a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to the left she stopped short for a +minute. +</p> + +<p> +There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebuke and even +self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women, should have longed to +hear that another murder had been committed last night! +</p> + +<p> +Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all through breakfast hoping +to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes, and more or less during the +long discussion which had followed on the receipt of Margaret’s letter +she had been hoping—hoping against hope—that those dreadful +triumphant shouts of the newspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the +Marylebone Road. And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when +he had expressed, not disappointment exactly—but, well, surprise, that +nothing had happened last night. +</p> + +<p> +Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think how afraid she had +been of that young man! She was no longer afraid of him, or hardly at all. He +was dotty—that’s what was the matter with him, dotty with love for +rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy. Anything might now go on, right under Joe +Chandler’s very nose—but, bless you, he’d never see it! Last +summer, when this affair, this nonsense of young Chandler and Daisy had begun, +she had had very little patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way +Joe had gone on then, the tiresome way he would be always dropping in, had been +one reason (though not the most important reason of all) why she had felt so +terribly put about at the idea of the girl coming again. But now? Well, now she +had become quite tolerant, quite kindly—at any rate as far as Joe +Chandler was concerned. +</p> + +<p> +She wondered why. +</p> + +<p> +Still, ’twouldn’t do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for a +couple of days. In fact ’twould be a very good thing, for then he’d +think of Daisy—think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absence does +make the heart grow fonder—at first, at any rate. Mrs. Bunting was well +aware of that. During the long course of hers and Bunting’s mild +courting, they’d been separated for about three months, and it was that +three months which had made up her mind for her. She had got so used to Bunting +that she couldn’t do without him, and she had felt—oddest fact of +all—acutely, miserably jealous. But she hadn’t let him know +that—no fear! +</p> + +<p> +Of course, Joe mustn’t neglect his job—that would never do. But +what a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn’t like some of those +detective chaps that are written about in stories—the sort of chaps that +know everything, see everything, guess everything—even where there +isn’t anything to see, or know, or guess! +</p> + +<p> +Why, to take only one little fact—Joe Chandler had never shown the +slightest curiosity about their lodger. . . . +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurried quickly on. +Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her. +</p> + +<p> +She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman without a +word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed to manage other +people’s affairs, had even written out the words: “Will be with you +to tea.—DAISY.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anything horrible +was going to happen in the next two or three days—it was just as well +Daisy shouldn’t be at home. Not that there was any <i>real</i> danger that +anything would happen,—Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. +</p> + +<p> +By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentally counting +up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine, or was it ten? Surely +by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by now, if—as that writer in +the newspaper had suggested—he was a quiet, blameless gentleman living in +the West End, whatever vengeance he had to wreak, must be satisfied? +</p> + +<p> +She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn’t do for the lodger to ring +before she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr. Sleuth, +especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed into the house. +Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. There came the sound of +voices—of voices she thought she did not know—in the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +She opened the door, and then drew a long breath. It was only Joe +Chandler—Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stopped rather +guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heard Chandler utter the words: +“That don’t mean nothing! I’ll just run out and send another +saying you won’t come, Miss Daisy.” +</p> + +<p> +And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting’s face. There had +fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shouts which betokened +that something <i>had</i> happened last night—something which made it worth +while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying down the Marylebone Road. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” she said a little breathlessly. “Well, Joe? I suppose +you’ve brought us news? I suppose there’s been another?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, surprised. “No, that there hasn’t, Mrs. +Bunting—not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you’re thinking of those +newspaper chaps? They’ve got to cry out something,” he grinned. +“You wouldn’t ’a thought folk was so bloodthirsty. +They’re just shouting out that there’s been an arrest; but we +don’t take no stock of that. It’s a Scotchman what gave himself up +last night at Dorking. He’d been drinking, and was a-pitying of himself. +Why, since this business began, there’s been about twenty arrests, but +they’ve all come to nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed,” said Bunting +jokingly. “Come to think of it, it’s high time The Avenger was at +work again.” He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned to young +Chandler: “Well, <i>you’ll</i> be glad when its all over, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Glad in a way,” said Chandler unwillingly. “But one +’ud have liked to have caught him. One doesn’t like to know such a +creature’s at large, now, does one?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. “I must just go and see +about Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast,” she said in a weary, dispirited +voice, and left them there. +</p> + +<p> +She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plot which had been +hatching when she came in, that had no chance of success; Bunting would never +dare let Daisy send out another telegram contradicting the first. Besides, +Daisy’s stepmother shrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself +wouldn’t care to do such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away +somewhere in her pretty little head. If it ever became her fate to live as a +married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the right side of Aunt +Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother’s heart became very +soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact, there was +nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth’s two eggs. Feeling suddenly more +cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took the tray upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“As it was rather late, I didn’t wait for you to ring, sir,” +she said. +</p> + +<p> +And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was studying with +painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book. “Quite right, Mrs. +Bunting—quite right! I have been pondering over the command, ‘Work +while it is yet light.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir?” she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over her +heart. “Yes, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh—the flesh is +weak,’” said Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“You studies too hard, and too long—that’s what’s +ailing you, sir,” said Mr. Sleuth’s landlady suddenly. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had been settled +in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler was going to escort Miss +Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He could carry Daisy’s modest bag, and +if they wanted to ride instead of walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker +Street Station to Victoria—that would land them very near Belgrave +Square. +</p> + +<p> +But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn’t had a walk, she +declared, for a long, long time—and then she blushed rosy red, and even +her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was very nice looking, not at +all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to go about the London streets by +herself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<p> +Daisy’s father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, +watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had come a full +half-hour before they expected him, explaining, rather lamely, that it was the +fog which had brought him so soon. +</p> + +<p> +“If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, ’twouldn’t +have been possible to walk a yard,” he explained, and they had accepted, +silently, his explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it’s quite safe sending her off like that?” Bunting +looked deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once that +he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was like an old hen +with her last chicken. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn’t +have a smarter young fellow to look after her.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner,” said Bunting. +“It’s always worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I’d +’a taken her by the Underground Railway to Victoria—that ’ud +been the best way, considering the weather ’tis.” +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t think anything of the weather, bless you!” said +his wife. “They’ll walk and walk as long as there’s a glimmer +left for ’em to steer by. Daisy’s just been pining to have a walk +with that young chap. I wonder you didn’t notice how disappointed they +both were when you was so set on going along with them to that horrid +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“D’you really mean that, Ellen?” Bunting looked upset. +“I understood Joe to say he liked my company.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, did you?” said Mrs. Bunting dryly. “I expect he liked it +just about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go out +with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how the woman could +force herself upon two people who didn’t want her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m Daisy’s father; and an old friend of +Chandler,” said Bunting remonstratingly. “I’m quite different +from that cook. She was nothing to us, and we was nothing to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt,” +observed his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little +foolishly. +</p> + +<p> +By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and a feeling of +not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. Bunting. It was a comfort +to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. The girl, in some ways, was very wide +awake and inquisitive, and she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought +to be a very unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. “You +might just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?” she had pleaded, only +that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. “No, that I won’t! +He’s a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes, and he +don’t like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even your father’s +hardly seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy’s desire to view Mr. +Sleuth. +</p> + +<p> +There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her stepdaughter had +gone away for two days. During her absence young Chandler was far less likely +to haunt them in the way he had taken to doing lately, the more so that, in +spite of what she had said to her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy +would ask Joe Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. ’Twouldn’t be +human nature—at any rate, not girlish human nature—not to do so, +even if Joe’s coming did anger Aunt Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, would be rid +of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a good thing. +</p> + +<p> +When Daisy wasn’t there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. +Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. . . . +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth’s bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than usual. The +fog had probably misled him, and made him think it later than it was. +</p> + +<p> +When she went up, “I would like a cup of tea now, and just one piece of +bread-and-butter,” the lodger said wearily. “I don’t feel +like having anything else this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a horrible day,” Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier +voice than usual. “No wonder you don’t feel hungry, sir. And then +it isn’t so very long since you had your dinner, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said absently. “No, it isn’t, Mrs. +Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, as she came +into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long Inverness cloak, +and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to put on. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re never going out this afternoon, sir?” she asked +falteringly. “Why, the fog’s awful; you can’t see a yard +ahead of you!” +</p> + +<p> +Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting’s voice had risen almost to a scream. +She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between the door and her +lodger, as if she meant to bar his way—to erect between Mr. Sleuth and +the dark, foggy world outside a living barrier. +</p> + +<p> +“The weather never affects me at all,” he said sullenly; and he +looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, slowly, +reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed for the first time that +Mr. Sleuth held something in his right hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier +cupboard. He had been on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very kind of you to be so concerned about me,” he +stammered, “but—but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that +I do not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I—I cannot +stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are watched—spied +upon.” +</p> + +<p> +She pulled herself together. “No one spies upon you, sir,” she +said, with considerable dignity. “I’ve done my best to satisfy +you—” +</p> + +<p> +“You have—you have!” he spoke in a distressed, apologetic +tone. “But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing +what I wish to do—indeed, what I have to do. For years I have been +misunderstood—persecuted”—he waited a moment, then in a +hollow voice added the one word, “tortured! Do not tell me that you are +going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him helplessly. “Don’t you be afraid I’ll ever +be that, sir. I only spoke as I did because—well, sir, because I thought +it really wasn’t safe for a gentleman to go out this afternoon. Why, +there’s hardly anyone about, though we’re so near Christmas.” +</p> + +<p> +He walked across to the window and looked out. “The fog is clearing +somewhat; Mrs. Bunting,” but there was no relief in his voice, rather was +there disappointment and dread. +</p> + +<p> +Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. The fog was +lifting—rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in which local fogs +sometimes do lift in London. +</p> + +<p> +He turned sharply from the window. “Our conversation has made me forget +an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you would just leave out +a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for me this evening. I shall not +require supper when I come in, for after my walk I shall probably go straight +upstairs to carry through a very difficult experiment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir.” And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. +</p> + +<p> +But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it had drifted +in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing Daisy off, instead of +going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing—a thing she had never +thought of doing in her life before. She pressed her hot forehead against the +cool bit of looking-glass let into the hat-and-umbrella stand. “I +don’t know what to do!” she moaned to herself, and then, “I +can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” +</p> + +<p> +But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming +intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery never +occurred to Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that a woman has +betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The timorous and cautious woman has +not infrequently hunted a human being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, +but she has not revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may +almost be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayer has +been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for revenge. So far, perhaps +because she is subject rather than citizen, her duty as a component part of +civilised society weighs but lightly on woman’s shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +And then—and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become attached to +Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his sad face when he saw her +come in with one of his meals, and when this happened Mrs. Bunting felt +pleased—pleased and vaguely touched. In between those—those +dreadful events outside, which filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and +such suspense, she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. +</p> + +<p> +Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over the strange +problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have lived <i>somewhere</i> during his +forty-odd years of life. She did not even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers +or sisters; friends she knew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he +was, he had evidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind of +life, till—till now. +</p> + +<p> +What had made him alter all of a sudden—if, that is, he had altered? That +was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully with herself; and, what was +more, and very terribly, to the point, having altered, why should he not in +time go back to what he evidently had been—that is, a blameless, quiet +gentleman? +</p> + +<p> +If only he would! If only he would! +</p> + +<p> +As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these thoughts, these +hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed through her brain. +</p> + +<p> +She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day—that there had +never been, in the history of the world, so strange a murderer as The Avenger +had proved himself to be. +</p> + +<p> +She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated, on +Joe’s words, as he had told them of other famous series of murders which +had taken place in the past, not only in England but abroad—especially +abroad. +</p> + +<p> +One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, respectable +soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order to get their insurance +money. Then there had been the terrible tale of an apparently respectable, +contented innkeeper and his wife, who, living at the entrance to a wood, killed +all those humble travellers who took shelter under their roof, simply for their +clothes, and any valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the +murderer or murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in +almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. +</p> + +<p> +At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she went into +the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“The fog’s lifting a bit,” she said in an ill-assured voice. +“I hope that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +But the other shook his head silently. “No such luck!” he said +briefly. “You don’t know what it’s like in Hyde Park, Ellen. +I expect ’twill soon be just as heavy here as ’twas half an hour +ago!” +</p> + +<p> +She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. “Quite a +lot of people have come out, anyway,” she observed. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking +of asking if you wouldn’t like to go along there with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said dully. “I’m quite content to stay at +home.” +</p> + +<p> +She was listening—listening for the sounds which would betoken that the +lodger was coming downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled shoes +shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact when the front door +shut to. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s never Mr. Sleuth going out?” He turned on his wife, +startled. “Why, the poor gentleman’ll come to harm—that he +will! One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn’t +taken any of his money out with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tisn’t the first time Mr. Sleuth’s been out in a +fog,” said Mrs. Bunting sombrely. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow she couldn’t help uttering these over-true words. And then she +turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken what she said. +</p> + +<p> +But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. “We +don’t get the good old fogs we used to get—not what people used to +call ‘London particulars.’ I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. +Crowley—I’ve often told you about her, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting nodded. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting’s ladies, one of those he had liked +best—a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her servants what she +called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat they would have chosen for +themselves, but still they appreciated her kind thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Crowley used to say,” went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic +way, “that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so long as +it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked the country best, but +Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. Fog never kept her from going +out—no, that it didn’t. She wasn’t a bit afraid. +But—” he turned round and looked at his wife—“I am a +bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a timid kind of +gentleman—” +</p> + +<p> +He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t exactly call him timid,” she said, in a low +voice, “but he is very quiet, certainly. That’s why he dislikes +going out when there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I +don’t suppose he’ll be out long.” +</p> + +<p> +She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon—that he +would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She got up, and +went over to the farthest window. +</p> + +<p> +The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on the other side +of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and shadowy figures were hurrying +past, mostly making their way towards the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas +shops. +</p> + +<p> +At last to his wife’s relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to the +cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one out. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’ll read a bit,” he said. “Seems a long time +since I’ve looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a +bit, but now there’s nothing in ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days had gone by +since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had very little to say about +them that they hadn’t said in different language a dozen times before. +</p> + +<p> +She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so engaged. Since +Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not had much time for that sort +of work. +</p> + +<p> +It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or—or the +lodger, in it. +</p> + +<p> +At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric slipped down on +her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. Sleuth’s return home. +</p> + +<p> +And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful wonder if she +would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. +Bunting felt sure that if he got into any kind of—well, trouble outside, +he would never betray where he had lived during the last few weeks. +</p> + +<p> +No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way as he had +come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, until, +perhaps—God, what a horrible thought—a picture published in some +newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting’s knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +But if that happened—if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, she +made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also would pretend +to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding revelation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<p> +“There he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. +’Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting’s voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and look at +his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the evening paper he held +in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his nice arm-chair. +He looked very well—well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared across at him +with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of resentment. And this was very +curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for +himself all right.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. “I +can’t think why he wanted to go out in such weather,” he said +impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, that’s true enough. Still, ’twould be a very bad thing +for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck +we’ve had for a terrible long time, Ellen.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She remained silent +for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious to be worth answering. Also +she was listening, following in imagination her lodger’s quick, +singularly quiet progress—“stealthy” she called it to +herself—through the fog-filled, lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up +the staircase. What was that Bunting was saying? +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—no, +that it ain’t, not unless they have something to do that won’t wait +till to-morrow.” The speaker was looking straight into his wife’s +narrow, colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove +himself right. “I’ve a good mind to speak to him about it, that I +have! He ought to be told that it isn’t safe—not for the sort of +man he is—to be wandering about the streets at night. I read you out the +accidents in <i>Lloyd’s</i>—shocking, they were, and all brought about by +the fog! And then, that horrid monster ’ull soon be at his work +again—” +</p> + +<p> +“Monster?” repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. +</p> + +<p> +She was trying to hear the lodger’s footsteps overhead. She was very +curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, or straight +upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always called it. +</p> + +<p> +But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up trying to +listen to what was going on above. +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t be very pleasant to run up against such a party as +that in the fog, eh, Ellen?” He spoke as if the notion had a certain +pleasant thrill in it after all. +</p> + +<p> +“What stuff you do talk!” said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then she +got up. Her husband’s remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn’t they +talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time together? +</p> + +<p> +Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she moved quietly about the room. +Very soon it would be time for supper, and to-night she was going to cook her +husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That fortunate man, as she was fond of +telling him, with mingled contempt and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, +and yet he was rather fanciful, as gentlemen’s servants who have lived in +good places often are. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. Bunting prided +herself on having a nice mind, and she would never have allowed an unrefined +word—such a word as “stomach,” for instance, to say nothing +of an even plainer term—to pass her lips, except, of course, to a doctor +in a sick-room. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen; +instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading into her +bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back into the darkness, +and stood motionless, listening. +</p> + +<p> +At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her listening ears the +sound of someone moving softly about in the room just overhead, that is, in Mr. +Sleuth’s bedroom. But, try as she might, it was impossible for her to +guess what the lodger was doing. +</p> + +<p> +At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little landing. She +could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, that Mr. Sleuth would +pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless room above. He hadn’t spent +any time up there for quite a long while—in fact, not for nearly ten +days. ’Twas odd he chose to-night, when it was so foggy, to carry out an +experiment. +</p> + +<p> +She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired—strangely +tired, as if she had gone through some great physical exertion. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck, and it was +wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that. +</p> + +<p> +As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first time, what +the lodger’s departure would mean. It would almost certainly mean ruin; +just as his staying meant all sorts of good things, of which physical comfort +was the least. If Mr. Sleuth stayed on with them, as he showed every intention +of doing, it meant respectability, and, above all, security. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth’s money. He never received a letter, +and yet he must have some kind of income—so much was clear. She supposed +he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out of a bank as he required it. +</p> + +<p> +Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr. Sleuth. +</p> + +<p> +The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that there would +come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel satiated; when he would +feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. +</p> + +<p> +To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so pleased, not +only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady—indeed, there was +no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish to leave such nice lodgings. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook off her +awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the handle of the door +giving into the passage she turned it, and then, with light, firm steps, she +went down into the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by her care, if +not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very clean place. She had had it +whitewashed, and against the still white walls the gas stove loomed up, a great +square of black iron and bright steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for +which one pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in +the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. Mrs. +Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that kind of +business. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for what she consumed +after she had consumed it. +</p> + +<p> +Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she turned up the +gas-jet, and blew out the candle. +</p> + +<p> +Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the stove, and +once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, to Mr. Sleuth. Never +had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman than the lodger, and yet +in some ways he was so secret, so—so peculiar. +</p> + +<p> +She thought of the bag—that bag which had rumbled about so queerly in the +chiffonnier. Something seemed to tell her that tonight the lodger had taken +that bag out with him. +</p> + +<p> +And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently from her mind, +and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. Sleuth’s income, and +of how little trouble he gave. Of course, the lodger was eccentric, otherwise +he wouldn’t be their lodger at all—he would be living in quite a +different sort of way with some of his relations, or with a friend in his own +class. +</p> + +<p> +While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, Mrs. Bunting +went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting it up into little +shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing everything, as was always her +way, with a certain delicate and cleanly precision. +</p> + +<p> +And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to be poured +the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled her, made her feel +uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up and listened. +</p> + +<p> +Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy +night—going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second time? But +no; the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar footsteps, did not +continue down the passage leading to the front door. +</p> + +<p> +Instead—Why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen so intently +that the bread she was holding at the end of the toasting-fork grew quite +black. With a start she became aware that this was so, and she frowned, vexed +with herself. That came of not attending to one’s work. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. He was coming +down into the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the kitchen +stairs, and Mrs. Bunting’s heart began to beat as if in response. She put +out the flame of the gas-ring, unheedful of the fact that the cheese would +stiffen and spoil in the cold air. +</p> + +<p> +Then she turned and faced the door. +</p> + +<p> +There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door opened, and +revealed, as she had at once known and feared it would do, the lodger. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid dressing-gown, +which she had never seen him wear before, though she knew that he had purchased +it not long after his arrival. In his hand was a lighted candle. +</p> + +<p> +When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in it, the +lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn’t ring, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had no business +to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to let him know that such +was her view. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I—I didn’t ring,” he stammered awkwardly. +“The truth is, I didn’t know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please +excuse my costume. My gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that +shilling-in-the-slot arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had +a gas-stove. I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to-night for an +important experiment I wish to make.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting’s heart was beating quickly—quickly. She felt horribly +troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn’t Mr. Sleuth’s experiment wait +till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but there was that in his face +that made her at once afraid and pitiful. It was a wild, eager, imploring look. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems most pleasantly warm,” he observed, his voice full of +relief, “warm and cosy, after my cold room upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even that +cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and more cosy than +this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it’s +in perfect order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house was to +have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might have set the house on +fire.” Mrs. Bunting’s housewifely instincts were roused. “For +the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in your bedroom this cold +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means—I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire +there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told you as +much.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his candle still +alight, just inside the kitchen door. +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You +could come down then. I’ll have everything quite tidy for you. Is there +anything I can do to help you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not require the use of your kitchen yet—thank you all the +same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later—altogether later—after +you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much obliged if you +would see that the gas people come to-morrow and put my stove in order. It +might be done while I am out. That the shilling-in-the-slot machine should go +wrong is very unpleasant. It has upset me greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter of that, +I could ask him to go up now.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I don’t want anything of that sort done to-night. Besides, +he couldn’t put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, and +I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite simple. The machine +is choked up with shillings; a very foolish plan, so I always felt it to +be.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to speak, but +Mrs. Bunting sympathised with him in this matter. She had always suspected that +those slot machines were as dishonest as if they were human. It was dreadful, +the way they swallowed up the shillings! She had had one once, so she knew. +</p> + +<p> +And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward and stared +at the stove. “Then you haven’t got a slot machine?” he said +wonderingly. “I’m very glad of that, for I expect my experiment +will take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you something for the use of +the stove, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t think of charging you anything for that. +We don’t use our stove very much, you know, sir. I’m never in the +kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually in Mr. +Sleuth’s presence her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps because his +manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. But still there came over +her an eerie feeling, as, with him preceding her, they made a slow progress to +the ground floor. +</p> + +<p> +Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady good-night, and proceeded +upstairs to his own apartments. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove; but she felt +unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she was cooking the cheese, she tried +to concentrate her mind on what she was doing, and on the whole she succeeded. +But another part of her mind seemed to be working independently, asking her +insistent questions. +</p> + +<p> +The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she caught herself +listening—which was absurd, for, of course, she could not hope to hear +what Mr. Sleuth was doing two, if not three, flights upstairs. She wondered in +what the lodger’s experiments consisted. It was odd that she had never +been able to discover what it was he really did with that big gas-stove. All +she knew was that he used a very high degree of heat. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<p> +The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting made up her mind to +keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour of the night the lodger would +come down into her kitchen to carry through his experiment, and, above all, she +was anxious to know how long he would stay there. +</p> + +<p> +But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs. Bunting awoke. She felt +put out, sharply annoyed with herself. How could she have dropped off like +that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down and up again hours ago! +</p> + +<p> +Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid odour in the +room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass her and the snoring man +by her side, almost as a vapour might have done. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the cold, she +quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and crawled along to the bottom +of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did a very curious thing; +she leaned over the brass rail and put her face close to the hinge of the door +giving into the hall. Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor +was coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage. +</p> + +<p> +As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to give her +sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard herself saying, +“Bunting, get up! There’s something strange and dreadful going on +downstairs which we ought to know about.” +</p> + +<p> +But as she lay there, by her husband’s side, listening with painful +intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she would do +nothing of the sort. +</p> + +<p> +What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess—a certain amount of +smell—in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not—was he not an almost +perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, where could they ever hope +to get another like him? +</p> + +<p> +Three o’clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps creaking +up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight up to his own +quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he went to the front door, +and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he came past her door, and she +thought—but could not be sure—that he sat down on the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage again. Very +softly he closed the front door. By then she had divined why the lodger had +behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted to get the strong, acrid smell of +burning—was it of burning wool?—out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the lodger creeping +upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get rid of the horrible odour. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. +</p> + +<p> +At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and then she +dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse voices seemed to be +shouting in her ear: “The Avenger close here! The Avenger close +here!” “’Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!” +“The Avenger at his work again!” +</p> + +<p> +And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered—angered and impatient. +She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare! It was +because of Bunting—Bunting, who could think and talk of nothing else than +those frightful murders, in which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any +interest. +</p> + +<p> +Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her about +it: +</p> + +<p> +“Ellen”—so she heard Bunting murmur in her +ear—“Ellen, my dear, I’m just going to get up to get a paper. +It’s after seven o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +The shouting—nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on +her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead with both hands, she +sat up and listened. +</p> + +<p> +It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse—reality. +</p> + +<p> +Why couldn’t Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and let his +poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been easier to bear +than this awakening. +</p> + +<p> +She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the paper, +exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then he came back. +There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had promised to do +this when they first married, and he had never yet broken his word. It was a +very little thing and a very usual thing, no doubt, for a kind husband to do, +but this morning the knowledge that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. +Bunting’s pale blue eyes. This morning he seemed to be rather longer than +usual over the job. +</p> + +<p> +When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his wife lying +with her face to the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s your tea, Ellen,” he said, and there was a thrill of +eager, nay happy, excitement in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +She turned herself round and sat up. “Well?” she asked. +“Well? Why don’t you tell me about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you was asleep,” he stammered out. “I thought, +Ellen, you never heard nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. Why +don’t you tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve hardly had time to glance at the paper myself,” he said +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“You was reading it just now,” she said severely, “for I +heard the rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. +Don’t tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware +Road?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Bunting, “as you do know, I may as well tell +you. The Avenger’s moving West—that’s what he’s doing. +Last time ’twas King’s Cross—now ’tis the Edgware Road. +I said he’d come our way, and he <i>has</i> come our way!” +</p> + +<p> +“You just go and get me that paper,” she commanded. “I wants +to see for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her silently the +odd-looking, thin little sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, whatever’s this?” she asked. “This ain’t +our paper!” +</p> + +<p> +“’Course not,” he answered, a trifle crossly. +“It’s a special early edition of the Sun, just because of The +Avenger. Here’s the bit about it”—he showed her the exact +spot. But she would have found it, even by the comparatively bad light of the +gas-jet now flaring over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, +clear characters:— </p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger has +escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, and of the great +army of amateur detectives who are taking an interest in this strange series of +atrocious crimes, were concentrating their attention round the East End and +King’s Cross, he moved swiftly and silently Westward. And, choosing a +time when the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another +human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery.<br/> + “Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had lured his +victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of happy, busy people, +intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that cheerful throng he must have +plunged within a moment of committing his atrocious crime. And it was only +owing to the merest accident that the body was discovered as soon as it +was—that is, just after midnight.<br/> + “Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that the +woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at first +thought—we were going to say, hoped—that this murder had nothing to +do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying the whole of the +civilised world. But no—pinned on the edge of the dead woman’s +dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of grey paper—the +grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of man! And this time The +Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his audacity and daring—so cold +in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent wickedness.” +</p> + +<p> +All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful intentness, her +husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to burst out with a new idea +which he was burning to confide even to his Ellen’s unsympathetic ears. +</p> + +<p> +At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you anything better to do than to stare at me like +that?” she said irritably. “Murder or no murder, I’ve got to +get up! Go away—do!” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting went off into the next room. +</p> + +<p> +After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried to think of +nothing. Nay, more—so strong, so determined was her will that for a few +moments she actually did think of nothing. She felt terribly tired and weak, +brain and body both quiescent, as does a person who is recovering from a long, +wearing illness. +</p> + +<p> +Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of her mind +like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if those horrid newspaper +men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; she wondered if, in that case, +Margaret, who was so unlike her brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. +But no. Margaret was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason +as that. +</p> + +<p> +Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes—to-morrow, not to-day. Well, +that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things Daisy would be able to +tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl had an excellent gift of mimicry. +And Margaret, with her precise, funny ways, her perpetual talk about “the +family,” lent herself to the cruel gift. +</p> + +<p> +And then Mrs. Bunting’s mind—her poor, weak, tired +mind—wandered off to young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you +came to think of it—which she, Ellen Bunting, didn’t often do. +There was Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty +young women, too,—quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times more +artful—and yet there! He passed them all by, had done so ever since last +summer, though you might be sure that they, artful minxes, by no manner of +means passed him by,—without giving them a thought! As Daisy wasn’t +here, he would probably keep away to-day. There was comfort in that thought, +too. +</p> + +<p> +And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful turgid flood. +If Joe <i>did</i> come in, she must nerve herself to hear all that—that talk +there’d be about The Avenger between him and Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she had just +recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, very, very tired in +body and soul. +</p> + +<p> +She stood for a moment listening—listening, and shivering, for it was +very cold. Considering how early it still was, there seemed a lot of coming and +going in the Marylebone Road. She could hear the unaccustomed sounds through +her closed door and the tightly fastened windows of the sitting-room. There +must be a regular crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the +scene of The Avenger’s last extraordinary crime. +</p> + +<p> +She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling from the +letter-box on to the floor of the hall, and a moment later came the sound of +Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. She visualised him coming +back, and sitting down with a sigh of satisfaction by the newly-lit fire. +</p> + +<p> +Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant tramping +and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume and in sound as the +moments slipped by. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen everything looked just as she had +left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she had expected to find +there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed room was full of fog, but she +noticed that, though the shutters were bolted and barred as she had left them, +the windows behind them had been widely opened to the air. She had left them +shut. +</p> + +<p> +Making a “spill” out of a twist of newspaper—she had been +taught the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses—she stooped and +flung open the oven-door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had expected, a +fierce heat had been generated there since she had last used the oven, and +through to the stone floor below had fallen a mass of black, gluey soot. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous day for her +own and Bunting’s breakfast upstairs, and broiled them over the gas-ring +in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in surprised silence. She had +never done such a thing before. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t stay down there,” she said; “it was so cold +and foggy. I thought I’d make breakfast up here, just for to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said kindly; “that’s quite right, Ellen. I +think you’ve done quite right, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the nice +breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you’re ill, Ellen?” Bunting asked +solicitously. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said shortly; “I’m not ill at all. +Don’t be silly! The thought of that horrible thing happening so close by +has upset me, and put me off my food. Just hark to them now!” +</p> + +<p> +Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet and loud, +ribald laughter. What a crowd; nay, what a mob, must be hastening busily to and +from the spot where there was now nothing to be seen! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. “I don’t want +any of those ghouls in here!” she exclaimed angrily. And then, +“What a lot of idle people there are in the world!” she said. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<p> +Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the window; +stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; then, coming back +to the fireplace, sit down. +</p> + +<p> +But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up he would rise +from his chair, and go to the window again. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you’d stay still,” his wife said at last. And then, a +few minutes later, “Hadn’t you better put your hat and coat on and +go out?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat and coat and +go out. +</p> + +<p> +As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it was natural +that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, extraordinary thing +which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn’t reasonable about such +things. How queer and disagreeable she had been that very morning—angry +with him because he had gone out to hear what all the row was about, and even +more angry when he had come back and said nothing, because he thought it would +annoy her to hear about it! +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the kitchen, and +as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, a tremor of fear, of quick +terror, came over her. She turned and did what she had never in her life done +before, and what she had never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She +bolted the door. +</p> + +<p> +But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from everybody, +she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She felt as if she were locked +in with an invisible presence, which mocked and jeered, reproached and +threatened her, by turns. +</p> + +<p> +Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? Daisy, at +any rate, was company—kind, young, unsuspecting company. With Daisy she +could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort to be with someone to whom +she not only need, but ought to, say nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued +by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame. She was the man’s wedded +wife—in his stolid way he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping +from him something he certainly had a right to know. +</p> + +<p> +Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful +suspicion—nay, of her almost certainty. +</p> + +<p> +At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went upstairs and +turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little better. +</p> + +<p> +She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved by his +absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet she welcomed +anything that took her husband out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into what +she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what was going on upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only natural. Mr. +Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last night, or rather this +morning. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not +go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal which was the +lodger’s luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she went downstairs +again and hurriedly prepared the lodger’s food. +</p> + +<p> +Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and just +outside the sitting-room—for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had got up, +that he was there already, waiting for her—she rested the tray on the top +of the banisters and listened. For a few moments she heard nothing; then +through the door came the high, quavering voice with which she had become so +familiar: +</p> + +<p> +“‘She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in +secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, and that her +guests are in the depths of hell.’” +</p> + +<p> +There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of her Bible being +turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. Sleuth broke out, this time in +a softer voice: +</p> + +<p> +“‘She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men +have been slain by her.’” And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone +came the words: “‘I applied my heart to know, and to search, and to +seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the wickedness of folly, +even of foolishness and madness.’” +</p> + +<p> +And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of spiritual +oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time in her life she visioned +the infinite mystery, the sadness and strangeness, of human life. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Mr. Sleuth—poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An overwhelming pity +blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the loathing, she had been feeling +for her lodger. +</p> + +<p> +She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Mrs. Bunting.” Mr. Sleuth’s voice sounded feebler, +more toneless than usual. +</p> + +<p> +She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was not sitting in +his usual place; he had taken the little round table on which his candle +generally rested when he read in bed, out of his bedroom, and placed it over by +the drawing-room window. On it were placed, open, the Bible and the +Concordance. But as his landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, +and began staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying +crowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road. +</p> + +<p> +“There seem a great many people out today,” he observed, without +looking round. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, there do.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and putting out the +breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized with a mortal, instinctive +terror of the man sitting there. +</p> + +<p> +At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to look at him. +How tired, how worn, he looked, and—how strange! +</p> + +<p> +Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands together +with a nervous gesture—it was a gesture he only made when something had +pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at him, remembered that he +had rubbed his hands together thus when he had first seen the room upstairs, +and realised that it contained a large gas-stove and a convenient sink. +</p> + +<p> +What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a play she had +once seen—a play to which a young man had taken her when she was a girl, +unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled and fascinated her. “Out, +out, damned spot!” that was what the tall, fierce, beautiful lady who had +played the part of a queen had said, twisting her hands together just as the +lodger was doing now. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a fine day,” said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and +unfolding his napkin. “The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will +agree with me, Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is +shining, as it is now, at any rate, trying to shine.” He looked at her +inquiringly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. However, that +did not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. +</p> + +<p> +He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, taciturn +woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced any such feeling for +many years past. +</p> + +<p> +He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. “I +don’t feel as if I could eat very much to-day,” he said +plaintively. And then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat +pocket. +</p> + +<p> +Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat Mr. Sleuth +had been wearing the day before. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?” +</p> + +<p> +And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly allowed +me to make of your kitchen last night?” he said quietly. “I tried +to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but—well, the truth is I +was carrying out a very elaborate experiment.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took the coin. The +fingers which for a moment brushed lightly against her palm were icy +cold—cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently not well. +</p> + +<p> +As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball hanging in the +smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth’s landlady, and threw blood-red +gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece of gold she was holding in her +hand. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The day went by, as other days had gone by in that quiet household, but, of +course, there was far greater animation outside the little house than was +usually the case. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some days, the whole +of London seemed to be making holiday in that part of the town. +</p> + +<p> +When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while he told her of +the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. And then, after he had been +talking a long while, she suddenly shot a strange look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you went to see the place?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there wasn’t anything much to see—not now. But, oh, +Ellen, the daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry +out—which they don’t believe she had—it’s impossible +someone wouldn’t ’a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it +like that—in the afternoon, like—he never <i>will</i> be caught. He must +have just got mixed up with all the other people within ten seconds of what +he’d done!” +</p> + +<p> +During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly—in fact, he must +have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all the supposed and +suggested clues, there was nothing—nothing at all new to read, less, in +fact than ever before. +</p> + +<p> +The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting began to feel +curiously better, less tired, less ill, less—less terrified than she had +felt through the morning. +</p> + +<p> +And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the quietude +of the day. +</p> + +<p> +They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the papers he had +run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, thundering, double knock at +the door. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. “Why, whoever can that be?” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +But as Bunting got up she added quickly, “You just sit down again. +I’ll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I’ll soon send +them to the right-about!” +</p> + +<p> +And then she left the room, but not before there had come another loud double +knock. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the person who +stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark man, with fierce, black +moustaches. And somehow—she could not have told you why—he +suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. For, +“I’m here to execute a warrant!” he exclaimed in a +theatrical, hollow tone. +</p> + +<p> +With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms as if to +bar the way; she turned deadly white—but then, in an instant the supposed +stranger’s laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, familiar sound! +</p> + +<p> +“There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I’d take you in as well +as all that!” +</p> + +<p> +It was Joe Chandler—Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he sometimes, +not very often, did dress up in the course of his work. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting began laughing—laughing helplessly, hysterically, just as +she had done on the morning of Daisy’s arrival, when the +newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s all this about?” Bunting came out +</p> + +<p> +Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. “I didn’t mean to +upset her like this,” he said, looking foolish; “’twas just +my silly nonsense, Mr. Bunting.” And together they helped her into the +sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she threw her black +apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +“I made sure she’d know who I was when I spoke,” went on the +young fellow apologetically. “But, there now, I <i>have</i> upset her. I <i>am</i> +sorry!” +</p> + +<p> +“It don’t matter!” she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her +face, but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and +laughed by turns. “Don’t matter one little bit, Joe! ’Twas +stupid of me to be so taken aback. But, there, that murder that’s +happened close by, it’s just upset me—upset me altogether +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough to upset anyone—that was,” acknowledged the young man +ruefully. “I’ve only come in for a minute, like. I haven’t no +right to come when I’m on duty like this—” +</p> + +<p> +Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were still on +the table. +</p> + +<p> +“You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup,” said Bunting +hospitably; “and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We’re +right in the middle of everything now, ain’t we?” He spoke with +evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. +</p> + +<p> +Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He waited a moment, +and then: “Well I have got one piece of news—not that I suppose +it’ll interest <i>you</i> very much.” +</p> + +<p> +They both looked at him—Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her breast +still heaved from time to time. +</p> + +<p> +“Our Boss has resigned!” said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. +</p> + +<p> +“No! Not the Commissioner o’ Police?” exclaimed Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he has. He just can’t bear what’s said about us any +longer—and I don’t wonder! He done his best, and so’s we all. +The public have just gone daft—in the West End, that is, to-day. As for +the papers, well, they’re something cruel—that’s what they +are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You’d never believe the things +they asks us to do—and quite serious-like.” +</p> + +<p> +“What d’you mean?” questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted +to know. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the <i>Courier</i> declares that there ought to be a house-to-house +investigation—all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to let the +police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, just to see if The +Avenger isn’t concealed there. Dotty, I calls it! Why, ’twould take +us months and months just to do that one job in a town like London.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to see them dare come into my house!” said Mrs. +Bunting angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to +work a different way this time,” said Chandler slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was eagerly +listening. “How d’you mean?” he asked. “I don’t +take your meaning, Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see, it’s this way. The newspapers was always saying how +extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar time to do his +deeds—I mean, the time when no one’s about the streets. Now, +doesn’t it stand to reason that the fellow, reading all that, and seeing +the sense of it, said to himself, ‘I’ll go on another tack this +time’? Just listen to this!” He pulled a strip of paper, part of a +column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“‘A<small>N EX</small>-L<small>ORD</small> M<small>AYOR OF</small> +L<small>ONDON ON</small> T<small>HE</small> A<small>VENGER</small> +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“‘Will the murderer be caught? Yes,’ replied Sir John, +‘he will certainly be caught—probably when he commits his next +crime. A whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his +track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community against him, he +cannot escape, <i>especially when it be remembered that he chooses the quietest +hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes</i>.<br/> + “‘Londoners are now in such a state of nerves—if I may use +the expression, in such a state of funk—that every passer-by, however +innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his avocation happens +to take him abroad between the hours of one and three in the morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!” concluded Joe Chandler +wrathfully. +</p> + +<p> +Just then the lodger’s bell rang. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go up, my dear,” said Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she said hastily. “You stop down here, and talk to +Joe. I’ll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a bit +earlier than usual to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton wool, she +dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, and then went in. +</p> + +<p> +“You did ring, sir?” she said, in her quiet, respectful way. +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Sleuth looked up. +</p> + +<p> +She thought—but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have been +just her idea, and nothing else—that for the first time the lodger looked +frightened—frightened and cowed. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard a noise downstairs,” he said fretfully, “and I +wanted to know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I first +took these rooms, quiet is essential to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was just a friend of ours, sir. I’m sorry you were disturbed. +Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting’ll be pleased to +do it if you don’t like to hear the sound of the knocks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you to such trouble as that.” Mr. +Sleuth looked quite relieved. “Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. +Bunting? He made a great deal of noise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a young fellow,” she said apologetically. “The son of +one of Bunting’s old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did +give such a great big double knock as that before. I’ll speak to him +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of the kind. +It was just a passing annoyance—nothing more!” +</p> + +<p> +She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of the hoarse +cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam every hour or two +throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no allusion to what might well +have disturbed any quiet gentleman at his reading. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought maybe you’d like to have supper a little earlier +to-night, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting—just when it’s convenient. +I do not wish to put you out in any way.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed—Joe +Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the lodger had +been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her kitchen. She was so +tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came to her the moment she laid her +head upon her pillow. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly giving herself +time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought her, she got up and +dressed. +</p> + +<p> +She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase required a +thorough “doing down,” and she did not even wait till they had +eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It made Bunting feel quite +uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading his morning paper—the paper +which was again of such absorbing interest—he called out, +“There’s no need for so much hurry, Ellen. Daisy’ll be back +to-day. Why don’t you wait till she’s come home to help you?” +</p> + +<p> +But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, his +wife’s voice came back: “Girls ain’t no good at this sort of +work. Don’t you worry about me. I feel as if I’d enjoy doing an +extra bit of cleaning to-day. I don’t like to feel as anyone could come +in and see my place dirty.” +</p> + +<p> +“No fear of that!” Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck +him. “Ain’t you afraid of waking the lodger?” he called out. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night,” she +answered quickly. “As it is, I study him over-much; it’s a long, +long time since I’ve done this staircase down.” +</p> + +<p> +All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left the +sitting-room door wide open. +</p> + +<p> +That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn’t like to get up +and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn’t read +with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had never known Ellen +make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he looked up and frowned rather +crossly. +</p> + +<p> +There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that Ellen was +standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” he said, “do! Ain’t you finished yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was only resting a minute,” she said. “You don’t +tell me nothing. I’d like to know if there’s anything—I mean +anything new—in the paper this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her unusual +curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting suddenly uneasy. +“Come in—do!” he repeated sharply. “You’ve done +quite enough—and before breakfast, too. ’Tain’t necessary. +Come in and shut that door.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him. +</p> + +<p> +She came in, and did what she had never done before—brought the broom +with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. +</p> + +<p> +Then she sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’ll make breakfast up here,” she said. +“I—I feel cold, Bunting.” And her husband stared at her +surprised, for drops of perspiration were glistening on her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +He got up. “All right. I’ll go down and bring the eggs up. +Don’t you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if +you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said obstinately. “I’d rather do my own work. +You just bring them up here—that’ll be all right. To-morrow morning +we’ll have Daisy to help see to things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair,” he suggested +kindly. “You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see’d +such a woman!” +</p> + +<p> +And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room with +languid steps. +</p> + +<p> +He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. +</p> + +<p> +She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took two steps +towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll show you the most interesting bit” he said eagerly. +“It’s the piece headed, ‘Our Special Investigator.’ You +see, they’ve started a special investigator of their own, and he’s +got hold of a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man +who writes all that—I mean the Special Investigator—was a famous +’tec in his time, and he’s just come back out of his retirement +o’ purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You read what he +says—I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he ends by getting that +reward! One can see he just loves the work of tracking people down.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to be proud of in such a job,” said his wife +listlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll have something to be proud of if he catches The +Avenger!” cried Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put off +by Ellen’s contradictory remarks. “You just notice that bit about +the rubber soles. Now, no one’s thought o’ that. I’ll just +tell Chandler—he don’t seem to me to be half awake, that young man +don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! How +about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast even if you +don’t—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly described to +himself as “Ellen’s snarling voice.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There was something +queer about her, and he couldn’t make it out. He didn’t mind it +when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was used to that. 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. +</p> + +<p> +And as he went downstairs he pondered uneasily over his wife’s changed +ways and manner. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He, Bunting, had always had a mild pleasure in such things. In his time he had +been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he thought there was no +pleasanter reading. It was that which had first drawn him to Joe Chandler, and +made him welcome the young chap as cordially as he had done when they first +came to London. +</p> + +<p> +But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort of talk +between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed reproachfully: “To +hear you two, one would think there was no nice, respectable, quiet people left +in the world!” +</p> + +<p> +But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be to hear the +latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her own view of any theory +suggested. But there! Ellen always had had her own notions about everything +under the sun. Ellen was a woman who thought for herself—a clever woman, +not an everyday woman by any manner of means. +</p> + +<p> +While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, Bunting was +breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give Ellen a nice little +surprise—to cook an omelette as a French chef had once taught him to do, +years and years ago. He didn’t know how she would take his doing such a +thing after what she had said; but never mind, she would enjoy the omelette +when done. Ellen hadn’t been eating her food properly of late. +</p> + +<p> +And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be admitted, +to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even noticed how long he had +been downstairs, for she had been reading with intense, painful care the column +that the great daily paper they took in had allotted to the one-time famous +detective. +</p> + +<p> +According to this Special Investigator’s own account he had discovered +all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the police and of the official +detectives. For instance, owing, he admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had +been at the place where the two last murders had been committed very soon after +the double crime had been discovered—in fact within half an hour, and he +had found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavement imprints of the +murderer’s right foot. +</p> + +<p> +The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. At the same +time, he also admitted—for the Special Investigator was very honest, and +he had a good bit of space to fill in the enterprising paper which had engaged +him to probe the awful mystery—that there were thousands of rubber soles +being worn in London. . . . +</p> + +<p> +And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, and there came a +wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It was quite true—that about +rubber soles; there were thousands of rubber soles being worn just now. She +felt grateful to the Special Investigator for having stated the fact so +clearly. +</p> + +<p> +The column ended up with the words: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten days +ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public inquiry could be held +at once. Say, on the very day the discovery of a fresh murder is made. In that +way alone would it be possible to weigh and sift the evidence offered by +members of the general public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these +same people have been examined and cross-examined in private by the police, +their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly confused. On +that last occasion but one there seems no doubt that several people, at any +rate two women and one man, actually saw the murderer hurrying from the scene +of his atrocious double crime—this being so, to-day’s investigation +may be of the highest value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account +of the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements made during +its course.” +</p> + +<p> +Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had gone on +reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he said rather crossly, +“Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The omelette I’ve cooked +for you will be just like leather if you don’t eat it.” +</p> + +<p> +But once his wife had eaten her breakfast—and, to Bunting’s +mortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched—she +took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, until she found, at +the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to The Avenger and his crimes, the +information she wanted, and then uttered an exclamation under her breath. +</p> + +<p> +What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for—what at last she had +found—was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that +day. The hour named was a rather odd time—two o’clock in the +afternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting’s point of view, it was most +convenient. +</p> + +<p> +By two o’clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had his +lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have had their +dinner, and—and Daisy wasn’t coming home till tea-time. +</p> + +<p> +She got up out of her husband’s chair. “I think you’re +right,” she said, in a quick, hoarse tone. “I mean about me seeing +a doctor, Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very +afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t you like me to go with you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, that I wouldn’t. In fact I wouldn’t go at all you was to +go with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said vexedly. “Please yourself, my dear; you +know best.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. “’Twas I said, +long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; ’twas you said you +wouldn’t!” he exclaimed pugnaciously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, +I’m going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a pain anywhere?” He stared at her with a look of real +solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow Ellen didn’t look right, standing there opposite him. Her +shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a little. She +had never looked so bad—not even when they had been half starving, and +dreadfully, dreadfully worked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said briefly, “I’ve a pain in my head, at +the back of my neck. It doesn’t often leave me; it gets worse when +anything upsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!” said Bunting +crossly. “I’d a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, +Ellen, I wonder he took you in—he didn’t me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you had no chance he should—you knew who it was,” she +said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had already +spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and saw their cleverly +disguised visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Those big black moustaches,” he went on complainingly, “and +that black wig—why, ’twas too ridic’lous—that’s +what I call it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to anyone who didn’t know Joe,” she said sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know. He didn’t look like a real +man—nohow. If he’s a wise lad, he won’t let our Daisy ever +see him looking like that!” and Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. +</p> + +<p> +He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last two days, +and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, unnatural life the girl +was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe was earning good money. They wouldn’t +have long to wait, these two young people, as a beau and his girl often have to +wait, as he, Bunting, and Daisy’s mother had had to do, for ever so long +before they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn’t +be spliced quite soon—if so the fancy took them. And Bunting had very +little doubt that so the fancy would take Joe, at any rate. +</p> + +<p> +But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn’t be eighteen till the week +after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that time Old Aunt might be +dead, and Daisy might have come into quite a tidy little bit of money. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you smiling at?” said his wife sharply. +</p> + +<p> +And he shook himself. “I—smiling? At nothing that I knows +of.” Then he waited a moment. “Well, if you will know, Ellen, I was +just thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is gone on her, +ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone?” And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly +laugh. “Gone, Bunting?” she repeated. “Why, he’s out +o’ sight—right, out of sight!” +</p> + +<p> +Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, twisting a +bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:—“I suppose +he’ll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or—or d’you +think he’ll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Inquest? What inquest?” He looked at her puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by +King’s Cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; he’d have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter +o’ that, I know he’s going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last +night—just when you went up to the lodger.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just as well.” Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable +satisfaction. “Otherwise I suppose you’d ha’ had to go. I +wouldn’t like the house left—not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth +<i>would</i> be upset if there came a ring at the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I won’t leave the house, don’t you be afraid, +Ellen—not while you’re out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not even if I’m out a good while, Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“No fear. Of course, you’ll be a long time if it’s your idea +to see that doctor at Ealing?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow nodding +didn’t seem as bad as speaking a lie. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<p> +Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, when it is +repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely novel. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a witness, +and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was sharply etched +against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. +</p> + +<p> +In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for a fortnight +with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of those sudden, pitiful +tragedies which occasionally destroy the serenity, the apparent decorum, of a +large, respectable household. +</p> + +<p> +The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned herself for love +of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter jealousy. The +girl had chosen to speak of her troubles to the strange lady’s maid +rather than to her own fellow-servants, and it was during the conversation the +two women had had together that the girl had threatened to take her own life. +</p> + +<p> +As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going out, she +recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair, and of the part +she herself had unwillingly played in it. +</p> + +<p> +She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, unfortunate +creature had been held. +</p> + +<p> +The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give evidence, +and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful animation about the inn +yard; people coming and going, many women as well as men, village folk, among +whom the dead girl’s fate had aroused a great deal of interest, and the +kind of horror which those who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than +avoid. +</p> + +<p> +Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to Ellen Green; +there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in the old inn, and the +witnesses had been accommodated, not only with chairs, but with cake and wine. +</p> + +<p> +She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had felt as if she +would like to run away from her nice, easy place, rather than have to get up +and tell the little that she knew of the sad business. +</p> + +<p> +But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had been a +kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on the clear, sensible +way she had given her evidence concerning the exact words the unhappy girl had +used. +</p> + +<p> +One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by an inquisitive +juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, low-ceilinged room. “Ought +not Miss Ellen Green,” so the man had asked, “to have told someone +of the girl’s threat? If she had done so, might not the girl have been +prevented from throwing herself into the lake?” And she, the witness, had +answered, with some asperity—for by that time the coroner’s kind +manner had put her at her ease—that she had not attached any importance +to what the girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman +could be so silly as to drown herself for love! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was going to be +present this afternoon would be like that country inquest of long ago. +</p> + +<p> +It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well how little by +little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, had got the whole truth +out—the story, that is, of how that horrid footman, whom she, Ellen +Green, had disliked from the first minute she had set eyes on him, had taken up +with another young woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be +elicited by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the +dead girl’s letters had been read out—piteous, queerly expressed +letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And the jury had +censured the young man most severely; she remembered the look on his face when +the people, shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the +crowded room. +</p> + +<p> +Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting that +long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow nothing +had ever happened to make her tell him about it. +</p> + +<p> +She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed to ask +him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where she was +thinking of going. +</p> + +<p> +And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head—no, +no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, never suspect her +of telling him a lie. +</p> + +<p> +Stop—had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after the +inquest was finished—if there was time, that is. She wondered uneasily +how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very little +had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be very formal—formal +and therefore short. +</p> + +<p> +She herself had one quite definite object—that of hearing the evidence of +those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving the spot where his +victims lay weltering in their still flowing blood. She was filled with a +painful, secret, and, yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who were so +positive about the matter would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After +all, a lot of people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day +before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a living man with +some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and where he spent his time +between his awful crimes. +</p> + +<p> +As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ellen,” he said, “it is time you went to the doctor. +You looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I’ll come along with you +as far as the station. You’re going by train, ain’t you? Not by +bus, eh? It’s a very long way to Ealing, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first +minute!” But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully and +sadly. +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting hung his head. “Why, to be sure I’d gone and clean +forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait till +to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone +else’s way!” she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting +really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, “I’ll +be all right, old man. Don’t you worry about me!” +</p> + +<p> +As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl she had put +over her long jacket more closely round her. +</p> + +<p> +She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. And yet, what +could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden with poor Bunting? Why, +’twould be enough to make a man go daft. Even she often felt as if she +could stand it no longer—as if she would give the world to tell +someone—anyone—what it was that she suspected, what deep in her +heart she so feared to be the truth. +</p> + +<p> +But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it was, soon +began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the last few days, for +she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house unprotected, as also a great +unwillingness to allow Bunting to come into contact with the lodger. +</p> + +<p> +When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There were two ways +of getting to St. Pancras—she could go by bus, or she could go by train. +She decided on the latter. But before turning into the station her eyes strayed +over the bills of the early afternoon papers lying on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +Two words, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +T<small>HE</small> A<small>VENGER</small>, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +stared up at her in varying type. +</p> + +<p> +Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, Mrs. Bunting +looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined to buy a paper, as many +of the people round her were doing. Her eyes were smarting, even now, from +their unaccustomed following of the close print in the paper Bunting took in. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be empty, save +for the presence of a police inspector. And once they were well away she +summoned up courage, and asked him the question she knew she would have to ask +of someone within the next few minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell me,” she said, in a low voice, “where death +inquests are held”—she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and +then concluded—“in the neighbourhood of King’s Cross?” +</p> + +<p> +The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at all the sort +of Londoner who goes to an inquest—there are many such—just for the +fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her neat black +coat and skirt; and the plain Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined +face. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to the Coroner’s Court myself.” he said +good-naturedly. “So you can come along of me. You see there’s that +big Avenger inquest going on to-day, so I think they’ll have had to make +other arrangements for—hum, hum—ordinary cases.” And as she +looked at him dumbly, he went on, “There’ll be a mighty crowd of +people at The Avenger inquest—a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to +say nothing of the public.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the inquest I’m going to,” faltered Mrs. +Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute +discomfort, yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was +going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest! +</p> + +<p> +During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense +and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown +friend, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such +an inquiry from a simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet—and yet +that was just what she was about to do herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got a reason for wanting to go there,” she murmured. It +was a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said reflectively. “A—a relative connected +with one of the two victims’ husbands, I presume?” +</p> + +<p> +And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Going to give evidence?” he asked casually, and then he turned and +looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no!” There was a world of horror, of fear in the +speaker’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. “Hadn’t seen her for +quite a long time, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never had, seen her. I’m from the country.” Something +impelled Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, +“At least, I was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will he be there?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was alluding. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean the husband,” went on the inspector hastily. “I felt +sorry for the last poor chap—I mean the husband of the last one—he +seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she’d been a good wife and a good +mother till she took to the drink.” +</p> + +<p> +“It always is so,” breathed out Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye.” He waited a moment. “D’you know anyone about the +court?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll take you in along o’ me. +You’d never get in by yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one’s charge, of +having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even now there +was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial about the whole +business. +</p> + +<p> +“If he knew—if he only knew what I know!” she kept saying +over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly form of +the police inspector. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tisn’t far—not three minutes,” he said +suddenly. “Am I walking too quick for you, ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not at all. I’m a quick walker.” +</p> + +<p> +And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, a densely +packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into +a high wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Better take my arm,” the inspector suggested. “Make way +there! Make way!” he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the +serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight of his +uniform. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucky you met me,” he said, smiling. “You’d never have +got through alone. And ’tain’t a nice crowd, not by any manner of +means.” +</p> + +<p> +The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a narrow +stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few men were out there, +smoking. +</p> + +<p> +Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of the yard, Mrs. +Bunting’s kind new friend took out his watch. “There’s +another twenty minutes before they’ll begin,” he said. +“There’s the mortuary”—he pointed with his thumb to a +low room built out to the right of the court. “Would you like to go in +and see them?” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked +down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a nice, +respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any morbid, +horrible curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do so. He suspected +her of being sister-in-law to one of The Avenger’s victims. +</p> + +<p> +They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued +yet eager, animated tones. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’d better sit down here,” he said considerately, +and, leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed +walls—“unless you’d rather be with the witnesses, that +is.” +</p> + +<p> +But again she said, “Oh, no!” And then, with an effort, +“Oughtn’t I to go into the court now, if it’s likely to be so +full?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you worry,” he said kindly. “I’ll see you +get a proper place. I must leave you now for a minute, but I’ll come back +in good time and look after you.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they were +going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about +her. +</p> + +<p> +Many of the gentlemen—they mostly wore tall hats and good +overcoats—standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She +picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated face +was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely advertised in +connection with a preparation for the hair—the preparation which in +happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had great faith in, and used, or so +he always said, with great benefit to himself. This gentleman was the centre of +an eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially +when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody. +</p> + +<p> +How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, from their +doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all +these men here together, to this sordid place, on this bitterly cold, dreary +day. Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, +mysterious personality—that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human +being who chose to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far +away from them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly trained +minds—aye, and bodies, too—at bay. +</p> + +<p> +Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her presence +among them. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<p> +It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long time—it +was really about a quarter of an hour—when her official friend came back. +</p> + +<p> +“Better come along now,” he whispered; “it’ll begin +soon.” +</p> + +<p> +She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, and so into +the Coroner’s Court. +</p> + +<p> +The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a chapel, the +more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a gallery evidently set +aside for the general public, for it was now crammed to its utmost capacity. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces. Had it not been +for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now following, it was there +that she would have had to try and make her way. And she would have failed. +Those people had rushed in the moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting +their way in a way she could never have pushed or fought. +</p> + +<p> +There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking women, +belonging to every class, but made one by their love of sensation and their +power of forcing their way in where they wanted to be. But the women were few; +the great majority of those standing there were men—men who were also +representative of every class of Londoner. +</p> + +<p> +The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three steps below +the surrounding gallery. Just now it was comparatively clear of people, save +for the benches on which sat the men who were to compose the jury. Some way +from these men, huddled together in a kind of big pew, stood seven +people—three women and four men. +</p> + +<p> +“D’you see the witnesses?” whispered the inspector, pointing +these out to her. He supposed her to know one of them with familiar knowledge, +but, if that were so, she made no sign. +</p> + +<p> +Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little platform, on +which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting guessed rightly that it was +there the coroner would sit. And to the left of the platform was the +witness-stand, also raised considerably above the jury. +</p> + +<p> +Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than the scene of +the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that bright April day, in the +village inn. There the coroner had sat on the same level as the jury, and the +witnesses had simply stepped forward one by one, and taken their place before +him. +</p> + +<p> +Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely die if ever +she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that curious box-like stand, and +she stared across at the bench where sat the seven witnesses with a feeling of +sincere pity in her heart. +</p> + +<p> +But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman witness looked +eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the centre of attention and +attraction to the general public. It was plain each was enjoying her part of +important, if humble, actress in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing +the attention of all London—it might almost be said of the whole world. +</p> + +<p> +Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was which. Was it +that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who had certainly, or almost +certainly, seen The Avenger within ten seconds of the double crime being +committed? The woman who, aroused by one of his victims’ cry of terror, +had rushed to her window and seen the murderer’s shadowy form pass +swiftly by in the fog? +</p> + +<p> +Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most +circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it was +supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed. +</p> + +<p> +Those two women now before her had been interrogated and cross-examined again +and again, not only by the police, but by representatives of every newspaper in +London. It was from what they had both said—unluckily their accounts +materially differed—that that official description of The Avenger had +been worked up—that which described him as being a good-looking, +respectable young fellow of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel. +</p> + +<p> +As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon companion of +the dead. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze on another +unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed through the whole length +of the shut-in space, that is, from the coroner’s high dais right across +to the opening in the wooden barrier, was an ink-splashed table at which, when +she had first taken her place, there had been sitting three men busily +sketching; but now every seat at the table was occupied by tired, +intelligent-looking men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of +paper, before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Them’s the reporters,” whispered her friend. “They +don’t like coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last to +go. At an ordinary inquest there are only two—maybe +three—attending, but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well +applied for a pass to that reporters’ table.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. “Now let me see +what I can do for you—” +</p> + +<p> +Then he beckoned to the coroner’s officer: “Perhaps you could put +this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a relation of the +deceased, but doesn’t want to be—” He whispered a word or +two, and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at Mrs. Bunting with +interest. “I’ll put her just here,” he muttered. +“There’s no one coming there to-day. You see, there are only seven +witnesses—sometimes we have a lot more than that.” +</p> + +<p> +And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite to where the seven +witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set faces, ready—aye, more than +ready—to play their part. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment every eye in the court was focused on Mrs. Bunting, but soon those +who had stared so hungrily, so intently, at her, realised that she had nothing +to do with the case. She was evidently there as a spectator, and, more +fortunate than most, she had a “friend at court,” and so was able +to sit comfortably, instead of having to stand in the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon some of the important-looking +gentlemen she had seen downstairs came into the court, and were ushered over to +her seat while two or three among them, including the famous writer whose face +was so familiar that it almost seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly +acquaintance, were accommodated at the reporters’ table. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen, the Coroner.” +</p> + +<p> +The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat down again; over the +spectators there fell a sudden silence. +</p> + +<p> +And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the first +time, that informal little country inquest of long ago. +</p> + +<p> +First came the “Oyez! Oyez!” the old Norman-French summons to all +whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death—sudden, +unexplained, terrible—of a fellow-being. +</p> + +<p> +The jury—there were fourteen of them—all stood up again. They +raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words of their +oath. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences ’twixt the coroner and +his officer. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies—he quickly +corrected himself—the body, for, technically speaking, the inquest just +about to be held only concerned one body. +</p> + +<p> +And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could be heard +through the court, the coroner—a clever-looking gentleman, though not so +old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to occupy so important a +position on so important a day—gave a little history, as it were, of the +terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes. +</p> + +<p> +He spoke very clearly, warming to his work as he went on. +</p> + +<p> +He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of The +Avenger’s former victims. “I only went through professional +curiosity,” he threw in by way of parenthesis, “little thinking, +gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would ever be +held in my court.” +</p> + +<p> +On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and though that +little was known to every one of his listeners. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her whisper to +another: “Drawing it out all he can; that’s what he’s doing. +Having the time of his life, evidently!” And then the other whispered +back, so low that she could only just catch the words, “Aye, aye. But +he’s a good chap—I knew his father; we were at school together. +Takes his job very seriously, you know—he does to-day, at any +rate.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which would relieve +her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm them. But the word, the +sentence, was never uttered. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did throw out a +hint which might mean anything—or nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence to-day as will in +time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has committed, and is still +committing, these terrible crimes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner’s firm, +determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any new +evidence—evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was ignorant? And, +as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart gave a sudden leap, for a +big, burly man had taken his place in the witness-box—a policeman who had +not been sitting with the other witnesses. +</p> + +<p> +But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply the +constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like tones he +described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, foggy morning ten days +ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it slowly, carefully, with a thick +finger. That was the exact place—no, he was making a mistake—that +was the place where the other body had lain. He explained apologetically that +he had got rather mixed up between the two bodies—that of Johanna Cobbett +and Sophy Hurtle. +</p> + +<p> +And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: “For the purpose of this +inquiry,” he said, “we must, I think, for a moment consider the two +murders together.” +</p> + +<p> +After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he proceeded, in a +quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of The Avenger’s acts came +over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood of sick fear and—and, yes, +remorse. +</p> + +<p> +Up to now she had given very little thought—if, indeed, any +thought—to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had +filled her thoughts,—he and those who were trying to track him down. But +now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here to-day. She wondered if she +would ever be able to get the vision the policeman’s words had conjured +up out of her mind—out of her memory. +</p> + +<p> +And then there came an eager stir of excitement and of attention throughout the +whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of the witness-box, and one +of the women witnesses was being conducted to his place. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, remembering how +she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that poor, bedraggled, +common-looking person was trembling now. The woman had looked so cheerful, +so—so well pleased with herself till a minute ago, but now she had become +very pale, and she looked round her as a hunted animal might have done. +</p> + +<p> +But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his manner, just as +that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on +that poor drowned girl. +</p> + +<p> +After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words of the +oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. At once Mrs. +Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed to have seen The Avenger +from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, as she went on, the witness +described how she had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech, and, aroused from +deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed and rushed to her window. +</p> + +<p> +The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. “Let me see! Here +is the plan. Yes—I think I understand that the house in which you are +lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were committed?” +</p> + +<p> +And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face the alley, +but the window of the witness’s bedroom faced the alley. +</p> + +<p> +“A distinction without a difference,” said the coroner testily. +“And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when you +looked out.” +</p> + +<p> +There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman broke out, +speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. “I saw +’im!” she cried. “I shall never forget it—no, not till +my dying day!” And she looked round defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had had with a +person who slept under this woman’s room. That person had unkindly said +she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that night—that she had +made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept lightly, and that night had +been tending a sick child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had been +either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping +out of bed. +</p> + +<p> +“We quite understand that you think you saw the”—the coroner +hesitated—“the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible +crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. In spite of +the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you say you saw him +distinctly, walking along for some yards below your window. Now, please, try +and tell us what he was like.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured handkerchief +she held in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us begin at the beginning,” said the coroner patiently. +“What sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from +the passage?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was just a black ’at” said the witness at last, in a +husky, rather anxious tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—just a black hat. And a coat—were you able to see what +sort of a coat he was wearing?” +</p> + +<p> +“’E ’adn’t got no coat” she said decidedly. +“No coat at all! I remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, +as it was so cold—everybody as can wears some sort o’ coat this +weather!” +</p> + +<p> +A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and apparently not +attending at all to what the witness was saying, here jumped up and put out his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” the coroner turned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I just want to say that this ’ere witness—if her name is +Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat—a big, heavy +coat. I’ve got it here, in this bit of paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never said so!” cried the woman passionately. “I was made +to say all those things by the young man what came to me from the <i>Evening Sun</i>. +Just put in what ’e liked in ’is paper, ’e did—not what +I said at all!” +</p> + +<p> +At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. +</p> + +<p> +“In future,” said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who +had now sat down again, “you must ask any question you wish to ask +through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my examination of +the witness.” +</p> + +<p> +But this interruption, this—this accusation, had utterly upset the +witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man she had seen +hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall—no, he was short. He was +thin—no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying +anything, there was quite an acrimonious discussion. +</p> + +<p> +Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had seen a +newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back—so she +declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that she had said nothing +of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first +account—in fact, to him she had declared confidently that the man had +carried nothing—nothing at all; that she had seen his arms swinging up +and down. +</p> + +<p> +One fact—if fact it could be called—the coroner did elicit. Lizzie +Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window he had +looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. +</p> + +<p> +“He looked up at you?” repeated the coroner. “You said +nothing of that in your examination.” +</p> + +<p> +“I said nothink because I was scared—nigh scared to death!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was dark +and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?” +</p> + +<p> +But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his desk; not a +creature in that court now believed the woman’s story. +</p> + +<p> +“Dark!” she answered dramatically. “Dark, almost black! If +you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.” +</p> + +<p> +And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the coroner bade +Lizzie Cole stand down. +</p> + +<p> +Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. +</p> + +<p> +This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. Being the +wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse situated about a +hundred yards from the alley or passage where the crimes had taken place, she +had gone out to take her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. +And a man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her +attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that +hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much from what +this witness had said that the official description of The Avenger had been +composed—that description which had brought such comfort to her, Ellen +Bunting’s, soul. +</p> + +<p> +This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the newspaper +parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a neat parcel,” she said, “done up with +string.” +</p> + +<p> +She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man to carry +such a parcel—that was what had made her notice it. But when pressed, she +had to admit that it had been a very foggy night—so foggy that she +herself had been afraid of losing her way, though every step was familiar. +</p> + +<p> +When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears told of her +acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna Cobbett, there was a stir +of sympathetic attention. But she had nothing to say throwing any light on the +investigation, save that she admitted reluctantly that “Anny” would +have been such a nice, respectable young woman if it hadn’t been for the +drink. +</p> + +<p> +Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that of the next +witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very respectable-looking man, +a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. He seemed to feel his position +most acutely. He hadn’t seen his wife for two years; he hadn’t had +news of her for six months. Before she took to drink she had been an admirable +wife, and—and yes, mother. +</p> + +<p> +Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or imagination to +understand, was spent when the father of the murdered woman was in the box. He +had had later news of his unfortunate daughter than her husband had had, but of +course he could throw no light at all on her murder or murderer. +</p> + +<p> +A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the public-house +closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He had stepped with a jaunty +air into the box, and came out of it looking cast down, uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly unexpected, +incident. It was one of which the evening papers made the utmost much to Mrs. +Bunting’s indignation. But neither coroner nor jury—and they, after +all, were the people who mattered—thought a great deal of it. +</p> + +<p> +There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had been heard, +and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, “They are now going to call +Dr. Gaunt. He’s been in every big murder case for the last thirty years. +He’s sure to have something interesting to say. It was really to hear him +<i>I</i> came.” +</p> + +<p> +But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with which he had +been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a stir among the general +public, or, rather, among those spectators who stood near the low wooden door +which separated the official part of the court from the gallery. +</p> + +<p> +The coroner’s officer, with an apologetic air, approached the coroner, +and handed him up an envelope. And again in an instant, there fell absolute +silence on the court. +</p> + +<p> +Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced down the +sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr.—” then he glanced down again. +“Mr.—ah—Mr.—is it Cannot?” he said doubtfully, +“may come forward.” +</p> + +<p> +There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned. +</p> + +<p> +A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, with a +fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from the place where he +had been standing among the general public, to the witness-box. +</p> + +<p> +“This is somewhat out of order, Mr.—er—Cannot,” said +the coroner severely. “You should have sent me this note before the +proceedings began. This gentleman,” he said, addressing the jury, +“informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to reveal in +connection with our investigation.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have remained silent—I have locked what I knew within my own +breast”—began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, “because I am +so afraid of the Press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, that my +house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. . . . I have a delicate +wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things—the state of things I +imagine—might cause her death—indeed, I hope she will never read a +report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she has an excellent trained +nurse—” +</p> + +<p> +“You will now take the oath,” said the coroner sharply. He already +regretted having allowed this absurd person to have his say. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum which had been lacking in +most of those who had preceded him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will address myself to the jury,” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“You will do nothing of the sort,” broke in the coroner. +“Now, please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who is +the—the—” +</p> + +<p> +“The Avenger,” put in Mr. Cannot promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met him on +the very night he committed the murder we are now investigating?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do so declare,” said Mr. Cannot confidently. “Though in +the best of health myself,”—he beamed round the court, a now +amused, attentive court—“it is my fate to be surrounded by sick +people, to have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private +affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out at so undue +an hour as one o’clock in the morning—” +</p> + +<p> +Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into broad smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” went on the witness solemnly, “I was with a sick +friend—in fact, I may say a dying friend, for since then he has passed +away. I will not reveal my exact dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my +notepaper. It is not necessary to reveal it, but you will understand me when I +say that in order to come home I had to pass through a portion of the +Regent’s Park; and it was there—to be exact, about the middle of +Prince’s Terrace—when a very peculiar-looking individual stopped +and accosted me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting’s hand shot up to her breast. A feeling of deadly fear took +possession of her. +</p> + +<p> +“I mustn’t faint,” she said to herself hurriedly. “I +mustn’t faint! Whatever’s the matter with me?” She took out +her bottle of smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff. +</p> + +<p> +“He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. Coroner, with a very +odd-looking face. I should say an educated man—in common parlance, a +gentleman. What drew my special attention to him was that he was talking aloud +to himself—in fact, he seemed to be repeating poetry. I give you my word, +I had no thought of The Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, I +thought this gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a man who’d got away +from his keeper. The Regent’s Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you, is a +most quiet and soothing neighbourhood—” +</p> + +<p> +And then a member of the general public gave a loud guffaw. +</p> + +<p> +“I appeal to you; sir,” the old gentleman suddenly cried out +“to protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come here with any +other object than that of doing my duty as a citizen!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant,” said the +coroner stiffly. “Time is going on, and I have another important witness +to call—a medical witness. Kindly tell me, as shortly as possible, what +made you suppose that this stranger could possibly be—” with an +effort he brought out for the first time since the proceedings began, the +words, “The Avenger?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am coming to that!” said Mr. Cannot hastily. “I am coming +to that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It was a foggy night, but +not as foggy as it became later. And just when we were passing one another, I +and this man, who was talking aloud to himself—he, instead of going on, +stopped and turned towards me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the +more so that there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as +soothingly as possible, ‘A very foggy night, sir.’ And he said, +‘Yes—yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of +dark and salutary deeds.’ A very strange phrase, sir, +that—‘dark and salutary deeds.’” He looked at the +coroner expectantly— </p> + +<p> +“Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person go off in +the direction of—of King’s Cross, for instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. “No, I must +honestly say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then he +crossed the road and was lost in the fog.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will do,” said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. “I +thank you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently +consider important information.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some of those +present tittered rather foolishly. +</p> + +<p> +As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked up at the +coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a murmur of talking going on, +but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard quite distinctly what it was that he said: +</p> + +<p> +“One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The man +carried a bag—a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left hand. It +was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled knife.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters’ table. She remembered suddenly that +she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth’s bag. And +then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a single reporter at +the long, ink-stained table had put down that last remark of Mr. Cannot. In +fact, not one of them had heard it. +</p> + +<p> +Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And then silence +did fall on the court. +</p> + +<p> +“One word more,” he said in a quavering voice. “May I ask to +be accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see there is +some room left on the witnesses’ bench.” And, without waiting for +permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was bending over +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you’d like to come along now,” he said +urgently.—“I don’t suppose you want to hear the medical +evidence. It’s always painful for a female to hear that. And +there’ll be an awful rush when the inquest’s over. I could get you +away quietly now.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed him +obediently. +</p> + +<p> +Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty, room +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll let you out the back way,” he said. “I expect +you’re tired, ma’am, and will like to get home to a cup o’ +tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know how to thank you!” There were tears in her +eyes. She was trembling with excitement and emotion. “You <i>have</i> been good +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said a little awkwardly. “I +expect you went though a pretty bad time, didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will they be having that old gentleman again?” she spoke in a +whisper, and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We’re troubled with a lot of those +sort of people, you know, ma’am, and they often do have funny names, too. +You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City, or what not; then they +retires when they gets about sixty, and they’re fit to hang themselves +with dulness. Why, there’s hundreds of lunies of the sort to be met in +London. You can’t go about at night and not meet ’em. Plenty of +’em!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you don’t think there was anything in what he said?” +she ventured. +</p> + +<p> +“In what that old gent said? Goodness—no!” he laughed +good-naturedly. “But I’ll tell you what I <i>do</i> think. If it +wasn’t for the time that had gone by, I should believe that the second +witness <i>had</i> seen that crafty devil—” he lowered his voice. +“But, there, Dr. Gaunt declares most positively—so did two other +medical gentlemen—that the poor creatures had been dead hours when they +was found. Medical gentlemen are always very positive about their evidence. +They have to be—otherwise who’d believe ’em? If we’d +time I could tell you of a case in which—well, ’twas all because of +Dr. Gaunt that the murderer escaped. We all knew perfectly well the man we +caught did it, but he was able to prove an alibi as to the time Dr. Gaunt <i>said</i> +the poor soul was killed.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<p> +It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, but Mrs. +Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go to Ealing. She felt +quite tired out and as if she could think of nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she began +listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt that it would do +her more good to stay out in the air than take the train. Also she would thus +put off the moment—the moment to which she looked forward with dread and +dislike—when she would have to invent a circumstantial story as to what +she had said to the doctor, and what the doctor had said to her. +</p> + +<p> +Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest in other +people’s ailments, the more interest that he was himself so remarkably +healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn’t tell him everything +that had happened; everything, that is, that the doctor had told her. +</p> + +<p> +As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, and +outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest edition of the +afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. “Avenger Inquest?” they +shouted exultantly. “All the latest evidence!” At one place, where +there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the pavement by stones, she +stopped and looked down. “Opening of the Avenger Inquest. What is he +really like? Full description.” On yet another ran the ironic query: +“Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. Bunting +turned sick—so sick and faint that she did what she had never done before +in her life—she pushed her way into a public-house, and, putting two +pennies down on the counter, asked for, and received, a glass of cold water. +</p> + +<p> +As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind dwelling +persistently—not on the inquest at which she had been present, not even +on The Avenger, but on his victims. +</p> + +<p> +Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the mortuary. She +seemed also to see that third body, which, though cold, must yet be warmer than +the other two, for at this time yesterday The Avenger’s last victim had +been alive, poor soul—alive and, according to a companion of hers whom +the papers had already interviewed, particularly merry and bright. +</p> + +<p> +Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of The +Avenger’s victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered wearily if this +fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear which encompassed her night +and day. +</p> + +<p> +As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. The narrow, +drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others exactly like it in +every single particular, save that their front yards were not so well kept, +looked as if it could, aye, and would, keep any secret closely hidden. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger’s victims receded from her mind. +She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were concentrated on +Bunting—Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what had happened during her +absence—whether the lodger had rung his bell, and, if so, how he had got +on with Bunting, and Bunting with him? +</p> + +<p> +She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a pleasant feeling +of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must have been watching for her +behind the now closely drawn curtains, for before she could either knock or +ring he had opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I was getting quite anxious about you,” he exclaimed. “Come +in, Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now—and you out so +little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all right?” He +looked at her with affectionate anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. “No,” +she said slowly, “Doctor Evans wasn’t in. I waited, and waited, and +waited, but he never came in at all. ’Twas my own fault,” she added +quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though she had, in +a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, she had no sight to +slander the doctor who had been so kind to her years ago. “I ought to +have sent him a card yesterday night,” she said. “Of course, I was +a fool to go all that way, just on chance of finding a doctor in. It stands to +reason they’ve got to go out to people at all times of day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope they gave you a cup of tea?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the doctor had a +decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered +a cup of tea, especially if she explained she’d known him a long time. +</p> + +<p> +She compromised. “I was offered some,” she said, in a weak, tired +voice. “But there, Bunting, I didn’t feel as if I wanted it. +I’d be very grateful for a cup now—if you’d just make it for +me over the ring.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Course I will,” he said eagerly. “You just come in +and sit down, my dear. Don’t trouble to take your things off +now—wait till you’ve had tea.” +</p> + +<p> +And she obeyed him. “Where’s Daisy?” she asked suddenly. +“I thought the girl would be back by the time I got home.” +</p> + +<p> +“She ain’t coming home to-day”—there was an odd, sly, +smiling look on Bunting’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Did she send a telegram?” asked Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“No. Young Chandler’s just come in and told me. He’s been +over there and,—would you believe it, Ellen?—he’s managed to +make friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain’t it? He +went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then +Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money to go to the play, and +she actually asked Joe to go with them this evening—she and +Daisy—to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o’ such a thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very nice for them, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bunting absently. +But she was pleased—pleased to have her mind taken off herself. +“Then when is that girl coming home?” she asked patiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it appears that Chandler’s got to-morrow morning off +too—this evening and to-morrow morning. He’ll be on duty all night, +but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early dinner. Will +that suit you, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That’ll be all right,” she said. “I don’t +grudge the girl her bit of pleasure. One’s only young once. By the way, +did the lodger ring while I was out?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to see the kettle +boil. “No,” he said. “Come to think of it, it’s rather +a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. Sleuth a thought. You +see, Chandler came in and was telling me all about Margaret, laughing-like, and +then something else happened while you was out, Ellen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something else happened?” she said in a startled voice. Getting up +from her chair she came towards her husband: “What happened? Who +came?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a young +lady’s birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter—one of +them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing—fell out just at the last +minute and so they had to send for me.” +</p> + +<p> +His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his old +friend’s business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very badly to +Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for ever so long, and +had always given every satisfaction. But this new man had never employed +him—no, not once. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you didn’t make yourself too cheap?” said his wife +jealously. +</p> + +<p> +“No, that I didn’t! I hum’d and haw’d a lot; and I +could see the fellow was quite worried—in fact, at the end he offered me +half-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!” +</p> + +<p> +Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long time. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t mind being alone, here? I don’t count the +lodger—he’s no good—” Bunting looked at her anxiously. +He was only prompted to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so +queer, so unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that +she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been so in the +days when he got more jobs. +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him, a little suspiciously. “I be afraid?” she +echoed. “Certainly not. Why should I be? I’ve never been afraid +before. What d’you exactly mean by that, Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone on this +ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young fool Chandler came, +dressed up, to the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t have been frightened if he’d just been an +ordinary stranger,” she said shortly. “He said something silly to +me—just in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I +feel better now.” +</p> + +<p> +As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise outside, the +shouts of newspaper-sellers. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll just run out,” said Bunting apologetically, “and +see what happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue about +the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it—when he +wasn’t talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He’s on to-night, +luckily not till twelve o’clock; plenty of time to escort the two of +’em back after the play. Besides, he said he’ll put them into a cab +and blow the expense, if the panto’ goes on too long for him to take +’em home.” +</p> + +<p> +“On to-night?” repeated Mrs. Bunting. “Whatever for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see, The Avenger’s always done ’em in couples, so +to speak. They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again to-night. +However, even so, Joe’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. +Then he’ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, Fine +thing to be young, ain’t it, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as +this!” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>do</i> you mean?” said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken +so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. +</p> + +<p> +“What do I mean?” she repeated—and a great fear clutched at +her heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, by saying he won’t go out. Of course, he has to go out. +Besides, he’ll have been to the play as it is. ’Twould be a pretty +thing if the police didn’t go out, just because it was cold!” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I was thinking of The Avenger,” said Mrs. Bunting. She +looked at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter those +true words. +</p> + +<p> +“He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold,” said Bunting +sombrely. “I take it the man’s dead to all human +feeling—saving, of course, revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that’s your idea about him, is it?” She looked across at +her husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between them +attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. +“D’you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man +what passed her with a newspaper parcel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see,” he said slowly. “I thought that ’twas +from the bedroom window a woman saw him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. I mean the <i>other</i> woman, what was taking her husband’s +breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most respectable-looking +woman of the two,” said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +And then, seeing her husband’s look of utter, blank astonishment, she +felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly mad to have +said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. “There, +now,” she said; “here I am gossiping all about nothing when I ought +to be seeing about the lodger’s supper. It was someone in the train +talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The Avenger.” +</p> + +<p> +Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the gas, and shut +the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to buy the paper they had +both forgotten during their dangerous discussion. +</p> + +<p> +As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, Mrs. Bunting +found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite unnaturally cold even +for the time of year. +</p> + +<p> +She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed by the +washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that stand aside and light +a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going to be out to-night. He would +have to put on his dress clothes, and she didn’t like his dressing in the +sitting-room. It didn’t suit her ideas that he should do so. How if she +did light the fire here, in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit +of fire to cheer her up after he had gone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little sleep the +coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, at her nice, soft bed. +There she would lie, on that couch of little ease, listening—listening. . +. . +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth’s +supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so as not to +have to hurry back before it suited her to do so. +</p> + +<p> +Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she listened. Even +in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good fire, how cold the lodger must +feel sitting studying at the table! But unwonted sounds were coming through the +door. Mr. Sleuth was moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as +was his wont at this time of the evening. +</p> + +<p> +She knocked, and then waited a moment. +</p> + +<p> +There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in the lock of +the chiffonnier cupboard—or so Mr. Sleuth’s landlady could have +sworn. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause—she knocked again. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and +carried in the tray. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?” he +said, with a touch of irritation in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ve been out. Perhaps I lost +count of the time. I thought you’d like your breakfast early, as you had +dinner rather sooner than usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure! I meant supper.” He looked +at her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible questioning +look in his dark, sunken eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you well?” he said slowly. “You don’t +look well, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” she said. “I’m not well. I went over to see +a doctor this afternoon, to Ealing, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting”—the lodger’s +voice had become softer, kinder in quality. +</p> + +<p> +“It always does me good to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Bunting +evasively. +</p> + +<p> +And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth’s face. “Doctors are a +maligned body of men,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you speak +well of them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable to +err, but I assure you they do their best.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I’m sure they do, sir”—she spoke heartily, +sincerely. Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously. +</p> + +<p> +And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger’s one hot dish upon +it, she went towards the door. “Wouldn’t you like me to bring up +another scuttleful of coals, sir? it’s bitterly cold—getting colder +every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in—” she looked at +him deprecatingly. +</p> + +<p> +And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. Pushing his +chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full height. +</p> + +<p> +“What d’you mean?” he stammered. “Why did you say that, +Mrs. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an awful +questioning look over his face. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He’s got a job to-night. +He’s going to act as waiter at a young lady’s birthday party. I was +thinking it’s a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, +too”—she brought out her words jerkily. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. “Ah!” +he said. “Dear me—I’m sorry to hear that! I hope your husband +will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy +washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. +</p> + +<p> +Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. +</p> + +<p> +“Time for you to dress,” she cried out cheerfully, “and +I’ve got a little bit of fire for you to dress by.” +</p> + +<p> +As he exclaimed at her extravagance, “Well, ’twill be pleasant for +me, too; keep me company-like while you’re out; and make the room nice +and warm when you come in. You’ll be fair perished, even walking that +short way,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs and +cleared away Mr. Sleuth’s supper. +</p> + +<p> +The lodger said no word while she was so engaged—no word at all. +</p> + +<p> +He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him to do, and +staring into the fire, his hands on his knees. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, a great rush +of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting’s heart. He was +such a—a—she searched for a word in her mind, but could only find +the word “gentle”—he was such a nice, gentle gentleman, was +Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving his money about, as he had +done the first day or two, and with some concern his landlady had seen that the +store had diminished a good deal. A very simple calculation had made her +realise that almost the whole of that missing money had come her way, or, at +any rate, had passed through her hands. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his landlord and +his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. And Mrs. Bunting’s +conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly ever used that room +upstairs—that room for which he had paid extra so generously. If Bunting +got another job or two through that nasty man in Baker Street,—and now +that the ice had been broken between them it was very probable that he would do +so, for he was a very well-trained, experienced waiter—then she thought +she would tell Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he +was now doing. +</p> + +<p> +She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, sir,” she said at last. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you’ll sleep well, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a +little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been studying all +day I require a little exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I wouldn’t go out to-night,” she said deprecatingly. +“’Tisn’t fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet—and yet”—he looked at her +attentively—“there will probably be many people out in the streets +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“A many more than usual, I fear, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” said Mr. Sleuth quickly. “Is it not a strange +thing, Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse themselves +should carry their revels far into the night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of revellers, sir; I was +thinking”—she hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting +brought out the words, “of the police.” +</p> + +<p> +“The police?” He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or +three times with a nervous gesture. “But what is man—what is +man’s puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over +whose feet God has set a guard?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up his face, +and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then she had not offended +her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, that—was it a hint she +had meant to convey to him? +</p> + +<p> +“Very true, sir,” she said respectfully. “But Providence +means us to take care o’ ourselves too.” And then she closed the +door behind her and went downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She came +into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think the next +morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger’s meal on her table. +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. +</p> + +<p> +The fire was burning brightly and clearly. She told herself that she did not +need any other light to undress by. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She lay thinking and listening—listening and thinking. It even occurred +to her to do the one thing that might have quieted her excited brain—to +get a book, one of those detective stories of which Bunting had a slender store +in the next room, and then, lighting the gas, to sit up and read. +</p> + +<p> +No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read in bed, and she +was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything that she had been told was +wrong. . . . +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<p> +It was a very cold night—so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was the +atmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved a really +pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his way this evening, all the +more welcome because it was quite unexpected! The young lady at whose birthday +party he had been present in capacity of waiter had come into a fortune that +day, and she had had the gracious, the surprising thought of presenting each of +the hired waiters with a sovereign! +</p> + +<p> +This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had gone to +Bunting’s heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservative principles; +only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet, old-fashioned, respectable, +gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom those nasty Radicals know nothing and +care less! +</p> + +<p> +But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been. Slackening his +footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern of how queer his wife had +seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous, so “jumpy,” that he +didn’t know what to make of her sometimes. She had never been really +good-tempered—your capable, self-respecting woman seldom is—but she +had never been like what she was now. And she didn’t get better as the +days went on; in fact she got worse. Of late she had been quite hysterical, and +for no reason at all! Take that little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. +Ellen knew quite well he often had to go about in some kind of disguise, and +yet how she had gone on, quite foolish-like—not at all as one would have +expected her to do. +</p> + +<p> +There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in more senses than +one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had taken to talking in her sleep. +“No, no, no!” she had cried out, only the night before. “It +isn’t true—I won’t have it said—it’s a +lie!” And there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her +usually quiet, mincing voice. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves. +</p> + +<p> +He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walking more +quickly. +</p> + +<p> +As he tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sight of his lodger +walking along the opposite side of the solitary street—one of those short +streets leading off the broad road which encircles Regent’s Park. +</p> + +<p> +Well! This was a funny time o’ night to be taking a stroll for pleasure, +like! +</p> + +<p> +Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth’s tall, thin figure was +rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. His left arm was +thrust into his long Inverness cape, and so was quite hidden, but the other +side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger were carrying a bag or parcel in +the hand which hung down straight. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talked aloud, which, +as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who live much alone. It was +clear that he had not yet become aware of the proximity of his landlord. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger was certainly a most +eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not, that that odd, luny-like +gentleman should have made all the difference to his, Bunting’s, and Mrs. +Bunting’s happiness and comfort in life? +</p> + +<p> +Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for the first +time, of this perfect lodger’s one fault—his odd dislike to meat, +and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food. +</p> + +<p> +But there, you can’t have everything! The more so that the lodger was not +one of those crazy vegetarians who won’t eat eggs and cheese. No, he was +reasonable in this, as in everything else connected with his dealings with the +Buntings. +</p> + +<p> +As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife. Indeed, he +had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr. Sleuth had been with them, +and when his landlord had had occasion to wait on him the lodger had remained +silent. Indeed, their gentleman had made it very clear that he did not like +either the husband or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitely +asked to do so. +</p> + +<p> +Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genial conversation? +Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increased his general comfortable +sense of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +So it was that the butler, still an active man for his years, crossed over the +road, and, stepping briskly forward, began trying to overtake Mr. Sleuth. But +the more he hurried along, the more the other hastened, and that without ever +turning round to see whose steps he could hear echoing behind him on the now +freezing pavement. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth’s own footsteps were quite inaudible—an odd +circumstance, when you came to think of it—as Bunting did think of it +later, lying awake by Mrs. Bunting’s side in the pitch darkness. What it +meant of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes. Now Bunting +had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down to him to clean. He had +always supposed the lodger had only one pair of outdoor boots. +</p> + +<p> +The two men—the pursued and the pursuer—at last turned into the +Marylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home. Plucking up +courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly on the still air: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!” +</p> + +<p> +The lodger stopped and turned round. +</p> + +<p> +He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physical condition, +that the sweat was pouring down his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! So it’s you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and I +hurried on. I wish I’d known that it was you; there are so many queer +characters about at night in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have business out of +doors would be out such a night as this. It <i>is</i> cold, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +And then into Bunting’s slow and honest mind there suddenly crept the +query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth’s own business out could be on this +bitter night. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold?” the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words +came out sharp and quick through his thin lips. “I can’t say that I +find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air always becomes +milder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; but to-night there’s such a sharp east wind. Why, it +freezes the very marrow in one’s bones! Still, there’s nothing like +walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange way; he +walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, on the wall side, +to his landlord. +</p> + +<p> +“I lost my way,” he said abruptly. “I’ve been over +Primrose Hill to see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a +lad, and then, coming back, I lost my way.” +</p> + +<p> +Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the shabby, paved +court in front of the house—that gate which now was never locked. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged path, when, +with a “By your leave, sir,” the ex-butler, stepping aside, slipped +in front of his lodger, in order to open the front door for him. +</p> + +<p> +As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting’s bare left hand brushed +lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was wearing, and, to +Bunting’s surprise, the stretch of cloth against which his hand lay for a +moment was not only damp, damp maybe from stray flakes of snow which had +settled upon it, but wet—wet and gluey. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other that he +placed the key in the lock of the door. +</p> + +<p> +The two men passed into the hall together. +</p> + +<p> +The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up road outside, +and as he groped forward, closely followed by the lodger, there came over +Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing +knowledge of frightful immediate danger. +</p> + +<p> +A stuffless voice—the voice of his first wife, the long-dead girl to whom +his mind so seldom reverted nowadays—uttered into his ear the words, +“Take care!” +</p> + +<p> +And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, though not loud. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, +foul, on my coat? It’s too long a story to tell you now, but I brushed up +against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put +an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, no. I didn’t notice nothing. I scarcely touched you, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Taking off his boots, he crept into the room where his wife lay asleep. +Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and dipped a hand into the +water-jug. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?” came a voice +from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m just washing my hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, you’re doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such a +thing—putting your hand into the water in which I was going to wash my +face to-morrow morning!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very sorry, Ellen,” he said meekly; “I meant to +throw it away. You don’t suppose I would have let you wash in dirty +water, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting lay staring +at him in a way that made her husband feel even more uncomfortable than he was +already. +</p> + +<p> +At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence by telling +Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, but that sovereign now +seemed to Bunting of no more account than if it had been a farthing he had +picked up in the road outside. +</p> + +<p> +Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that you don’t know that you’ve left the light +burning in the hall, wasting our good money?” she observed tartly. +</p> + +<p> +He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as she had +said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money—or, rather, Mr. +Sleuth’s good money. Since he had come to be their lodger they had not +had to touch their rent money. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and so to +bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and wife lay awake till +dawn. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The next morning Mr. Sleuth’s landlord awoke with a start; he felt +curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven +o’clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the blind +a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the way when it snows, +even in London, everything was strangely, curiously still. After he had dressed +he went out into the passage. As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their +newspaper was already lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being +pushed through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful sleep. +</p> + +<p> +He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, shutting the door +behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper wide open on the table, and bent +over it. +</p> + +<p> +As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression of intense +relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he had felt certain would +be printed in big type on the middle sheet was not there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<p> +Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit the gas-ring +to make his wife her morning cup of tea. +</p> + +<p> +While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: +</p> + +<p> +“Bunting!” she cried weakly. “Bunting!” Quickly he +hurried in response to her call. “Yes,” he said. “What is it, +my dear? I won’t be a minute with your tea.” And he smiled broadly, +rather foolishly. +</p> + +<p> +She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you grinning at?” she asked suspiciously. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had a wonderful piece of luck,” he explained. +“But you was so cross last night that I simply didn’t dare tell you +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, tell me now,” she said in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her +birthday party, Ellen, and she’d come into a nice bit of money, and she +gave each of us waiters a sovereign.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What time d’you expect Daisy?” she asked languidly. +“You didn’t say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was +talking about it yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t I? Well, I expect they’ll be in to dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?” +said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting’s round +face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing if he +couldn’t have his own daughter for a bit—especially now that they +were doing so well! +</p> + +<p> +“Daisy’ll stay here just as long as she can,” he said +shortly. “It’s too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps +you all she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, ’twould +be cruel—cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and that young +chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that even you would see the +justice o’ that!” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling now, so he +made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, his heart softened. +Ellen did look really ill—ill and wizened. He wondered if she had a pain +about which she wasn’t saying anything. She had never been one to grouse +about herself. +</p> + +<p> +“The lodger and me came in together last night,” he observed +genially. “He’s certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It +wasn’t the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now +was it? And yet he must ’a been out a long time if what he said was +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded +streets,” she said slowly. “They gets worse every day—that +they do! But go along now; I want to get up.” +</p> + +<p> +He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire and put a match +to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with a feeling of +shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible thoughts and suspicions +as had possessed him suddenly come into his head? And just because of a +trifling thing like that blood. No doubt Mr. Sleuth’s nose had +bled—that was what had happened; though, come to think of it, he <i>had</i> +mentioned brushing up against a dead animal. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn’t do for one to be always +thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It made one go +dotty—that’s what it did. +</p> + +<p> +And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a loud knock, +the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before he had time to get +across the room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had rushed through the +room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go,” she cried breathlessly. “I’ll go, +Bunting; don’t you trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the telegram from +the invisible boy. “You needn’t wait,” she said. “If +there’s an answer we’ll send it out ourselves.” Then she tore +the envelope open—“Oh!” she said with a gasp of relief. +“It’s only from Joe Chandler, to say he can’t go over to +fetch Daisy this morning. Then you’ll have to go.” +</p> + +<p> +She walked back into their sitting-room. “There!” she said. +“There it is, Bunting. You just read it.” +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as +arranged.—C<small>HANDLER</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder why he’s on duty?” said Bunting slowly, +uncomfortably. “I thought Joe’s hours was as regular as +clockwork—that nothing could make any difference to them. However, there +it is. I suppose it’ll do all right if I start about eleven +o’clock? It may have left off snowing by then. I don’t feel like +going out again just now. I’m pretty tired this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“You start about twelve,” said his wife quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll give plenty of time.” +</p> + +<p> +The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a letter from Old +Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a little under a week from now. +Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and +though Mrs. Bunting often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, +there came no sounds at all from overhead. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more cheerful +than they had done for a long time. They had quite a pleasant little chat when +Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, before going down to prepare Mr. +Sleuth’s breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +“Daisy will be surprised to see you—not to say disappointed!” +she observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at the +thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made him stay on a +little longer. “There’s no such great hurry as that,” she +said good-temperedly. “It’ll do quite well if you’re there by +half-past twelve. I’ll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn’t help +with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard.” +</p> + +<p> +But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and his wife went +with him to the front door. It was still snowing, less heavily, but still +snowing. There were very few people coming and going, and only just a few cabs +and carts dragging cautiously along through the slush. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a knock at the +door—a now very familiar ring and knock. “Joe thinks Daisy’s +home again by now!” she said, smiling to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler’s voice. +“Don’t be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!” But though not +exactly scared, she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up +to represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, with +his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his seedy-looking, +ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t a minute,” he said a little breathlessly. +“But I thought I’d just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home +again. You got my telegram all right? I couldn’t send no other kind of +message.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s not back yet. Her father hasn’t been gone long after +her.” Then, struck by a look in his eyes, “Joe, what’s the +matter?” she asked quickly. +</p> + +<p> +There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, while what +little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said. “Well, Mrs. Bunting, I’ve no business +to say anything about it—but I <i>will</i> tell <i>you!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind him. +“There’s been another of ’em!” he whispered. “But +this time no one is to know anything about it—not for the present, I +mean,” he corrected himself hastily. “The Yard thinks we’ve +got a clue—and a good clue, too, this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where—and how?” faltered Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the +present”—he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. “The +poor soul was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by chance +’twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his way home, over +Hampstead way. He knew where he’d be able to get an ambulance quick, and +he made a very clever, secret job of it. I ’spect he’ll get +promotion for that!” +</p> + +<p> +“What about the clue?” asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. +“You said there was a clue?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t rightly understand about the clue myself. All I +knows is it’s got something to do with a public-house, ‘The Hammer +and Tongs,’ which isn’t far off there. They feels sure The Avenger +was in the bar just on closing-time.” +</p> + +<p> +And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural the police +should suspect a public-house loafer. “Then that’s why you +wasn’t able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “Mum’s the word, Mrs. Bunting! It’ll all be in the +last editions of the evening newspapers—it can’t be kep’ out. +There’d be too much of a row if ’twas!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going off to that public-house now?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am. I’ve got a awk’ard job—to try and worm +something out of the barmaid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something out of the barmaid?” repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. +“Why, whatever for?” +</p> + +<p> +He came and stood close to her. “They think ’twas a +gentleman,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. “Whatever makes +them think such a silly thing as that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with a +leather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass of milk. And +what d’you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! He wouldn’t +take no change—just made the girl a present of it! That’s why the +young woman what served him seems quite unwilling to give him away. She +won’t tell now what he was like. She doesn’t know what he’s +wanted for, and we don’t want her to know just yet. That’s one +reason why nothing’s being said public about it. But there! I really must +be going now. My time’ll be up at three o’clock. I thought of +coming in on the way back, and asking you for a cup o’ tea, Mrs. +Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do,” she said. “Do, Joe. You’ll be welcome,” but +there was no welcome in her tired voice. +</p> + +<p> +She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to her kitchen, and +began cooking Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Bunting and Daisy +might be home, and they’d want something, too. Margaret always had +breakfast even when “the family” were away, unnaturally early. +</p> + +<p> +As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of all thought. But +it is very difficult to do that when one is in a state of torturing +uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler what they supposed that man who +had gone into the public-house was really like. It was fortunate, indeed, that +the lodger and that inquisitive young chap had never met face to face. +</p> + +<p> +At last Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang—a quiet little tinkle. But when she +went up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the cloth on the +table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs, +and her quick ears detected the slight whirring sound which showed that the +gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had already lit the stove; that meant that he +would carry out some elaborate experiment this afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Still snowing?” he said doubtfully. “How very, very quiet +and still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known it quite +as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A very pleasant change +from the shouting which sometimes goes on in the Marylebone Road.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said dully. “It’s awful quiet +to-day—too quiet to my thinking. ’Tain’t natural-like.” +</p> + +<p> +The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that someone coming in here?” asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a +quick, hissing breath. “Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window +and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +And his landlady obeyed him. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only Bunting, sir—Bunting and his daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Is that all?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She had never been +quite so near to the lodger before, save on that first day when she had been +showing him her rooms. +</p> + +<p> +Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if aware that +someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face up towards the window +and smiled at her stepmother, and at the lodger, whose face she could only +dimly discern. +</p> + +<p> +“A very sweet-looking young girl,” said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. +And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. Bunting very much +aback. +</p> + +<p> +“Wordsworth,” he murmured dreamily. “A poet too little read +nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, for youth, +for innocence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir?” Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. “Your +breakfast will be getting cold, sir, if you don’t have it now.” +</p> + +<p> +He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child rebuked might +have done. +</p> + +<p> +And then his landlady left him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Bunting cheerily. “Everything went off quite all +right. And Daisy’s a lucky girl—that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave +her five shillings.” +</p> + +<p> +But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought to do. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope nothing’s happened to Mr. Chandler,” she said a +little disconsolately. “The very last words he said to me last night was +that he’d be there at ten o’clock. I got quite fidgety as the time +went on and he didn’t come.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been here,” said Mrs. Bunting slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Been here?” cried her husband. “Then why on earth +didn’t he go and fetch Daisy, if he’d time to come here?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was on the way to his job,” his wife answered. “You run +along, child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself +useful.” +</p> + +<p> +And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her stepmother +didn’t want her to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve something to tell you, Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” He looked across uneasily. “Yes, Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s been another o’ those murders. But the police +don’t want anyone to know about it—not yet. That’s why Joe +couldn’t go over and fetch Daisy. They’re all on duty again.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the mantelpiece. He +had gone very red, but his wife was far too much concerned with her own +feelings and sensations to notice it. +</p> + +<p> +There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a great effort to +appear unconcerned. +</p> + +<p> +“And where did it happen?” he asked. “Close to the other +one?” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated, then: “I don’t know. He didn’t say. But +hush!” she added quickly. “Here’s Daisy! Don’t +let’s talk of that horror in front of her-like. Besides, I promised +Chandler I’d be mum.” +</p> + +<p> +And he acquiesced. +</p> + +<p> +“You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away the +lodger’s breakfast.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried +upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. “I +don’t feel well to-day,” he said fretfully. “And, Mrs. +Bunting? I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I +saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, but I should +like to do so now.” +</p> + +<p> +She flew downstairs. “Bunting,” she said a little breathlessly, +“the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting handed it over to her. “I’ve read it through,” he +observed. “You can tell him that I don’t want it back again.” +</p> + +<p> +On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third of the +space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in rather large +characters: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic +reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which was almost +certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his double murder ten days +ago.” +</p> + +<p> +She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. +</p> + +<p> +“Kindly put the paper down on the table,” came Mr. Sleuth’s +muffled voice from the upper landing. +</p> + +<p> +She did so. “Yes, sir. And Bunting don’t want the paper back again, +sir. He says he’s read it.” And then she hurried out of the room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<p> +All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, listening +and waiting—Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; Daisy for the +knock which would herald Joe Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +And about four there came the now familiar sound. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the front door she +whispered, “We haven’t said anything to Daisy yet. Young girls +can’t keep secrets.” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked the low character he had assumed +to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, and tired out. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of welcome, when she +saw how cleverly he was disguised. +</p> + +<p> +“I never!” she exclaimed. “What a difference it do make, to +be sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. Chandler.” +</p> + +<p> +And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much that he +quite cheered up. Bunting had been very dull and quiet all that afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t take me ten minutes to make myself respectable +again,” said the young man rather ruefully. +</p> + +<p> +His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came to the +conclusion that he had been unsuccessful—that he had failed, that is, in +getting any information worth having. And though, in a sense, they all had a +pleasant tea together, there was an air of constraint, even of discomfort, over +the little party. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting felt it hard that he couldn’t ask the questions that were +trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during the last +month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, but now it seemed +almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of half suspense. There was one +important fact he longed to know, and at last came his opportunity of doing so, +for Joe Chandler rose to leave, and this time it was Bunting who followed him +out into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did it happen?” he whispered. “Just tell me that, +Joe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Primrose Hill,” said the other briefly. “You’ll know +all about it in a minute or two, for it’ll be all in the last editions of +the evening papers. That’s what’s been arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +“No arrest I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler shook his head despondently. “No,” he said, +“I’m inclined to think the Yard was on a wrong tack altogether this +time. But one can only do one’s best. I don’t know if Mrs. Bunting +told you I’d got to question a barmaid about a man who was in her place +just before closing-time. Well, she’s said all she knew, and it’s +as clear as daylight to me that the eccentric old gent she talks about was only +a harmless luny. He gave her a sovereign just because she told him she was a +teetotaller!” He laughed ruefully. +</p> + +<p> +Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. “Well, that’s a queer +thing for a barmaid to be!” he exclaimed. “She’s niece to the +people what keeps the public,” explained Chandler; and then he went out +of the front door with a cheerful “So long!” +</p> + +<p> +When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy had disappeared. She had +gone downstairs with the tray. “Where’s my girl?” he said +irritably. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s just taken the tray downstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called out sharply, +“Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father,” came her eager, happy voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Better come up out of that cold kitchen.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned and came back to his wife. “Ellen, is the lodger in? I +haven’t heard him moving about. Now mind what I says, please! I +don’t want Daisy to be mixed up with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sleuth don’t seem very well to-day,” answered Mrs. +Bunting quietly. “’Tain’t likely I should let Daisy have +anything to do with him. Why, she’s never even seen him. +’Tain’t likely I should allow her to begin waiting on him +now.” +</p> + +<p> +But though she was surprised and a little irritated by the tone in which +Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of the truth illumined her mind. So accustomed +had she become to bearing alone the burden of her awful secret, that it would +have required far more than a cross word or two, far more than the fact that +Bunting looked ill and tired, for her to have come to suspect that her secret +was now shared by another, and that other her husband. +</p> + +<p> +Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trembled at the thought of her +house being invaded by the police, but that was only because she had always +credited the police with supernatural powers of detection. That they should +come to know the awful fact she kept hidden in her breast would have seemed to +her, on the whole, a natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly suspect +it appeared beyond the range of possibility. +</p> + +<p> +And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering over the +fire—saying nothing, doing nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, father, ain’t you well?” the girl asked more than once. +</p> + +<p> +And, looking up, he would answer, “Yes, I’m well enough, my girl, +but I feels cold. It’s awful cold. I never did feel anything like the +cold we’ve got just now.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside. +</p> + +<p> +“The Avenger again!” “Another horrible crime!” +“Extra speshul edition!”—such were the shouts, the exultant +yells, hurled through the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet +room. +</p> + +<p> +Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy’s cheeks grew pink +with excitement, and her eye sparkled. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D’you hear that?” she exclaimed +childishly, and even clapped her hands. “I do wish Mr. Chandler had been +here. He <i>would</i> ’a been startled!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, Daisy!” and Bunting frowned. +</p> + +<p> +Then, getting up, he stretched himself. “It’s fair getting on my +mind,” he said, “these horrible things happening. I’d like to +get right away from London, just as far as I could—that I would!” +</p> + +<p> +“Up to John-o’-Groat’s?” said Daisy, laughing. And +then, “Why, father, ain’t you going out to get a paper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose I must.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, he put on +his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, and walked down the +flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped out on the pavement, then +crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys now stood. +</p> + +<p> +The boy nearest to him only had the <i>Sun</i>—a late edition of the paper he +had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a ha’penny rag +of which he already knew the main contents. But there was nothing else to do. +</p> + +<p> +Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was bitingly cold; +that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked down at the big headlines. +For Bunting had been very unfair to the enterprise of the editor of his +favourite evening paper. This special edition was full of new matter—new +matter concerning The Avenger. +</p> + +<p> +First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement that The +Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had chosen quite a new +locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising ground known to Londoners as +Primrose Hill. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“The police,” so Bunting read, “are very reserved as to the +circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger’s +latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess several really +important clues, and that one of them is concerned with the half-worn rubber +sole of which we are the first to reproduce an outline to-day. (See over +page.)” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline he had +already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting to be a facsimile +of the imprint left by The Avenger’s rubber sole. +</p> + +<p> +He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the space which +should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, sinking feeling of +terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had been tracked by the marks their +boots or shoes had made at or near the scenes of their misdoings. +</p> + +<p> +Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial kind was the +cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already visualised early this very +afternoon the little row with which he dealt each morning—first came his +wife’s strong, serviceable boots, then his own two pairs, a good deal +patched and mended, and next to his own Mr. Sleuth’s strong, hardly worn, +and expensive buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high-heeled pair +of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for her trip to +London, had ended the row. The girl had worn these thin shoes persistently, in +defiance of Ellen’s reproof and advice, and he, Bunting, had only once +had to clean her more sensible country pair, and that only because the others +had become wet through the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to +Scotland Yard. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going in again, of +hearing his wife’s sarcastic comments, of parrying Daisy’s eager +questions, had become intolerable. So he walked slowly, trying to put off the +evil moment when he would have to tell them what was in his paper. +</p> + +<p> +The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite the house. +It was rather to the right of it. And when, having crossed over the roadway, he +walked along the pavement towards his own gate, he heard odd, shuffling sounds +coming from the inner side of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard +from the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward to drive +out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had trouble, before the cold +weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter there. But to-night he stayed +outside, listening intently, sick with suspense and fear. +</p> + +<p> +Was it possible that their place was being watched—already? He thought it +only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited the police with almost +supernatural powers, especially since he had paid that visit to Scotland Yard. +</p> + +<p> +But to Bunting’s amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who +suddenly loomed up in the dim light. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form had been quite +concealed till he stepped forward from behind the low wall on to the flagged +path leading to the front door. +</p> + +<p> +The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked along, the new +boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of hard nail-studded heels rang +out on the flat-stones of the narrow path. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was his lodger +had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. Sleuth had evidently been +out to buy himself another pair of new boots, and then he had gone inside the +gate and had put them on, placing his old footgear in the paper in which the +new pair had been wrapped. +</p> + +<p> +The ex-butler waited—waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. Sleuth +had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had time to get well +away, upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in the door. +He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and coat up in the hall as +he dared, in fact till his wife called out to him. Then he went in, and +throwing the paper down on the table, he said sullenly: “There it is! You +can see it all for yourself—not that there’s very much to +see,” and groped his way to the fire. +</p> + +<p> +His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. “Whatever have you done to +yourself?” she exclaimed. “You’re ill—that’s what +it is, Bunting. You got a chill last night!” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you I’d got a chill,” he muttered. +“’Twasn’t last night, though; ’twas going out this +morning, coming back in the bus. Margaret keeps that housekeeper’s room +o’ hers like a hothouse—that’s what she does. ’Twas +going out from there into the biting wind, that’s what did for me. It +must be awful to stand about in such weather; ’tis a wonder to me how +that young fellow, Joe Chandler, can stand the life—being out in all +weathers like he is.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what was in the +paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Those that keep out o’ doors all day never do come to no +harm,” said his wife testily. “But if you felt so bad, whatever was +you out so long for, Bunting? I thought you’d gone away somewhere! +D’you mean you only went to get the paper?” +</p> + +<p> +“I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp,” he +muttered apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +“That was a silly thing to do!” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it was,” he admitted meekly. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy had taken up the paper. “Well, they don’t say much,” +she said disappointedly. “Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. +Chandler ’ll be in soon again. If so, he’ll tell us more about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A young girl like you oughtn’t to want to know anything about +murders,” said her stepmother severely. “Joe won’t think any +the better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I was you, +Daisy, I shouldn’t say nothing about it if he does come in—which I +fair tell you I hope he won’t. I’ve seen enough of that young chap +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t come in for long—not to-day,” said Daisy, +her lip trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you one thing that’ll surprise you, my +dear”—Mrs. Bunting looked significantly at her stepdaughter. She +also wanted to get away from that dread news—which yet was no news. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” said Daisy, rather defiantly. “What is it, +Ellen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this +morning. He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that you +shouldn’t be told anything about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” cried Daisy, much mortified. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” went on her stepmother ruthlessly. “You just ask your +father over there if it isn’t true.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tain’t a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such +happenings,” said Bunting heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“If I was Joe,” went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her +advantage, “I shouldn’t want to talk about such horrid things when +I comes in to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that +poor young chap is set upon—mostly, I admit, by your father,” she +looked at her husband severely. “But you does your share, too, Daisy! You +asks him this, you asks him that—he’s fair puzzled sometimes. It +don’t do to be so inquisitive.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting’s part when +young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was said of the new +Avenger murder. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though Daisy said a word, it was +but a word. And Joe Chandler thought he had never spent a pleasanter evening in +his life—for it was he and Daisy who talked all the time, their elders +remaining for the most part silent. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Margaret. She described the long, +dull hours and the queer jobs her aunt set her to do—the washing up of +all the fine drawing-room china in a big basin lined with flannel, and how +terrified she (Daisy) had been lest there should come even one teeny little +chip to any of it. Then she went on to relate some of the funny things Aunt +Margaret had told her about “the family.” +</p> + +<p> +There came a really comic tale, which hugely interested and delighted Chandler. +This was of how Aunt Margaret’s lady had been taken in by an +impostor—an impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping out of her +carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the doorstep. Aunt Margaret’s +lady, being a soft one, had insisted on the man coming into the hall, where he +had been given all kinds of restoratives. When the man had at last gone off, it +was found that he had “wolfed” young master’s best +walking-stick, one with a fine tortoise-shell top to it. Thus had Aunt Margaret +proved to her lady that the man had been shamming, and her lady had been very +angry—near had a fit herself! +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a lot of that about,” said Chandler, laughing. +“Incorrigible rogues and vagabonds—that’s what those sort of +people are!” +</p> + +<p> +And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an exceptionally clever +swindler whom he himself had brought to book. He was very proud of that job, it +had formed a white stone in his career as a detective. And even Mrs. Bunting +was quite interested to hear about it. +</p> + +<p> +Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth’s bell rang. For awhile +no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you hear that?” he said. “I think, Ellen, that was the +lodger’s bell.” +</p> + +<p> +She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I rang,” said Mr. Sleuth weakly, “to tell you I don’t +require any supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump of +sugar in it. That is all I require—nothing more. I feel very very far +from well”—and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on his face. +“And then I thought your husband would like his paper back again, Mrs. +Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze of which she +was quite unconscious, answered, “Oh, no, sir! Bunting don’t +require that paper now. He read it all through.” Something impelled her +to add, ruthlessly, “He’s got another paper by now, sir. You may +have heard them come shouting outside. Would you like me to bring you up that +other paper, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. “No,” he said querulously. “I +much regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it disturbed me, +Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it—there never is in any +public print. I gave up reading newspapers years ago, and I much regret that I +broke through my rule to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more conversation, the +lodger then did what he had never done before in his landlady’s presence. +He went over to the fireplace and deliberately turned his back on her. +</p> + +<p> +She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of sugar he had +asked for. +</p> + +<p> +Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the Book. +</p> + +<p> +When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting merrily. She did +not notice that the merriment was confined to the two young people. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Daisy pertly. “How about the lodger, Ellen? Is +he all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said stiffly. “Of course he is!” +</p> + +<p> +“He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself—awful +lonely-like, I call it,” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +But her stepmother remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever does he do with himself all day?” persisted Daisy. +</p> + +<p> +“Just now he’s reading the Bible,” Mrs. Bunting answered, +shortly and dryly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I never! That’s a funny thing for a gentleman to do!” +</p> + +<p> +And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed—a long hearty peal of +amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Bunting sharply. +“I should feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected +with the Bible.” +</p> + +<p> +And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time that Mrs. +Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he answered very humbly, +“I beg pardon. I know I oughtn’t to have laughed at anything to do +with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy said it so funny-like, and, by all +accounts, your lodger must be a queer card, Mrs. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s no queerer than many people I could mention,” she said +quickly; and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<p> +Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed of aching +fear and suspense. +</p> + +<p> +The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he should pursue, +and, according to his mood and to the state of his mind at any particular +moment, he would waver between various widely-differing lines of action. +</p> + +<p> +He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the most awful +thing about it all was that <i>he wasn’t sure</i>. If only he could have been +<i>sure</i>, he might have made up his mind exactly what it was he ought to do. +</p> + +<p> +But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was vaguely +conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting’s point of view, almost any +alternative would have been preferable to that which to some, nay, perhaps to +most, householders would have seemed the only thing to do, namely, to go to the +police. But Londoners of Bunting’s class have an uneasy fear of the law. +To his mind it would be ruin for him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly +in such a terrible affair. No one concerned in the business would give them and +their future a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, and, above +all, it would make it quite impossible for them ever to get again into a good +joint situation. It was that for which Bunting, in his secret soul, now longed +with all his heart. +</p> + +<p> +No, some other way than going to the police must be found—and he racked +his slow brain to find it. +</p> + +<p> +The worst of it was that every hour that went by made his future course more +difficult and more delicate, and increased the awful weight on his conscience. +</p> + +<p> +If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite sure! And then he would +tell himself that, after all, he had very little to go upon; only +suspicion—suspicion, and a secret, horrible certainty that his suspicion +was justified. +</p> + +<p> +And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution which he knew to be +indefensible from every point of view; he began to hope, that is, in the depths +of his heart, that the lodger would again go out one evening on his horrible +business and be caught—red-handed. +</p> + +<p> +But far from going out on any business, horrible or other, Mr. Sleuth now never +went out at all. He kept upstairs, and often spent quite a considerable part of +his day in bed. He still felt, so he assured Mrs. Bunting, very far from well. +He had never thrown off the chill he had caught on that bitter night he and his +landlord had met on their several ways home. +</p> + +<p> +Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication to Daisy’s father. +The detective spent every waking hour that he was not on duty with the +Buntings; and Bunting, who at one time had liked him so well and so cordially, +now became mortally afraid of him. +</p> + +<p> +But though the young man talked of little else than The Avenger, and though on +one evening he described at immense length the eccentric-looking gent who had +given the barmaid a sovereign, picturing Mr. Sleuth with such awful accuracy +that both Bunting and Mrs. Bunting secretly and separately turned sick when +they listened to him, he never showed the slightest interest in their lodger. +</p> + +<p> +At last there came a morning when Bunting and Chandler held a strange +conversation about The Avenger. The young fellow had come in earlier than +usual, and just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were starting out to do +some shopping. The girl would fain have stopped behind, but her stepmother had +given her a very peculiar, disagreeable look, daring her, so to speak, to be so +forward, and Daisy had gone on with a flushed, angry look on her pretty face. +</p> + +<p> +And then, as young Chandler stepped through into the sitting-room, it suddenly +struck Bunting that the young man looked unlike himself—indeed, to the +ex-butler’s apprehension there was something almost threatening in +Chandler’s attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting,” he began abruptly, +falteringly. “And I’m glad to have the chance now that Mrs. Bunting +and Miss Daisy are out.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words—the accusation of having +sheltered a murderer, the monster whom all the world was seeking, under his +roof. And then he remembered a phrase, a horrible legal +phrase—“Accessory after the fact.” Yes, he had been that, +there wasn’t any doubt about it! +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” he said. “What is it, Joe?” and then the +unfortunate man sat down in his chair. “Yes?” he said again +uncertainly; for young Chandler had now advanced to the table, he was looking +at Bunting fixedly—the other thought threateningly. “Well, out with +it, Joe! Don’t keep me in suspense.” +</p> + +<p> +And then a slight smile broke over the young man’s face. “I +don’t think what I’ve got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. +Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything—yes or no, +as the case might be. +</p> + +<p> +The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long time to the +elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe Chandler brought out the +words, “Well, I suppose you know what it is I want to talk about. +I’m sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look or two she’s lately cast +on me. It’s your daughter—it’s Miss Daisy.” +</p> + +<p> +And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, ’twixt a sob and a laugh. “My +girl?” he cried. “Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to talk +about? Why, you fair frightened me—that you did!” +</p> + +<p> +And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as he stared +across it at his daughter’s lover, that lover who was also the embodiment +of that now awful thing to him, the law. He smiled, rather foolishly, at his +visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp wave of irritation, of impatience sweep over +his good-natured soul. Daisy’s father was an old +stupid—that’s what he was. +</p> + +<p> +And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. “As far as +I’m concerned,” he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even a +little dignity, “you have my blessing, Joe. You’re a very likely +young chap, and I had a true respect for your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Chandler, “that’s very kind of you, Mr. +Bunting. But how about her—her herself?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn’t given +herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t answer for Daisy,” he said heavily. +“You’ll have to ask her yourself—that’s not a job any +other man can do for you, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by our two selves,” +said Chandler, with some heat. “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. +Bunting, that I never do see Miss Daisy alone,” he repeated. “I +hear now that she’s going away Monday, and I’ve only once had the +chance of a walk with her. Mrs. Bunting’s very particular, not to say +pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bunting—” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a fault on the right side, that is—with a young +girl,” said Bunting thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as regarded other young chaps Mrs. +Bunting could not be too particular. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has,” went on +Bunting, with some pride. “That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of +her sight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was coming to the old aunt,” said Chandler heavily. “Mrs. +Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that old woman the +whole of her natural life—now is that right? That’s what I wants to +ask you, Mr. Bunting,—is that right?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll say a word to Ellen, don’t you fear,” said +Bunting abstractedly. +</p> + +<p> +His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap, to his now +constant anxious preoccupation. “You come along to-morrow,” he +said, “and I’ll see you gets your walk with Daisy. It’s only +right you and she should have a chance of seeing one another without old folk +being by; else how’s the girl to tell whether she likes you or not! For +the matter of that, you hardly knows her, Joe—” He looked at the +young man consideringly. +</p> + +<p> +Chandler shook his head impatiently. “I knows her quite as well as I +wants to know her,” he said. “I made up my mind the very first time +I see’d her, Mr. Bunting.” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Did you really?” said Bunting. “Well, come to think of +it, I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. But I hope +<i>you’ll</i> never want no second, Chandler.” +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid!” said the young man under his breath. And then he +asked, rather longingly, “D’you think they’ll be out long +now, Mr. Bunting?” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. “Sit down, sit down; +do!” he said hastily. “I don’t believe they’ll be very +long. They’ve only got a little bit of shopping to do.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, “And how +about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you’re all just +waiting for <i>the next time?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye—that’s about the figure of it.” Chandler’s +voice had also changed; it was now sombre, menacing. “We’re fair +tired of it—beginning to wonder when it’ll end, that we are!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the +master’s like?” asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Joe slowly. “I’ve a sort of notion—a +savage, fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It’s that description +that was circulated put us wrong. I don’t believe it was the man that +knocked up against that woman in the fog—no, not one bit I don’t. +But I wavers, I can’t quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it’s +a sailor—the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight or nine +days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, again, I says to myself +that it’s a butcher, a man from the Central Market. Whoever it is, +it’s someone used to killing, that’s flat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it don’t seem to you possible—?” (Bunting got up +and walked over to the window.) “You don’t take any stock, I +suppose, in that idea some of the papers put out, that the man +is”—then he hesitated and brought out, with a gasp—“a +gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +Chandler looked at him, surprised. “No,” he said deliberately. +“I’ve made up my mind that’s quite a wrong tack, though I +knows that some of our fellows—big pots, too—are quite sure that +the fellow what gave the girl the sovereign is the man we’re looking for. +You see, Mr. Bunting, if that’s the fact—well, it stands to reason +the fellow’s an escaped lunatic; and if he’s an escaped lunatic +he’s got a keeper, and they’d be raising a hue and cry after him; +now, wouldn’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t think,” went on Bunting, lowering his voice, +“that he could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?” +</p> + +<p> +“D’you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some +West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that ’ud be +have come to pass.” He smiled as if the notion was a funny one. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, something o’ that sort,” muttered Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if your idea’s correct, Mr. Bunting—” +</p> + +<p> +“I never said ’twas my idea,” said Bunting, all in a hurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if that idea’s correct then, ’twill make our task more +difficult than ever. Why, ’twould be looking for a needle in a field of +hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! I don’t think it’s anything quite so +unlikely as that—not myself I don’t.” He hesitated. +“There’s some of us”—he lowered his +voice—“that hopes he’ll betake himself off—The Avenger, +I mean—to another big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There’d +be plenty of work for him to do there,” and Chandler chuckled at his own +grim joke. +</p> + +<p> +And then, to both men’s secret relief, for Bunting was now mortally +afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and his doings, they heard +Mrs. Bunting’s key in the lock. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young Chandler was still +there. She had feared that when they got home he would be gone, the more so +that Ellen, just as if she was doing it on purpose, had lingered aggravatingly +long over each small purchase. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk,” +blurted out Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +“My mother says as how she’d like you to come to tea, over at +Richmond,” said Chandler awkwardly, “I just come in to see whether +we could fix it up, Miss Daisy.” And Daisy looked imploringly at her +stepmother. +</p> + +<p> +“D’you mean now—this minute?” asked Mrs. Bunting +tartly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, o’ course not”—Bunting broke in hastily. +“How you do go on, Ellen!” +</p> + +<p> +“What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?” +asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically. +</p> + +<p> +Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day—in fact, +his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to see Daisy at all. But he +had talked her round. +</p> + +<p> +“How about Saturday?” suggested Bunting. “That’s +Daisy’s birthday. ’Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to +Richmond, and she’s going back to Old Aunt on Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t go Saturday,” said Chandler disconsolately. +“I’m on duty Saturday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, let it be Sunday,” said Bunting firmly. And his wife +looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her presence. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say, Miss Daisy?” said Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +“Sunday would be very nice,” said Daisy demurely. And then, as the +young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy ventured +to go out into the hall with him for a minute. +</p> + +<p> +Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing of Mrs. +Bunting’s whispered remark: “When I was a young woman folk +didn’t gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to go to +church together, decent-like—” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<p> +Daisy’s eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave her what +he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth birthday—a +watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which Bunting had bought secondhand +on the last day he had been happy—it seemed a long, long time ago now. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but she was far +too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to trouble much about it. +Besides, in such matters she had generally had the good sense not to interfere +between her husband and his child. +</p> + +<p> +In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy himself some more +tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the last four days, excepting, +perhaps, the week that had followed on his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had +then held all the exquisite pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the +eating of forbidden fruit. +</p> + +<p> +His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his nerves as an +opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. But he had been overdoing +it, and it was that which now made him feel so “jumpy,” so he +assured himself, when he found himself starting at any casual sound outside, or +even when his wife spoke to him suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting didn’t +quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only one pair of stairs +between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly slipped out of the house without +telling Ellen that he was going out. +</p> + +<p> +In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above all, he had +avoided even passing the time of day to his acquaintances and neighbours. He +feared, with a great fear, that they would talk to him of a subject which, +because it filled his mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray +the knowledge—no, not knowledge, rather the—the +suspicion—that dwelt within him. +</p> + +<p> +But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing for human +companionship—companionship, that is, other than that of his wife and of +his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, populous +thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more people there than usual +just now, for the housewives of the neighbourhood were doing their Saturday +marketing for Sunday. The ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop +where he generally bought his tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two fell into +desultory talk, but to his customer’s relief and surprise the man made no +allusion to the subject of which all the neighbourhood must still be talking. +</p> + +<p> +And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and before he +had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, Bunting, through the +open door, saw with horrified surprise that Ellen, his wife, was standing, +alone, outside a greengrocer’s shop just opposite. +</p> + +<p> +Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across the road. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellen!” he gasped hoarsely, “you’ve never gone and +left my little girl alone in the house with the lodger?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting’s face went yellow with fear. “I thought you was +indoors,” she cried. “You <i>was</i> indoors! Whatever made you come out +for, without first making sure I’d stay in?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in exasperated +silence, each now knew that the other knew. +</p> + +<p> +They turned and scurried down the crowded street. “Don’t +run,” he said suddenly; “we shall get there just as quickly if we +walk fast. People are noticing you, Ellen. Don’t run.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear and by +excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. +</p> + +<p> +At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in front of his +wife. +</p> + +<p> +After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn’t know how he was feeling. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment with his +latchkey. +</p> + +<p> +Opening wide the door, “Daisy!” he called out, in a wailing voice, +“Daisy, my dear! where are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am, father. What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s all right.” Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. +“She’s all right, Ellen.” +</p> + +<p> +He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. “It did give +me a turn,” he said, and then, warningly, “Don’t frighten the +girl, Ellen.” +</p> + +<p> +Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring herself in +the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, father,” she exclaimed, without turning round, +“I’ve seen the lodger! He’s quite a nice gentleman, though, +to be sure, he does look a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn’t like to +go up; and so he came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nice +little chat—that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and he asked me +and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud’s with him this afternoon.” She +laughed, a little self-consciously. “Of course, I could see he was +’centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily. ‘And who be +you?’ he says, threatening-like. And I says to him, ‘I’m Mr. +Bunting’s daughter, sir.’ ‘Then you’re a very fortunate +girl’—that’s what he says, Ellen—‘to ’ave +such a nice stepmother as you’ve got. That’s why,’ he says, +‘you look such a good, innocent girl.’ And then he quoted a bit of +the Prayer Book. ‘Keep innocency,’ he says, wagging his head at me. +Lor’! It made me feel as if I was with Old Aunt again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t have you going out with the lodger—that’s +flat.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his forehead with one +hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the little packet of +tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had forgotten to pay. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy pouted. “Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat on my +birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn’t a very good day—at least, +so I’d heard—for Madame Tussaud’s. Then he said we could go +early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners.” She turned to +her stepmother, then giggled happily. “He particularly said you was to +come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, Ellen; if I was father, +I’d feel quite jealous!” +</p> + +<p> +Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it possible that, +in their agitation, they had left the front door open, and that <i>someone</i>, some +merciless myrmidon of the law, had crept in behind them? +</p> + +<p> +Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it was only Mr. +Sleuth—Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall hat he had worn when he +had first come to them was in his hand, but he was wearing a coat instead of +his Inverness cape. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard you come in”—he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, +whistling, hesitating voice—“and so I’ve come down to ask you +if you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud’s now. I have never +seen those famous waxworks, though I’ve heard of the place all my +life.” +</p> + +<p> +As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden doubt +bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to Mr. Sleuth’s +landlord. +</p> + +<p> +Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered gentleman could be +the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting had now for the terrible space +of four days believed him to be! +</p> + +<p> +He tried to catch his wife’s eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, +staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and cloak in which +she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy was already putting on her hat +and coat. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed to +his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. “Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. We’ll come in a minute,” she said dully. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<p> +Madame Tussaud’s had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. In +the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there part of +their afternoon-out. +</p> + +<p> +The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of the +waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for “self and +lady.” But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been inside the place +since she had come to live almost next door, as it were, to the big building. +</p> + +<p> +They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after the +ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the first gallery, +Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of those curious, still, waxen +figures which suggest so strangely death in life, seemed to surprise and +affright him. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger’s hesitation and unease. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Ellen,” she cried, “do let us begin by going into the +Chamber of Horrors! I’ve never been in there. Old Aunt made father +promise he wouldn’t take me the only time I’ve ever been here. But +now that I’m eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will +never know.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over his worn, +gaunt face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; +that’s a good idea, Miss Bunting. I’ve always wanted to see the +Chamber of Horrors.” +</p> + +<p> +They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were then kept, +and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where waxen effigies of dead +criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband’s old +acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting the public to +the Chamber of Horrors. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you <i>are</i> a stranger,” the man observed genially. “I do +believe that this is the very first time I’ve seen you in here, Mrs. +Bunting, since you was married!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “that is so. And this is my husband’s +daughter, Daisy; I expect you’ve heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And +this”—she hesitated a moment—“is our lodger, Mr. +Sleuth.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her stepmother’s +side, joined him. +</p> + +<p> +Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. Bunting put down +three sixpences. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute,” said Hopkins; “you can’t go into the +Chamber of Horrors just yet. But you won’t have to wait more than four or +five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It’s this way, you see; our boss is in there, +showing a party round.” He lowered his voice. “It’s Sir John +Burney—I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered indifferently, “I don’t know that I +ever heard of him.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt slightly—oh, very sightly—uneasy about Daisy. She would +have liked her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and sound, but Mr. Sleuth +was now taking the girl down to the other end of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope you never <i>will</i> know him—not in any personal sense, +Mrs. Bunting.” The man chuckled. “He’s the Commissioner of +Police—the new one—that’s what Sir John Burney is. One of the +gentlemen he’s showing round our place is the Paris Police +boss—whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John’s. The +Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there are several other ladies. +Ladies always likes horrors, Mrs. Bunting; that’s our experience here. +‘Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors’—that’s what +they say the minute they gets into this here building!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred to Mr. Hopkins that she +was very wan and tired; she used to look better in the old days, when she was +still in service, before Bunting married her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said; “that’s just what my stepdaughter said +just now. ‘Oh, take me to the Chamber of +Horrors’—that’s exactly what she did say when we got +upstairs.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +A group of people, all talking and laughing together; were advancing, from +within the wooden barrier, toward the turnstile. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them was the +gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be brought into +personal contact; she thought she could pick him out among the others. He was a +tall, powerful, handsome gentleman, with a military appearance. +</p> + +<p> +Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. “Monsieur +Barberoux is quite right,” he was saying in a loud, cheerful voice, +“our English law is too kind to the criminal, especially to the murderer. +If we conducted our trials in the French fashion, the place we have just left +would be very much fuller than it is to-day. A man of whose guilt we are +absolutely assured is oftener than not acquitted, and then the public taunt us +with ‘another undiscovered crime!’” +</p> + +<p> +“D’you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? +Take the man who has been committing all these awful murders this last month? I +suppose there’s no doubt <i>he’ll</i> be hanged—if he’s ever +caught, that is!” +</p> + +<p> +Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could hear every word that was +said. +</p> + +<p> +The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. “Well, no.” He +spoke very deliberately. “I doubt if that particular murderer ever will +be hanged.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that you’ll never catch him?” the girl spoke with a +touch of airy impertinence in her clear voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I think we shall end by catching him—because”—he +waited a moment, then added in a lower voice—“now don’t give +me away to a newspaper fellow, Miss Rose—because now I think we do know +who the murderer in question is—” +</p> + +<p> +Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and +incredulity. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why don’t you catch him?” cried the girl indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t say we knew <i>where</i> he was; I only said we knew who he was, +or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that I personally have a very strong +suspicion of his identity.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir John’s French colleague looked up quickly. “De Leipsic and +Liverpool man?” he said interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +The other nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’ve had the case turned +up?” +</p> + +<p> +Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject from his +own mind, and from that of his auditors, he went on: +</p> + +<p> +“Four murders of the kind were committed eight years ago—two in +Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, in Liverpool,—and there were +certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear they were +committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, fortunately for us, +red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of his last victim, for in +Liverpool the murder was committed in a house. I myself saw the unhappy +man—I say unhappy, for there is no doubt at all that he was +mad”—he hesitated, and added in a lower tone—“suffering +from an acute form of religious mania. I myself saw him, as I say, at some +length. But now comes the really interesting point. I have just been informed +that a month ago this criminal lunatic, as we must of course regard him, made +his escape from the asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole thing +with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and we should probably have caught +him long ago, were it not that he managed, when on his way out of the place, to +annex a considerable sum of money in gold, with which the wages of the asylum +staff were about to be paid. It is owing to that fact that his escape was, very +wrongly, concealed—” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, and a moment later the +party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, Sir John Burney +leading the way. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt—so she expressed it to +her husband later—as if she had been turned to stone. +</p> + +<p> +Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the time nor the power to warn +her lodger of his danger, for Daisy and her companion were now coming down the +room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of Police. In another moment Mrs. +Bunting’s lodger and Sir John Burney were face to face. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible change over his pale, +narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and terror. +</p> + +<p> +But, to Mrs. Bunting’s relief—yes, to her inexpressible +relief—Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. They passed Mr. Sleuth +and the girl by his side, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that there was +anyone else in the room but themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting,” said the turnstile-keeper; “you and +your friends will have the place all to yourselves for a bit.” From an +official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that gallantly +addressed pretty Daisy Bunting: “It seems strange that a young lady like +you should want to go in and see all those ’orrible frights,” he +said jestingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?” +</p> + +<p> +The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting.” The lodger’s face was +still distorted with fear and passion. “Do not think to escape the +consequences of your hideous treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, and you +betrayed me! But I am protected by a higher power, for I still have much to +do.” Then, his voice sinking to a whisper, he hissed out “Your end +will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword. Your feet shall go +down to death, and your steps take hold on hell.” +</p> + +<p> +Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, dreadful words, he was +looking round, glancing this way and that, seeking a way of escape. +</p> + +<p> +At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed above a curtain. +“Emergency Exit” was written there. Mrs. Bunting thought he was +going to make a dash for the place; but Mr. Sleuth did something very +different. Leaving his landlady’s side, he walked over to the turnstile, +he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and then touched the man on the arm. +“I feel ill,” he said, speaking very rapidly; “very ill +indeed! It is the atmosphere of this place. I want you to let me out by the +quickest way. It would be a pity for me to faint here—especially with +ladies about.” +</p> + +<p> +His left hand shot out and placed what he had been fumbling for in his pocket +on the other’s bare palm. “I see there’s an emergency exit +over there. Would it be possible for me to get out that way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, sir; I think so.” +</p> + +<p> +The man hesitated; he felt a slight, a very sight, feeling of misgiving. He +looked at Daisy, flushed and smiling, happy and unconcerned, and then at Mrs. +Bunting. She was very pale; but surely her lodger’s sudden seizure was +enough to make her feel worried. Hopkins felt the half-sovereign pleasantly +tickling his palm. The Paris Prefect of Police had given him only +half-a-crown—mean, shabby foreigner! +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; I can let you out that way,” he said at last, “and +p’raps when you’re standing out in the air, on the iron balcony, +you’ll feel better. But then, you know, sir, you’ll have to come +round to the front if you wants to come in again, for those emergency doors +only open outward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. “I quite understand! +If I feel better I’ll come in by the front way, and pay another +shilling—that’s only fair.” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t do that if you’ll just explain what happened +here.” +</p> + +<p> +The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put his shoulder against the +door. It burst open, and the light, for a moment, blinded Mr. Sleuth. +</p> + +<p> +He passed his hand over his eyes. “Thank you,” he muttered, +“thank you. I shall get all right out there.” +</p> + +<p> +An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, of which the door opened +into a side street. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did feel very ill—ill and +dazed. How pleasant it would be to take a flying leap over the balcony railing +and find rest, eternal rest, below. +</p> + +<p> +But no—he thrust the thought, the temptation, from him. Again a +convulsive look of rage came over his face. He had remembered his landlady. How +could the woman whom he had treated so generously have betrayed him to his +arch-enemy?—to the official, that is, who had entered into a conspiracy +years ago to have him confined—him, an absolutely sane man with a great +avenging work to do in the world—in a lunatic asylum. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, falling-to behind him, +blotted out the tall, thin figure from the little group of people who had +watched him disappear. +</p> + +<p> +Even Daisy felt a little scared. “He did look bad, didn’t he, +now?” she turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that he did, poor gentleman—your lodger, too?” he +looked sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. +</p> + +<p> +She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Yes,” she repeated dully, +“my lodger.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<p> +In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her pretty stepdaughter to step +through into the Chamber of Horrors. “I think we ought to go straight +home,” said Mr. Sleuth’s landlady decidedly. And Daisy meekly +assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a little scared by the lodger’s +sudden disappearance. Perhaps this unwonted feeling of hers was induced by the +look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on her stepmother’s face. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly they made their way out of the building, and when they got home it was +Daisy who described the strange way Mr. Sleuth had been taken. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose he’ll be long before he comes home,” +said Bunting heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive look at his wife. She +looked as if stricken in a vital part; he saw from her face that there was +something wrong—very wrong indeed. +</p> + +<p> +The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill at ease. Daisy knew there +was no chance that young Chandler would come in to-day. +</p> + +<p> +About six o’clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She lit the gas in Mr. +Sleuth’s sitting-room and looked about her with a fearful glance. Somehow +everything seemed to speak to her of the lodger, there lay her Bible and his +Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly as he had left them, when he +had come downstairs and suggested that ill-starred expedition to his +landlord’s daughter. She took a few steps forward, listening the while +anxiously for the familiar sound of the click in the door which would tell her +that the lodger had come back, and then she went over to the window and looked +out. +</p> + +<p> +What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, homeless, friendless, and, +as she suspected with a pang, with but very little money on him! +</p> + +<p> +Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger’s bedroom and opened the +drawer of the looking-glass. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he had taken his +money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he had enough on his person +to secure a good night’s lodging, and then suddenly she remembered that +which brought relief to her mind. The lodger had given something to that +Hopkins fellow—either a sovereign or half a sovereign, she wasn’t +sure which. +</p> + +<p> +The memory of Mr. Sleuth’s cruel words to her, of his threat, did not +disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake—all a mistake. Far from +betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him—kept his awful secret as she +could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly suspected, the horrible +fact with which Sir John Burney’s words had made her acquainted; namely, +that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no temporary aberration, but that he was, and had +been for years, a madman, a homicidal maniac. +</p> + +<p> +In her ears there still rang the Frenchman’s half careless yet confident +question, “De Leipsic and Liverpool man?” +</p> + +<p> +Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room, and taking a +black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the leaves of the Bible. Then +she opened the Book, and looked at the page the pin had marked:— </p> + +<p> +“My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . . There is none +to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my curtains.” +</p> + +<p> +At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she opened +the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her stepmother. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go down and start getting the lodger’s supper ready for +you,” said the girl good-naturedly. “He’s certain to come in +when he gets hungry. But he did look upset, didn’t he, Ellen? Right down +bad—that he did!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy to go +down. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sleuth won’t never come back no more,” she said +sombrely, and then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change +which came over her husband’s face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, +of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, +“That’s to say, I don’t suppose he will.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting’s face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, the +look it had worn the last few days, returned. +</p> + +<p> +“What makes you think he mayn’t come back?” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Too long to tell you now,” she said. “Wait till the +child’s gone to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where she now slept +with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her husband to follow her +upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the door. And +about this they had a few sharp whispered words. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re never going to shut him out?” she expostulated +angrily, beneath her breath. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps +walking in any minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sleuth won’t hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt +me,” and she gave a half sob. +</p> + +<p> +Bunting stared at her. “What do you mean?” he said roughly. +“Come upstairs and tell me what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, in what had been the lodger’s sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting told +her husband exactly what it was that had happened. +</p> + +<p> +He listened in heavy silence. +</p> + +<p> +“So you see,” she said at last, “you see, Bunting, that +’twas me that was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for +his actions. I never thought he was, for my part.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. “Depends on what you call +responsible—” he began argumentatively. +</p> + +<p> +But she would have none of that. “I heard the gentleman say myself that +he was a lunatic,” she said fiercely. And then, dropping her voice, +“A religious maniac—that’s what he called him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he never seemed so to me,” said Bunting stoutly. “He +simply seemed to me ’centric—that’s all he did. Not a bit +madder than many I could tell you of.” He was walking round the room +restlessly, but he stopped short at last. “And what d’you think we +ought to do now?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. “I don’t think we ought to +do nothing,” she said. “Why should we?” +</p> + +<p> +And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion that +irritated her. +</p> + +<p> +“If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he would +get it! And his money, too? I hate to feel it’s in there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you make any mistake—he’ll come back for +that,” said Bunting, with decision. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. “Now,” she said, +“you go off up to bed. It’s no use us sitting up any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting acquiesced. +</p> + +<p> +She ran down and got him a bedroom candle—there was no gas in the little +back bedroom upstairs. And then she watched him go slowly up. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he turned and came down again. “Ellen,” he said, in an +urgent whisper, “if I was you I’d take the chain off the door, and +I’d lock myself in—that’s what I’m going to do. Then he +can sneak in and take his dirty money away.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. Slowly she went downstairs, and +there she carried out half of Bunting’s advice. She took, that is, the +chain off the front door. But she did not go to bed, neither did she lock +herself in. She sat up all night, waiting. At half-past seven she made herself +a cup of tea, and then she went into her bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy opened her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ellen,” she said, “I suppose I was that tired, and +slept so sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up—funny, +wasn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Young people don’t sleep as light as do old folks,” Mrs. +Bunting said sententiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he’s upstairs +now?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bunting shook her head. “It looks as if ’twould be a fine day +for you down at Richmond,” she observed in a kindly tone. +</p> + +<p> +And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler that their +lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting had thought carefully +over what they would say, and so well did they carry out their programme, or, +what is more likely, so full was young Chandler of the long happy day he and +Daisy had spent together, that he took their news very calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone away, has he?” he observed casually. “Well, I hope he +paid up all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Bunting hastily. “No trouble of +that sort.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bunting said shamefacedly, “Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an honest +gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such a poor, gentle +chap—not the sort o’ man one likes to think of as wandering about +by himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You always said he was ’centric,” said Joe thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he was that,” said Bunting slowly. “Regular right-down +queer. Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch,” and, as he tapped his +head significantly, both young people burst out laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like a description of him circulated?” asked Joe +good-naturedly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. ’Twould +upset him awfully, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +And Joe acquiesced. “You’d be surprised at the number o’ +people who disappears and are never heard of again,” he said cheerfully. +And then he got up, very reluctantly. +</p> + +<p> +Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into the passage, +and shut the sitting-room door behind her. +</p> + +<p> +When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting in his easy +chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round his neck. +</p> + +<p> +Then she bent down her head. “Father,” she said, “I’ve +a bit of news for you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Father, I’m engaged! Aren’t you surprised?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do <i>you</i> think?” said Bunting fondly. Then he turned +round and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“What’ll Old Aunt say, I wonder?” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you worry about Old Aunt,” exclaimed his wife +suddenly. “I’ll manage Old Aunt! I’ll go down and see her. +She and I have always got on pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, +Daisy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Daisy a little wonderingly. “I know you have, +Ellen.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many nights had +gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click of the lock which she at +once hoped and feared would herald her lodger’s return. +</p> + +<p> +As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the “Avenger” +murders stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when a gardener, +working in the Regent’s Park, found a newspaper in which was wrapped, +together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, a long, peculiarly shaped +knife. The fact, though of considerable interest to the police, was not +chronicled in any newspaper, but about the same time a picturesque little +paragraph went the round of the press concerning a small boxful of sovereigns +which had been anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling +Hospital. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about “Old +Aunt,” and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in +a more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to do. She +only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks leave a house in +charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to follow—a remark which +Daisy resented much more than did her Joe. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old lady, by whom they +are feared as well as respected, and whom they make very comfortable. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 2014-h.htm or 2014-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/1/2014/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6238913 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #2014 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2014) diff --git a/old/2014-8.txt b/old/2014-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2355c38 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2014-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10081 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lodger + +Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes + +Release Date: March 13, 2005 [EBook #2014] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + + + + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + + + +The Lodger + +by Marie Belloc Lowndes + + + + +"Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, +and mine acquaintance into darkness." + PSALM lxxxviii. 18 + + + + +CHAPTER I + +Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning, +carefully-banked-up fire. + +The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house +standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare, +was exceptionally clean and well-cared-for. A casual stranger, +more particularly one of a Superior class to their own, on suddenly +opening the door of that sitting-room; would have thought that Mr. +and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of +comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep +leather arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance +what he had been for many years of his life--a self-respecting +man-servant. + +On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed +chair, the marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they +were there all the same--in her neat black stuff dress, and in +her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as +a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid. + +But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn +English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. +Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time--how +long ago it now seemed!--both husband and wife had been proud of +their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was +strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been +bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. + +Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, +drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, +and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. +A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which +covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat +forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair +had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband +to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid +thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had +tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at +it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve +shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping +their arm-chair. + +But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, +much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the +walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded +photographs--photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former +employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had +separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not +unhappy servitude. + +But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than +usually deceitful with regard to these unfortunate people. In +spite of their good furniture--that substantial outward sign of +respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall +into trouble try to dispose of--they were almost at the end of +their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were +beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober +man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago +by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting--prim, prudent, careful woman +as she was in her way--had realised what this must mean to him. +So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had +crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia. + +Bunting had been touched--touched as he had not been for years by +any woman's thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced +themselves into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in +their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart. + +Fortunately he never guessed--how could he have guessed, with his +slow, normal, rather dull mind?--that his poor Ellen had since +more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha'penny, for they +were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell +on the safe tableland of security--those, that is, who are sure of +making a respectable, if not a happy, living--and the submerged +multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the +conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised, +struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison. + +Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they +belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to +so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours +ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they +belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk +whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving. + +There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought +to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this +woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, +Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two +days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, +and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort +with a cruel, sharp rebuff. + +As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, +they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but +one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This +was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting +had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone +into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too +fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective. + +When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they +both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap +to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to--quite +exciting at times. But now poor Bunting didn't want to hear that +sort of stories--stories of people being cleverly "nabbed," or +stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from Chandler's +point of view, richly deserved. + +But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing +his calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him +--nay, more, he had done that which showed him to have a good and +feeling heart. He had offered his father's old acquaintance a loan, +and Bunting, at last, had taken 30s. Very little of that money +now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few coppers in his pocket; +and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that and the rent they would have to +pay in five weeks, was all they had left. Everything of the light, +portable sort that would fetch money had been sold. Mrs. Bunting +had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put her feet in +such a place, and she declared she never would--she would rather +starve first. + +But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual +disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting +valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been +given to him after the death of his first master, a master he had +nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. +There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a large mourning +ring, both gifts of former employers. + +When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure +from the insecure--when they see themselves creeping closer and +closer to its dread edge--they are apt, however loquacious by +nature, to fall into long silences. Bunting had always been a +talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but +then she had always been a silent woman, and that was perhaps one +reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment +he had seen her. + +It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as +butler, and he had been shown, by the man whose place he was to +take, into the dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he +had discovered Ellen Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port +wine which her then mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning. +And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he +had watched her carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into +the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, "That is the woman for +me!" + +But now her stillness, her--her dumbness, had got on the +unfortunate man's nerves. He no longer felt like going into the +various little shops, close by, patronised by him in more prosperous +days, and Mrs. Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases +which still had to be made every day or two, if they were to be +saved from actually starving to death. + +Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there +came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting +outside--boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening +papers. + +Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily +paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And +the paper was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants are +great readers of newspapers. + +As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask +curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him. + +It was a shame--a damned shame--that he shouldn't know what was +happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing +news of what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those +shouts, those hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really +exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for +the moment his own intimate, gnawing troubles. + +He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to +listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused +babel of hoarse shouts, the one clear word "Murder!" + +Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some +sort of connected order. Yes, that was it--"Horrible Murder! +Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting remembered vaguely another murder +which had been committed near St. Pancras--that of an old lady by +her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was +still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among +the class to which he had belonged. + +The newsboys--for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual +thing in the Marylebone Road--were coming nearer and nearer; now +they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they +were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he +could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly "The Avenger! +The Avenger at his work again!" broke on his ear. + +During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had +been committed in London and within a comparatively small area. + +The first had aroused no special interest--even the second had only +been awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a +small paragraph. + +Then had come the third--and with that a wave of keen excitement, +for pinned to the dress of the victim--a drunken woman--had been +found a three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red +ink, and in printed characters, the words, + +"THE AVENGER" + +It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to +investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world +of men and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister +mysteries, that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes; +and before that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into +the public mind there took place yet another murder, and again the +murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some +obscure and terrible lust for vengeance possessed him. + +Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the +man who left their ha'porth of milk at the door each morning had +spoken to Bunting about them that very day. + +****** + +Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild +excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of +weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him. +He felt he could have shaken her! + +Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had +come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had +said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that +she didn't like hearing about such horrid things. + +It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of +pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to +the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories +of immorality or of physical violence. In the old, happy days, +when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper +daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some +exciting "case" or "mystery" which was affording him pleasant mental +relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen. + +But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she +felt. + +Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards +the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his +close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which +a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent. + +But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders +just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, +bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy. + +Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into +the dark hall--they had given up lighting the gas there some time +ago--and opened the front door. + +Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron +gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. +The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he +remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. + +Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, +being sorely tempted--fell. "Give me a Sun," he said roughly, "Sun +or Echo!" + +But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. "Only +penny papers left," he gasped. "What'll yer 'ave, sir?" + +With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny +out of his pocket and took a paper--it was the Evening Standard-- +from the boy's hand. + +Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, +cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful +anticipation. + +Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass +a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, +miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments +of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, +with careworn, troubled Ellen. + +A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen +would never have spent that penny on herself--he knew that well +enough--and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so--so drizzly, +he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the +street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread +the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance +would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a +paper, and that well he knew it! + +Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar +voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, "What on earth are you doing +out there, Bunting? Come in--do! You'll catch your death of cold! +I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!" +Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays. + +He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. "I +went out to get a paper," he said sullenly. + +After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money +as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now +both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him--not on Ellen--by +that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done +all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, +so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring. + +He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew +she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and +contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a +very mild, oath--Ellen had very early made it clear she would +have no swearing in her presence--he lit the hall gas full-flare. + +"How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card?" +he shouted angrily. + +And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the +gas, the oblong card, though not the word "Apartments" printed on +it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned +fanlight above the front door. + +Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, +and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little +banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire +for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made +him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, +Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. + +A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. She was not +used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly +upset, was the mildest of men. + +She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible +touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. + +But her hands trembled--they trembled with excitement, with +self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful--dreadful to +have to worry about a penny! But they had come to the point when +one has to worry about pennies. Strange that her husband didn't +realise that. + +Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen +to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by +now, a little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, +and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. + +But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have +liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, +irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the +door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and +--shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably +by the now brightly burning fire, with the Evening Standard spread +out before him--she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her +hands against her temples. + +Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so--so broken as now. Where +was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting +woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading +poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age +which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter +service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed +cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs. +Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any +lodger she might get would require, but that was all. + +Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For +it had been her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands. + +Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. +There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still +pretty well; and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and +that had meant ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of +other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment +which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in +debt--in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a +good-natured former employer. + +After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have +done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up +their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over, with +the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house +in the Marylebone Road. + +In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, +impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is +the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately +take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both +lived in houses overlooking Regent's Park. It had seemed a wise +plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting, +who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection +which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private +parties. + +But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. +Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and +a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. + +And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had +one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had +not asked his wife's permission to do this, as so good a husband +ought to have done. He had just gone out and done it. And she had +not had the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the +money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that +she had bought that last packet of tobacco. + +And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, +there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, +uncertain double knock. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment +listening in the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line +of light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. + +And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double +knock; not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any +good. Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. +No; this must be some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at +all hours, and asked--whining or threatening--for money. + +Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and women +--especially women--drawn from that nameless, mysterious class +made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every +great city. But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the +passage unlit at night she had been very little troubled with that +kind of visitors, those human bats which are attracted by any kind +of light but leave alone those who live in darkness. + +She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting's place +to go to the front door, but she knew far better than he did how +to deal with difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she +would have liked him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed +in his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the bedroom door +opening was to look up and say, "Didn't you hear a knock?" + +Without answering his question she went out into the hall. + +Slowly she opened the front door. + +On the top of the three steps which led up to the door, there stood +the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an +old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, +perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. +Bunting's trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as +he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with +whom her former employment had brought her in contact. + +"Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?" he asked, and there was +something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. + +"Yes, sir," she said uncertainly--it was a long, long time since +anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they +could think of taking into their respectable house. + +Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger +walked past her, and so into the hall. + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a +narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong +brown leather. + +"I am looking for some quiet rooms," he said; then he repeated the +words, "quiet rooms," in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered +them he looked nervously round him. + +Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully +furnished, and was very clean. + +There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger's weary +feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which +matched in colour the flock-paper on the walls. + +A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior +lodging-house keeper. + +"You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir," she said gently. "And just +now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband +and me, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too +good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a +lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which +recalled to the poor woman her happy, far-off days of youth and +of security. + +"That sounds very suitable," he said. "Four rooms? Well, perhaps +I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see +all four before I make my choice." + +How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the +gas! But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed +them by. + +She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation +that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom +she already in her mind described as "the lodger," who turned and +rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it. + +"Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry you should have +had the trouble." + +For a moment their eyes met. "It's not safe to leave a front door +open in London," he said, rather sharply. "I hope you do not often +do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in." + +Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken +courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. + +"I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open," she answered +hastily. "You needn't be at all afraid of that!" + +And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the +sound of Bunting coughing--it was just a little, hard cough, but +Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started violently. + +"Who's that?" he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. +"Whatever was that?" + +"Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes +ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose." + +"Your husband--?" he looked at her intently, suspiciously. "What +--what, may I ask, is your husband's occupation?" + +Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's +occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do +for her to show offence. "He goes out waiting," she said stiffly. +"He was a gentleman's servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you +should you require him to do so." + +And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. + +At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to +herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a +sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door +of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier. + +This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little +over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green +carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table +which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the +corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, +old-fashioned chiffonnier. + +On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits +of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, +clipped from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of +these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of +elegance and refinement. + +As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that +she had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the +room a thorough turn-out. + +It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been +left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been +scared into going away by Bunting's rough threats of the police. +But now it was in apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, +of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white +curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied +if this gentleman really took the lodgings. + +But what was this--? The stranger was looking round him rather +dubiously. "This is rather--rather too grand for me," he said at +last "I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er--" + +"--Bunting," she said softly. "Bunting, sir." + +And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and +settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, +after all--or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but +perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman--too poor, that is, to +afford the rent of more than one room, say eight or ten shillings +a week; eight or ten shillings a week would be very little use to +her and Bunting, though better than nothing at all. + +"Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?" + +"No," he said, "no. I think I should like to see what you have +farther up the house, Mrs.--," and then, as if making a prodigious +mental effort, he brought out her name, "Bunting," with a kind of +gasp. + +The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the +drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact +that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had +been taken over their arrangement; in fact, they had been left in much +the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. + +For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel +sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features +are a sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete +pattern, was fed by a tiresome, shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +It had been the property of the people from whom the Buntings had +taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no +monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they +had left behind. + +What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as +everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a +bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry +that she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. + +To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sensitive, +hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. "Capital! +Capital!" he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he +held at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a +quick, nervous movement. + +"This is just what I have been looking for." He walked with long, +eager strides towards the gas stove. "First-rate--quite first-rate! +Exactly what I wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs.--er-- +Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of +experiments, and I often require the--ah, well, the presence of +great heat." + +He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the +stove. "This, too, will be useful--exceedingly useful, to me," and +he touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing +touch. + +He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare +forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down--wearily. +"I'm tired," he muttered in a low voice, "tired--tired! I've been +walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit +down upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London +streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far +more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Indeed, sir," she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, +she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, +"Then you mean to take my rooms, sir?" + +"This room, certainly," he said, looking round. "This room is +exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last +few days;" and then hastily he added, "I mean this kind of place +is what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would +be surprised if you knew how difficult it is to get anything of +the sort. But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief +--a very, very great relief to me!" + +He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And +then, "Where's my bag?" he asked suddenly, and there came a note of +sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman +standing before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of +fright shoot through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far +away, right down the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a +perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of +the well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like +other people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. "Surely +I had a bag when I came in?" he said in a scared, troubled voice. + +"Here it is, sir," she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it +up and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the +bag was not at all heavy; it was evidently by no means full. + +He took it eagerly from her. "I beg your pardon," he muttered. +"But there is something in that bag which is very precious to me +--something I procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could +never get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. +That must be the excuse for my late agitation." + +"About terms, sir?" she said a little timidly, returning to the +subject which meant so much, so very much to her. + +"About terms?" he echoed. And then there came a pause. "My name +is Sleuth," he said suddenly,--"S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, +Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I could provide you +with a reference--" (he gave her what she described to herself as +a funny, sideways look), "but I should prefer you to dispense with +that, if you don't mind. I am quite willing to pay you--well, shall +we say a month in advance?" + +A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She felt sick with +relief--nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known +till that moment how hungry she was--how eager for--a good meal. +"That would be all right, sir," she murmured. + +"And what are you going to charge me?" There had come a kindly, +almost a friendly note into his voice. "With attendance, mind! I +shall expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if +you can cook, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir," she said. "I am a plain cook. What would you say +to twenty-five shillings a week, sir?" She looked at him +deprecatingly, and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, +"You see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best +of attendance and careful cooking--and my husband, sir--he would +be pleased to valet you." + +"I shouldn't want anything of that sort done for me," said Mr. +Sleuth hastily. "I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used +to waiting on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to +sharing lodgings--" + +She interrupted eagerly, "I could let you have the use of the two +floors for the same price--that is, until we get another lodger. +I shouldn't like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It's +such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir--do your work +and your experiments up here, and then have your meals in the +drawing-room." + +"Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that sounds a good plan. And if I +offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your +not taking another lodger?" + +"Yes," she said quietly. "I'd be very glad only to have you to +wait on, sir." + +"I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? +I don't like to be disturbed while I'm working." + +He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, "I suppose +you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir, there's a key--a very nice little key. The people +who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door." +She went over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round +disk had been fitted above the old keyhole. + +He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if +absorbed in thought, "Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will +suit me perfectly. And I'll begin now by paying my first month's +rent in advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is"--he +jerked his head back and stared at his new landlady; for the first +time he smiled, a queer, wry smile--"why, just eight pounds eight +shillings, Mrs. Bunting!" + +He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long +cape-like coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began +putting these down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in +the centre of the room. "Here's five--six--seven--eight--nine +--ten pounds. You'd better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, +for I shall want you to do some shopping for me to-morrow morning. +I met with a misfortune to-day." But the new lodger did not speak +as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. + +"Indeed, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Mrs. Bunting's heart was +going thump--thump--thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy +with relief and joy. + +"Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things +I managed to bring away with me." His voice dropped suddenly. "I +shouldn't have said that," he muttered. "I was a fool to say that!" +Then, more loudly, "Someone said to me, 'You can't go into a +lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn't take you in.' But +you have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I'm grateful for--for the +kind way you have met me--" He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, +and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly +towards her new lodger. + +"I hope I know a gentleman when I see one," she said, with a break +in her staid voice. + +"I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. Bunting." +Again he looked at her appealingly. + +"I expect you'd like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you tell +me what you'd like for supper? We haven't much in the house." + +"Oh, anything'll do," he said hastily. "I don't want you to go out +for me. It's a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a +little bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied." + +"I have a nice sausage," she said hesitatingly. + +It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning +for Bunting's supper; as to herself, she had been going to content +herself with a little bread and cheese. But now--wonderful, almost, +intoxicating thought--she could send Bunting out to get anything +they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort +and good cheer. + +"A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh +meat," he said; "it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, +Mrs. Bunting." + +"Is it indeed, sir?" She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, +"And will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?" + +A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth's +pale face. + +"Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. +I had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer--" + +"So I am, sir, lifelong. And so's Bunting been since we married." +She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such +confidences, that she had made Bunting abstain very early in their +acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing +that first made her believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense +that he talked to her, in those far-away days of his courting. Glad +she was now that he had taken the pledge as a younger man; but for +that nothing would have kept him from the drink during the bad times +they had gone through. + +And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom +which opened out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. +Bunting's own room just underneath, excepting that everything up +here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better +in quality. + +The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of +content and peace stealing over his worn face. "A haven of rest," +he muttered; and then, "'He bringeth them to their desired haven.' +Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Yes, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone +had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to +set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth's respectability. + +What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one +lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! +Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and +Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the +seaside. + +How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to +London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately +respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible +underworld of men and women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen +better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of +petty fraud. + +"I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean +towels," she said, going to the door. + +And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. "Mrs. Bunting"--and as +he spoke he stammered a little--"I--I don't want you to interpret +the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off +your feet for me. I'm accustomed to look after myself." + +And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed--even a +little snubbed. "All right, sir," she said. "I'll only just let +you know when I've your supper ready." + + + +CHAPTER III + +But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy +of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune +which had fallen their way? + +Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. +In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still +her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of +emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling "making a fuss." + +Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment +looking at her husband's bent back, and she realised, with a pang +of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him. + +Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He +put the paper he had been holding down on to the table: "Well," he +said, "well, who was it, then?" + +He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have +answered the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard +murmurs. + +And then in a moment his wife's hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns +fell in a little clinking heap on the table. + +"Look there!" she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her +voice. "Look there, Bunting!" + +And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. + +He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion +that his wife had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this +ten pounds represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that +were so, then it was the beginning of the end. That furniture in +the first-floor front had cost--Ellen had reminded him of the fact +bitterly only yesterday--seventeen pounds nine shillings, and +every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she had +only got ten pounds for it. + +Yet he hadn't the heart to reproach her. + +He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that +troubled, rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought +had happened. + +"We've a new lodger!" she cried. "And--and, Bunting? He's quite +the gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance, at +two guineas a week." + +"No, never!" + +Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, +fascinated by the little heap of gold. "But there's ten sovereigns +here," he said suddenly. + +"Yes, the gentleman said I'd have to buy some things for him +to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he's so well spoken, I really felt +that--I really felt that--" and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step +or two sideways, sat down, and throwing her little black apron over +her face burst into gasping sobs. + +Bunting patted her back timidly. "Ellen?" he said, much moved by her +agitation, "Ellen? Don't take on so, my dear--" + +"I won't," she sobbed, "I--I won't! I'm a fool--I know I am! +But, oh, I didn't think we was ever going to have any luck again!" + +And then she told him--or rather tried to tell him--what the +lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing +she did impress on her husband's mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was +eccentric, as so many clever people are eccentric--that is, in a +harmless way--and that he must be humoured. + +"He says he doesn't want to be waited on much," she said at last +wiping her eyes, "but I can see he will want a good bit of looking +after, all the same, poor gentleman." + +And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound +of a loud ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled +again and again. + +Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. "I think I'd better go up, eh, +Ellen?" he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. +For the matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something +again. + +"Yes," she answered, "you go up! Don't keep him waiting! I wonder +what it is he wants? I said I'd let him know when his supper was +ready." + +A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on +his face. "Whatever d'you think he wanted?" he whispered +mysteriously. And as she said nothing, he went on, "He's asked me +for the loan of a Bible!" + +"Well, I don't see anything so out of the way in that," she said +hastily, "'specially if he don't feel well. I'll take it up to him." + +And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, +Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her +as a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had +lived for several years. + +"He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper," said +Bunting; and, then, "Ellen? He's a queer-looking cove--not like +any gentleman I ever had to do with." + +"He is a gentleman," said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. + +"Oh, yes, that's all right." But still he looked at her doubtfully. +"I asked him if he'd like me to just put away his clothes. But, +Ellen, he said he hadn't got any clothes!" + +"No more he hasn't;" she spoke quickly, defensively. "He had the +misfortune to lose his luggage. He's one dishonest folk 'ud take +advantage of." + +"Yes, one can see that with half an eye," Bunting agreed. + +And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting +put down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband +to go out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with +a sovereign. "Be as quick as you can," she said, "for I feel a bit +hungry. I'll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth's supper. +He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I'm glad I've never +fallen to bad eggs!" + +"Sleuth," echoed Bunting, staring at her. "What a queer name! +How d'you spell it--S-l-u-t-h?" + +"No," she shot out, "S-l-e--u--t--h." + +"Oh," he said doubtfully. + +"He said, 'Think of a hound and you'll never forget my name,'" +and Mrs. Bunting smiled. + +When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: "We'll now be able +to pay young Chandler back some o' that thirty shillings. I am +glad." She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. + +And then each went about his and her business--Bunting out into +the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. + +The lodger's tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and +daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. + +Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly +remembered Mr. Sleuth's request for a Bible. Putting the tray down +in the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; +but when back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it +was worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she +could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and +taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. + +But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth's +landlady opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped +the tray. She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy +thud to the ground. + +The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the +early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, +with their faces to the wall! + +For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the +tray down on the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It +troubled her that the Book should have fallen to the ground; but +really she hadn't been able to help it--it was mercy that the +tray hadn't fallen, too. + +Mr. Sleuth got up. "I--I have taken the liberty to arrange the +room as I should wish it to be," he said awkwardly. "You see, +Mrs.--er--Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women's eyes +followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave +me quite an eerie feeling." + +The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the +table. She made no answer to her lodger's remark, for the good +reason that she did not know what to say. + +Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a +long pause, he spoke again. + +"I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting," he spoke with some agitation. +"As a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about +me for a long time." And then, at last his landlady answered him, +in a composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. +"I quite understand, sir. And when Bunting comes in he shall take +the pictures all down. We have plenty of space in our own rooms +for them." + +"Thank you--thank you very much." + +Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. + +"And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understood you wanted +the loan of it?" + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing +himself, he said, "Yes, yes, I do. There is no reading like the Book. +There is something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of +body too--" + +"Very true, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what really +looked a very appetising little meal, turned round and quietly shut +the door. + +She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for +Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen to clear up. And as she +did so there came to her a comfortable recollection, an incident of +her long-past youth, in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had +maided a dear old lady. + +The old lady had a favourite nephew--a bright, jolly young gentleman, +who was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. +Algernon--that was his rather peculiar Christian name--had had the +impudence to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings +done by the famous Mr. Landseer! + +Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only +occurred yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. + +It was quite early; she had come down--for in those days maids +weren't thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the +upper housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid's duty to be down +very early--and, there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. +Algernon engaged in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, his +aunt thought all the world of those pictures, and Ellen had felt +quite concerned, for it doesn't do for a young gentleman to put +himself wrong with a kind aunt. + +"Oh, sir," she had exclaimed in dismay, "whatever are you doing?" +And even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had +answered, "I am doing my duty, fair Helen"--he had always called +her "fair Helen" when no one was listening. "How can I draw ordinary +animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all the +time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?" That was +what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what +he repeated in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when +that dear old lady had come downstairs. In fact he had declared, +quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted by Mr. Landseer +put his eye out! + +But his aunt had been very much annoyed--in fact, she had made him +turn the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he +just had to put up with what he called "those half-human monsters." +Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth's +odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her +long-gone youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so +strange as he appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did +not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told herself +that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the +pictures in the drawing-room herself. + +But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's landlady +went upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the +sound of--was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she +waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then +she realised that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. +There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on +her listening ears: + +"A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for +a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men." + +She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, +and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, +sing-song voice, "Her house is the way to hell, going down to +the chambers of death." + +It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up +courage, knocked, and walked in. + +"I'd better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said. And Mr. Sleuth +nodded. + +Then he got up and closed the Book. "I think I'll go to bed now," +he said. "I am very, very tired. I've had a long and a very +weary day, Mrs. Bunting." + +After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed +up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. +Sleuth. Each left an unsightly mark on the wall--but that, after +all, could not be helped. + +Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried +them down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had +felt for a very, very long time. + +For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different +--and then she suddenly remembered. + +How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, +lay, in the well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction at +an auction held in a Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two +guineas a week! Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would +be "a permanency." In any case, it wouldn't be her fault if he +wasn't. As to his--his queerness, well, there's always something +funny in everybody. But after she had got up, and as the morning +wore itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there +came no sound at all from the new lodger's rooms. At twelve, +however, the drawing-room bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. +She was painfully anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His +coming had only been in the nick of time to save them from terrible +disaster. + +She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was sitting at the +round table which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his +landlady's large Bible lay open before him. + +As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see +how tired and worn he seemed. + +"You did not happen," he asked, "to have a Concordance, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She shook her head; she had no idea what a Concordance could be, +but she was quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. + +And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he +desired her to buy for him. She had supposed the bag he had +brought with him to contain certain little necessaries of +civilised life--such articles, for instance, as a comb and brush, +a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say nothing of a couple of +nightshirts--but no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth +required all these things to be bought now. + +After having cooked him a nice breakfast Mrs. Bunting hurried +out to purchase the things of which he was in urgent need. + +How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse +again--not only someone else's money, but money she was now in +the very act of earning so agreeably. + +Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber's shop close by. +It was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It +was a funny, rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as +she could, the more so that the foreigner who served her insisted +on telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this +Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours before, and +in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. + +The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn't want to think of +anything painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. + +Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. +Sleuth was pleased with everything, and thanked her most courteously. +But when she suggested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked +quite put out. + +"Please wait till this evening," he said hastily. "It is my custom +to stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when +the lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem +a little, just a little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed +to. And I must ask you to understand that I must not be disturbed +when thinking out my problems--" He broke off short, sighed, then +added solemnly, "for mine are the great problems of life and death." + +And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her +prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth's landlady was a true woman +--she had, that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries +and oddities. + + +When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth's landlady met with a +surprise; but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had +been upstairs, talking to the lodger, Bunting's young friend, Joe +Chandler, the detective, had come in, and as she walked into the +sitting-room she saw that her husband was pushing half a sovereign +across the table towards Joe. + +Joe Chandler's fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction: +not at seeing his money again, mark you, but at the news Bunting +had evidently been telling him--that news of the sudden wonderful +change in their fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. + +"Mr. Sleuth don't want me to do his bedroom till he's gone out!" +she exclaimed. And then she sat down for a bit of a rest. + +It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good +breakfast, and there was no need to think of him for the present. +In a few minutes she would be going down to make her own and +Bunting's dinner, and she told Joe Chandler that he might as well +stop and have a bite with them. + +Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood +which seldom surprised her--a mood to be pleased with anything +and everything. Nay, more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler +about the last of those awful Avenger murders, she even listened +with a certain languid interest to all he had to say. + +In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that +very day three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery +which was now beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London, +West and East, North and South. Bunting had read out little bits +about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself +Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. + +"They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They do say, Joe, that +the police have a clue they won't say nothing about?" He looked +expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was +attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police +invested the young man with a kind of sinister glory--especially +just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amazing and +terrifying the town. + +"Them who says that says wrong," answered Chandler slowly, and a +look of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face. +"'Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a clue." + +And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, Joe?" she said, +smiling indulgently; the young man's keenness about his work pleased +her. And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took +his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. + +"Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day I'm on this +business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard's nettled--that's +what it is, and we're all on our mettle--that we are. I was right +down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty in the street +where the last one happened--" + +"No!" said Bunting incredulously. "You don't mean there was a +policeman there, within a few yards?" + +That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper. + +Chandler nodded. "That's exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting! The +man is near off his head, so I'm told. He did hear a yell, so he +says, but he took no notice--there are a good few yells in that +part o' London, as you can guess. People always quarrelling and +rowing at one another in such low parts." + +"Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes +his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly. + +Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those +three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims' skirts, +on which was roughly written in red ink and in printed characters +the words "The Avenger." + +His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his +elbows on the table, and stared across expectantly at the young man. + +"Yes, I have," said Joe briefly. + +"A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting laughed; the notion +struck him as downright comic. + +But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make a joke about," +she said reprovingly. + +And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said feelingly. "I'll +never forget what I've been made to see over this job. And as for +that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting--or, rather, those grey bits of +paper"--he corrected himself hastily--"you know they've three of +them now at the Yard--well, they gives me the horrors!" + +And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I oughtn't to be +wasting my time in pleasant company--" + +"Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs. Bunting +solicitously. + +But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I had a bite +before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you know. A +lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't leave us +much time for lazing about, I can tell you." + +When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate +carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London +again soon?" + +Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very +fond of his only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. "No," +he said, "I'm afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, +keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite +put about that week the child was up with us last June." + +"Indeed? Well, so long!" + +After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, +"Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?" + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly +dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting's +daughter was being managed by that old aunt of hers--an idle, +good-for-nothing way, very different from the fashion in which +she herself had been trained at the Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting +as a little child had known no other home, no other family than +those provided by good Captain Coram. + +"Joe Chandler's too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls +yet awhile," she said tartly. + +"No doubt you're right," Bunting agreed. "Times be changed. In my +young days chaps always had time for that. 'Twas just a notion that +came into my head, hearing him asking, anxious-like, after her." + +****** + +About five o'clock, after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. +Sleuth went out, and that same evening there came two parcels +addressed to his landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But +it was quite clear to Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new +clothes. In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good +second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for a real gentleman like +Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had given up all hope of +getting back his lost luggage. + +When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him, of +that Mrs. Bunting was positive. And yet, though she searched high +and low for it, she could not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept +it. And at last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed +woman, with a good memory, she would have been disposed to think +that the bag had never existed, save in her imagination. + +But no, she could not tell herself that! She remembered exactly +how it had looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange, +queer-looking figure of a man, on her doorstep. + +She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of +the top front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he +had asked her eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was +--only to find it safely lodged at his feet! + +As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, +for, strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again. +But, of course, she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. +The brown leather bag which had formed Mr. Sleuth's only luggage +the afternoon of his arrival was almost certainly locked up in the +lower part of the drawing-room chiffonnier. Mr. Sleuth evidently +always carried the key of the little corner cupboard about his +person; Mrs. Bunting had also had a good hunt for that key, but, +as was the case with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never +saw either the one or the other again. + + + +CHAPTER V + +How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped the next few +days. Already life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on +Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. Bunting could manage to do easily, +and without tiring herself. + +It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred to be waited +on only by one person, and that person his landlady. He gave her +very little trouble. Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the +lodger; it even did her good that he was not like other gentlemen; +for the fact occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. The +more so that whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had none of those +tiresome, disagreeable ways with which landladies are only too +familiar, and which seem peculiar only to those human beings who +also happen to be lodgers. To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did +not ask to be called unduly early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen +into the way of lying rather late in the morning, and it was a great +comfort not to have to turn out to make the lodger a cup of tea at +seven, or even half-past seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom required anything +before eleven. + +But odd he certainly was. + +The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth had brought in +a book of which the queer name was Cruden's Concordance. That and +the Bible--Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a +relation between the two books--seemed to be the lodger's only +reading. He spent hours each day, generally after he had eaten +the breakfast which also served for luncheon, poring over the Old +Testament and over that strange kind of index to the Book. + +As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, +Mr. Sleuth was everything--everything that the most exacting +landlady could have wished. Never had there been a more confiding +or trusting gentleman. On the very first day he had been with them +he had allowed his money--the considerable sum of one hundred and +eighty-four sovereigns--to lie about wrapped up in little pieces +of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing-table. That had quite +upset Mrs. Bunting. She had allowed herself respectfully to point +out to him that what he was doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But +as only answer he had laughed, and she had been startled when the +loud, unusual and discordant sound had issued from his thin lips. + +"I know those I can trust," he had answered, stuttering rather, as +was his way when moved. "And--and I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that +I hardly have to speak to a human being--especially to a woman" +(and he had drawn in his breath with a hissing sound) "before I +know exactly what manner of person is before me." + +It hadn't taken the landlady very long to find out that her lodger +had a queer kind of fear and dislike of women. When she was doing +the staircase and landings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading +aloud to himself passages in the Bible that were very uncomplimentary +to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very great opinion of her sister +woman, so that didn't put her out. Besides, where one's lodger is +concerned, a dislike of women is better than--well, than the other +thing. + +In any case, where would have been the good of worrying about the +lodger's funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he +hadn't been, as Bunting funnily styled it, "just a leetle touched +upstairs," he wouldn't be here, living this strange, solitary life +in lodgings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way +with some of his relatives, or with a friend of his own class. + +There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back--as even the +least imaginative of us are apt to look back to any part of our +own past lives which becomes for any reason poignantly memorable +--wondered how soon it was that she had discovered that her +lodger was given to creeping out of the house at a time when +almost all living things prefer to sleep. + +She brought herself to believe--but I am inclined to doubt whether +she was right in so believing--that the first time she became aware +of this strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth's happened to be +during the night which preceded the day on which she had observed a +very curious circumstance. This very curious circumstance was the +complete disappearance of one of Mr. Sleuth's three suits of clothes. + +It always passes my comprehension how people can remember, over any +length of time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is +natural enough, but the day, the hour, the minute when these +happenings took place! Much as she thought about it afterwards, +even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind whether it was during +the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth's stay under her roof +that she became aware that he had gone out at two in the morning and +had only come in at five. + +But that there did come such a night is certain--as certain as is +the fact that her discovery coincided with various occurrences +which were destined to remain retrospectively memorable. + +****** + +It was intensely dark, intensely quiet--the darkest quietest hour +of the night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, +dreamless sleep by sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She +knew at once what those sounds were. They were those made by Mr. +Sleuth, first coming down the stairs, and walking on tiptoe--she +was sure it was on tiptoe--past her door, and finally softly +shutting the front door behind him. + +Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to +sleep again. There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting +should waken up too, till she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, +creep back into the house and so up to bed. + +Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the morning she +felt very tired, so tired indeed, that she had been very glad when +Bunting good-naturedly suggested that he should go out and do their +little bit of marketing. + +The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of +catering it was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, +and that though he always tried to appear pleased. This perfect +lodger had one serious fault from the point of view of those who +keep lodgings. Strange to say, he was a vegetarian. He would not +eat meat in any form. He sometimes, however, condescended to a +chicken, and when he did so condescend he generously intimated that +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were welcome to a share in it. + +Now to-day--this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. +Bunting's mind so very long, and to remain so very vivid, it had +been arranged that Mr. Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, +while what he left was to be "done up" to serve for his simple supper. + +Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour, for he was +a gregarious soul, and liked to have a gossip in the shops he +frequented, Mrs. Bunting rose and dressed in a leisurely manner; +then she went and "did" her front sitting-room. + +She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after a broken +night, and it was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Sleuth was not +likely to ring before twelve. + +But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged through the +quiet house. She knew it for the front door bell. + +Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened one of those +tiresome people who come round for old bottles and such-like +fal-lals. + +She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then her face cleared, +for it was that good young chap, Joe Chandler, who stood waiting +outside. + +He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked over-quickly +through the moist, foggy air. + +"Why, Joe?" said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. "Come in--do! Bunting's +out, but he won't be very long now. You've been quite a stranger +these last few days." + +"Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting--" + +She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Then, +suddenly she remembered. Why, of course, Joe was on a big job just +now--the job of trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had +alluded to the fact again and again when reading out to her little +bits from the halfpenny evening paper he was taking again. + +She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good thing Bunting +had insisted on lighting the fire before he went out, for now the +room was nice and warm--and it was just horrible outside. She had +felt a chill go right through her as she had stood, even for that +second, at the front door. + +And she hadn't been alone to feel it, for, "I say, it is jolly to +be in here, out of that awful cold!" exclaimed Chandler, sitting +down heavily in Bunting's easy chair. + +And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the young man was tired, +as well as cold. He was pale, almost pallid under his usual healthy, +tanned complexion--the complexion of the man who lives much out of +doors. + +"Wouldn't you like me just to make you a cup of tea?" she said +solicitously. + +"Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful for one, Mrs. +Bunting!" Then he looked round, and again he said her name, "Mrs. +Bunting--?" + +He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. "Yes, +what is it, Joe?" she asked. And then, in sudden terror, "You've +never come to tell me that anything's happened to Bunting? He's +not had an accident?" + +"Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But--but, Mrs. +Bunting, there's been another of them!" + +His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with +unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, eyes. + +"Another of them?" She looked at him, bewildered--at a loss. +And then what he meant flashed across her--"another of them" +meant another of these strange, mysterious, awful murders. + +But her relief for the moment was so great--for she really had +thought for a second that he had come to give her ill news of +Bunting--that the feeling that she did experience on hearing +this piece of news was actually pleasurable, though she would +have been much shocked had that fact been brought to her notice. + +Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested +in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination +of the whole of London's nether-world. Even her refined mind had +busied itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem +so frequently presented to it by Bunting--for Bunting, now that they +were no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in +"The Avenger" and his doings. + +She took the kettle off the gas-ring. "It's a pity Bunting isn't +here," she said, drawing in her breath. "He'd a-liked so much to +hear you tell all about it, Joe." + +As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. + +But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. "Why, +you do look bad!" she exclaimed. + +And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad--very bad indeed. + +"I can't help it," he said, with a kind of gasp. "It was your +saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn +queer. You see, this time I was one of the first there, and it +fairly turned me sick--that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. +Bunting! Don't talk of it." + +He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. + +She looked at him with sympathetic interest. "Why, Joe," she said, +"I never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, +that anything could upset you like that." + +"This isn't like anything there's ever been before," he said. "And +then--then--oh, Mrs. Bunting, 'twas I that discovered the piece of +paper this time." + +"Then it is true," she cried eagerly. "It is The Avenger's bit of +paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in that +practical joker." + +"I did," said Chandler reluctantly. "You see, there are some queer +fellows even--even--" (he lowered his voice, and looked round him +as if the walls had ears)--"even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and +these murders have fair got on our nerves." + +"No, never!" she said. "D'you think that a Bobby might do a thing +like that?" + +He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn't worth answering. +Then, "It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while +the poor soul was still warm,"--he shuddered--"that brought me out +West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince +Albert Terrace, and I had to go and tell him all about it. They +never offered me a bit or a sup--I think they might have done that, +don't you, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Yes," she said absently. "Yes, I do think so." + +"But, there, I don't know that I ought to say that," went on Chandler. +"He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to +me while I was telling him." + +"Have a bit of something now?" she said suddenly. + +"Oh, no, I couldn't eat anything," he said hastily. "I don't feel +as if I could ever eat anything any more." + +"That'll only make you ill." Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, +for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite +out of the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him. + +"I expect you're right," he said. "And I've a goodish heavy day +in front of me. Been up since four, too--" + +"Four?" she said. "Was it then they found--" she hesitated a +moment, and then said, "it?" + +He nodded. "It was just a chance I was near by. If I'd been half +a minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have +knocked up against that--that monster. But two or three people +do think they saw him slinking away." + +"What was he like?" she asked curiously. + +"Well, that's hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful +fog. But there's one thing they all agree about. He was carrying +a bag--" + +"A bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. "Whatever sort of +bag might it have been, Joe?" + +There had come across her--just right in her middle, like--such a +strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering. + +She was at a loss to account for it. + +"Just a hand-bag," said Joe Chandler vaguely. "A woman I spoke to +--cross-examining her, like--who was positive she had seen him, +said, 'Just a tall, thin shadow--that's what he was, a tall, thin +shadow of a man--with a bag.'" + +"With a bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. "How very strange +and peculiar--" + +"Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does +the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. We've always wondered how +he hid it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you +know." + +"Do they, indeed?" Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, wondering +way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the +lodger had done with his bag. It was possible--in fact, when one +came to think of it, it was very probable--that he had just lost +it, being so forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone +out, as she knew he was fond of doing, into the Regent's Park. + +"There'll be a description circulated in an hour or two," went on +Chandler. "Perhaps that'll help catch him. There isn't a London +man or woman, I don't suppose, who wouldn't give a good bit to lay +that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now." + +"Won't you wait a bit longer for Bunting?" she said hesitatingly. + +"No, I can't do that. But I'll come in, maybe, either this evening +or to-morrow, and tell you any more that's happened. Thanks kindly +for the tea. It's made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Well, you've had enough to unman you, Joe." + +"Aye, that I have," he said heavily. + +A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had +quite a little tiff--the first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth +became their lodger. + +It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting +was angry that Mrs. Bunting hadn't got more details of the horrible +occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler. + +"You don't mean to say, Ellen, that you can't even tell me where it +happened?" he said indignantly. "I suppose you put Chandler off +--that's what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, +excepting to tell us all about it?" + +"He came to have something to eat and drink," snapped out Mrs. +Bunting. "That's what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. +He could hardly speak of it at all--he felt so bad. In fact, he +didn't say a word about it until he'd come right into the room and +sat down. He told me quite enough!" + +"Didn't he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had +written his name was square or three-cornered?" demanded Bunting. + +"No; he did not. And that isn't the sort of thing I should have +cared to ask him." + +"The more fool you!" And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys +were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful +discovery which had been made that morning--that of The Avenger's +fifth murder. Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took +the things he had brought in down to the kitchen. + +The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened +Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadn't been in the kitchen ten minutes +before his bell rang. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Mr. Sleuth's bell rang again. + +Mr. Sleuth's breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since +he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at +once. But when there came the second imperative tinkle--for +electric bells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned house-- +she made up her mind to go upstairs. + +As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, +sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wife stepping heavily +under the load of the well-laden tray. + +"Wait a minute!" he called out. "I'll help you, Ellen," and he came +out and took the tray from her. + +She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room +floor landing. + +There she stopped him. "Here," she whispered quickly, "you give me +that, Bunting. The lodger won't like your going in to him." And +then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she +added in a rather acid tone, "You might open the door for me, at +any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on +my hands?" + +She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised--rather +put out. Ellen wasn't exactly what you'd call a lively, jolly woman, +but when things were going well--as now--she was generally equable +enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had +spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder. + +However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, +and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked +into the room. + +And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, +of lightness of heart. + +As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible. + +Somehow--she could not have told you why, she would not willingly +have told herself--she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking +different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the same--in fact, +as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up +his thin, pallid face. + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting," he said genially, "I overslept myself this +morning, but I feel all the better for the rest." + +"I'm glad of that, sir," she answered, in a low voice. "One of the +ladies I once lived with used to say, 'Rest is an old-fashioned +remedy, but it's the best remedy of all.'" + +Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden's Concordance off +the table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady +laying the cloth. + +Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the +morning. "I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you +outside the door just now?" + +"Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray." + +"I'm afraid I give you a good deal of trouble," he said hesitatingly. + +But she answered quickly, "Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was +only saying yesterday that we've never had a lodger that gave us as +little trouble as you do, sir." + +"I'm glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar." + +He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of +denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and +truthful woman. It never occurred to her to question his statement. +Mr. Sleuth's habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at +night, or rather in the early morning, for instance? So she remained +silent. + +After she had laid the lodger's breakfast on the table she prepared +to leave the room. "I suppose I'm not to do your room till you goes +out, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. "No, no!" he said. "I never +want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. +Bunting. But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a +somewhat elaborate experiment--upstairs. If I go out at all" he +waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly "--I shall wait +till night-time to do so." And then, coming back to the matter in +hand, he added hastily, "Perhaps you could do my room when I go +upstairs, about five o'clock--if that time is convenient to you, +that is?" + +"Oh, yes, sir! That'll do nicely!" + +Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself +wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face--even in her +inmost heart--the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken +her. She only repeated to herself again and again, "I've got upset +--that's what I've done," and then she spoke aloud, "I must get +myself a dose at the chemist's next time I'm out. That's what I +must do." + +And just as she murmured the word "do," there came a loud double +knock on the front door. + +It was only the postman's knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar +visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was +nervous, that's what was the matter with her,--so she told herself +angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must +have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All +gentlefolk have. But when she picked the small envelope off the +hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husband's daughter. + +"Bunting!" she called out sharply. "Here's a letter for you." + +She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there +was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading +a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting +felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing +nothing--in fact, doing worse than nothing--wasting his time +reading all about those horrid crimes. + +She sighed--a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into +idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she +prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man +when they had first made acquaintance. . . + +She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, +that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland +Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of +port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a +good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking +fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had +appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as +butler! + +To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past +rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. + +Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed +the door softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various +little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to +cook. And all the time she was down there she fixed her mind +obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting. +She wondered what she'd better do to get him into good ways again. + +Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A +week ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if +nothing could save them from disaster. But everything was now +changed! + +Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor +of that registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed +hands. It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an +occasional job--for the matter of that he could now take up a +fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that +it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has acquired +those ways. + +When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of +what she had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid +it very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. + +"Ellen?" he cried eagerly, "here's news! Daisy's coming to-morrow! +There's scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she'd better +come away for a few days. So, you see, she'll be here for her +birthday. Eighteen, that's what she be on the nineteenth! It do +make me feel old--that it do!" + +Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. "I can't have the girl here just +now," she said shortly. "I've just as much to do as I can manage. +The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for." + +"Rubbish!" he said sharply. "I'll help you with the lodger. It's +your own fault you haven't had help with him before. Of course, +Daisy must come here. Whatever other place could the girl go to?" + +Bunting felt pugnacious--so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. +But as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction +vanished. Ellen's face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill +--ill and horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and +behave like this--just when they were beginning to get on nicely +again. + +"For the matter of that," he said suddenly, "Daisy'll be able to help +you with the work, Ellen, and she'll brisk us both up a bit." + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. +And then she said languidly, "You might as well show me the girl's +letter." + +He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. + +"DEAR FATHER (it ran)--I hope this finds you as well at it leaves +me. Mrs. Puddle's youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks +I had better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few +days. Please tell Ellen I won't give her no trouble. I'll start +at ten if I don't hear nothing.--Your loving daughter, + + +"Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here," Mrs. Bunting slowly. +"It'll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life." + +And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content +himself. + +****** + +Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. +Sleuth's landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She +remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room. + +He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things +about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. +No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the +various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first +two days he had been there, were carefully arranged in the chest +of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he +had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes +with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first +day that he never wished them to go down to be cleaned. + +A funny idea--a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after +midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were +glad to be at home, snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself +admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman. + +After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the +sitting-room and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept +quite as nice as she would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting +longed to give the drawing-room something of a good turn out; but +Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself +was in his bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. +Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he only used +it when making his mysterious experiments, and never during the +day-time. + +And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with +longing eyes--she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture +a slight shake. If only the doors would fly open, as the locked +doors of old cupboards sometimes do, even after they have been +securely fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more +comfortable somehow she would feel! + +But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. + +****** + +About eight o'clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just +for a few minutes' chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the +morning, but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting +listened in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself, while +he and Bunting talked. + +"Yes," he said, "I'm as right as a trivet now! I've had a good rest +--laid down all this afternoon. You see, the Yard thinks there's +going to be something on to-night. He's always done them in pairs." + +"So he has," exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "So he has! Now, I +never thought o' that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster'll be +on the job again to-night?" + +Chandler nodded. "Yes. And I think there's a very good chance of +his being caught too--" + +"I suppose there'll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?" + +"I should think there will be! How many of our men d'you think +there'll be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?" + +Bunting shook his head. "I don't know," he said helplessly. + +"I mean extra," suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice. + +"A thousand?" ventured Bunting. + +"Five thousand, Mr. Bunting." + +"Never!" exclaimed Bunting, amazed. + +And even Mrs. Bunting echoed "Never!" incredulously. + +"Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!" +Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. "Just +listen to this: + +"'The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to +the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any +surprise at the information that a popular attack has been organised +on the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even +talk of an indignation mass meeting.' + +"What d'you think of that? That's not a pleasant thing for a +gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?" + +"Well, it does seem queer that the police can't catch him, now +doesn't it?" said Bunting argumentatively. + +"I don't think it's queer at all," said young Chandler crossly. +"Now you just listen again! Here's a bit of the truth for once-- +in a newspaper." And slowly he read out: + +"'The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind +man's buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes +bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through +the slums of a great city.'" + +"Whatever does that mean?" said Bunting. "Your hands aren't tied, +and your eyes aren't bandaged, Joe?" + +"It's metaphorical-like that it's intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven't +got the same facilities--no, not a quarter of them--that the +French 'tecs have." + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: "What was that +word, Joe--'perpetrators'? I mean that first bit you read out." + +"Yes," he said, turning to her eagerly. + +"Then do they think there's more than one of them?" she said, and +a look of relief came over her thin face. + +"There's some of our chaps thinks it's a gang," said Chandler. +"They say it can't be the work of one man." + +"What do you think, Joe?" + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don't know what to think. I'm fair puzzled." + +He got up. "Don't you come to the door. I'll shut it all right. +So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps." As he had done the other +evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's visitor stopped at the door. "Any +news of Miss Daisy?" he asked casually. + +"Yes; she's coming to-morrow," said her father. "They've got scarlet +fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks she'd better clear out." + + +The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting +found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, +the half-hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old +church close by. + +And then, just as she was dozing off--it must have been about one +o'clock--she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been +expecting to hear, that of the lodger's stealthy footsteps coming +down the stairs just outside her room. + +He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. + +But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him +come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. + +Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder +still, it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going +out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been +pushed through the letter-box. + +But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into +her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning +up against the wall to steady herself, for she was trembling with +cold and fatigue, she opened the paper. + +Yes, there was the heading she sought: + +"The AVENGER Murders" + +But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed: + +"Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report +concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, +and, indeed, staggering not only London, but the whole civilised +world, and which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating +teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the last of these +dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator, +or perpetrators, has been obtained, though several arrests were made +in the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested +were able to prove a satisfactory alibi." + +And then, a little lower down: + +"The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that +even a stranger to London would know that something very unusual +was in the air. As for the place where the murder was committed +last night--" + +"Last night!" thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised +that "last night," in this connection, meant the night before last. + +She began the sentence again: + +"As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all +approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds +of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of +traces of the tragedy." + +Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its +original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the +mat where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going +back into bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. + +"Anything the matter?" Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. +"Anything the matter, Ellen?" + +She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange +gladness, "No, nothing, Bunting--nothing the matter! Go to sleep +again, my dear." + +They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting +rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's coming, and even Daisy's +stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl +about the house to help her a bit. + +About ten o'clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought +back with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy's dinner, and +three mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the +sauce. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. + +It brought Daisy--pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy--a +sight to gladden any father's heart. + +"Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad," she +cried out joyously. + +There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's Cross, as all +the world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, +but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that +he had done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all. + +While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, +walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was +awaiting her. + +As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, 'twas a mere +peck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, with startling suddenness, +loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they +sounded strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roar +of traffic in the Edgware Road. + +"What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "Why, whatever's +that?" + +The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying out that 'orrible +affair at King's Cross. He's done for two of 'em this time! That's +what I meant when I said I might 'a got a better fare. I wouldn't +say nothink before little missy there, but folk 'ave been coming +from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, +too--but there, there's nothing to see now!" + +"What? Another woman murdered last night?" + +Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand +constables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen? + +The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, I tell yer-- +within a few yards of one another. He 'ave--got a nerve--But, +of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the drink!" + +"Have they caught him?" asked Bunting perfunctorily. + +"Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave happened hours +and hours ago--they was both stone cold. One each end of a little +passage what ain't used no more. That's why they didn't find 'em +before." + +The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer--two news vendors +trying to outshout each other. + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled exultingly. +"The Avenger again!" + +And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all in his hand, +ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for +a halfpenny paper. + +He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with +young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He +hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it, +as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily +been out. + +As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy's voice-- +high, voluble, excited--giving her stepmother a long account of +the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's neighbours had +thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. + +But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there +came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's voice, and he heard +her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!" +and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window--do." + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross--a clue at last!" yelled +the newspaper-boys triumphantly. + +And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, +and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an +ecstasy of mirth. + +"Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?" + +Daisy looked quite scared. + +"She's in 'sterics--that's what it is," he said shortly. +"I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!" + +Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous--that's what she +was, to be so easily upset. + +The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either +that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical +effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all +over, but mentally composed. + +"I'll go up," she said a little chokingly. "As for you, child, +just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of pork +roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the +sauce." + +As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made +of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the +banister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself, +she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments +on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom. "I'm not well," +he called out querulously; "I think I've caught a chill. I should +be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put it +outside my door, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Very well, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer and +giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his +cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring. + +During their midday dinner the husband and wife had a little +discussion as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been settled +that a bed should be made up for her in the top back room, but +Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. "I think 'twould be +better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to +sleep upstairs." + +Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellen +was probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, +after all, they didn't know much about the lodger, though he seemed +a respectable gentleman enough. + +Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make +herself useful to her stepmother. "I'll wash up; don't you bother to +come downstairs," she said cheerfully. + +Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him a +furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about. + +"Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last. + +"Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But I've put it away. +I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're that nervous." + +Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as +usual--he evidently meant just what he said and no more. + +"I thought they was shouting something in the street--I mean just +before I was took bad." + +It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather +furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, +of hysterics--call it what you might--had been due to the shouting +outside. She was not the only woman in London who had got the +Avenger murders on her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lot +of women were afraid to go out alone. Was it possible that the +curious way she had been taken just now had had nothing to do with +the shouts and excitement outside? + +"Don't you know what it was they were calling out?" he asked slowly. + +Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a very +great deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did not know what +those dreadful cries had portended. But when it came to the point +she found she could not do so. + +"Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and there. There's +been another murder, hasn't there?" + +"Two other murders," he said soberly. + +"Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale--a sallow +greenish-white--that Bunting thought she was again going queer. + +"Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a care! I can't +think what's come over you about these murders. Turn your mind +away from them, do! We needn't talk about them--not so much, +that is--" + +"But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically. + +The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table, +the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the +door. + +Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and +disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure +looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully, +Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands--she +had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has never +done rough work--grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive +movement. + +Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," he said +to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! That would be +a to-do just now." + +"Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. "Can't you see +I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!" + +"There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. "There's +precious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what brought +Daisy told me--" + +"Well?" + +"What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, and they'd +both been drinking heavily, poor creatures." + +"Was it where the others was done?" she asked looking at her husband +fearfully. + +"No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. It was a good bit +farther West--in fact, not so very far from here. Near King's Cross +--that's how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to have +been done in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as he +thought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he added +hastily. "There, that's enough for the present! We shall soon be +hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure to +come in some time to-day." + +"Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" said Mrs. +Bunting slowly. + +She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more +upright. + +"No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful and no mistake +about it. But wait a minute--" he turned and took up the paper +which he had laid aside, on a chair. "Yes they says here that they +has a clue." + +"A clue, Bunting?" Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away +voice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the +table. + +But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paper +close up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable +satisfaction: + +"'It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last +believe they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the +arrest of the--'" and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed +round the table. + +His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the +floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay there +in what appeared to be a dead faint. And Bunting, scared out of +his wits, opened the door and screamed out, "Daisy! Daisy! Come +up, child. Ellen's took bad again." + +And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource +which even at this anxious moment roused her fond father's +admiration. + +"Get a wet sponge, Dad--quick!" she cried, "a sponge,--and, if +you've got such a thing, a drop o' brandy. I'll see after her!" +And then, after he had got the little medicine flask, "I can't think +what's wrong with Ellen," said Daisy wonderingly. "She seemed quite +all right when I first came in. She was listening, interested-like, +to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly--well, you saw how +she was took, father? 'Tain't like Ellen this, is it now?" + +"No," he whispered. "No, 'tain't. But you see, child, we've been +going through a pretty bad time--worse nor I should ever have let +you know of, my dear. Ellen's just feeling it now--that's what it +is. She didn't say nothing, for Ellen's a good plucked one, but +it's told on her--it's told on her!" + +And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and +instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was +all right. + +She hadn't really been quite "off." It would have been better for +her if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she +couldn't stand up--more, that she must fall down. Bunting's words +touched a most unwonted chord in the poor woman's heart, and the +eyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not thought her +husband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starving +and waiting. + +But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her +such betrayal betokened "foolishness," and so all she said was, +"There's no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. +I never was right off, Daisy." + +Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly +poured a little brandy. "I wouldn't touch such stuff--no, not if +I was dying!" she exclaimed. + +Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of +the table, on to her feet. "Go down again to the kitchen, child"; +but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice. + +"You haven't been eating properly, Ellen--that's what's the matter +with you," said Bunting suddenly. "Now I come to think of it, you +haven't eat half enough these last two days. I always did say--in +old days many a time I telled you--that a woman couldn't live on +air. But there, you never believed me!" + +Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, +pretty face. "I'd no idea you'd had such a bad time, father," she +said feelingly. "Why didn't you let me know about it? I might have +got something out of Old Aunt." + +"We didn't want anything of that sort," said her stepmother hastily. +"But of course--well, I expect I'm still feeling the worry now. I +don't seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, of--of--" +she restrained herself; another moment and the word "starving" would +have left her lips. + +"But everything's all right now," said Bunting eagerly, "all right, +thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is." + +"Yes," repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. "Yes, +we're all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it's all along of +Mr. Sleuth." + +She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. "I'm just a little +tottery still," she muttered. + +And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a +whisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, "Don't you +think Ellen ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her +something that would pull her round." + +"I won't see no doctor!" said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. "I +saw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten +months did my poor missis have. Just determined on having 'em she +was! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit +sooner." + +"She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen," began Bunting +aggressively. + +Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress +died. They might have been married some months before they were +married but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it. + +His wife smile wanly. "We won't have no words about that," she said, +and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. "Daisy? +If you won't go down to the kitchen again, then I must"--she turned +to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room. + +"I think the child grows prettier every minute," said Bunting fondly. + +"Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep," said his +wife. She was beginning to feel better. "But still, I do agree, +Bunting, that Daisy's well enough. And she seems more willing, too." + +"I say, we mustn't forget the lodger's dinner," Bunting spoke +uneasily. "It's a bit of fish to-day, isn't it? Hadn't I better +just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, as +you're not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?" + +"I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's luncheon," she said +quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger's +dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth +had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot +her lodger was a gentleman. + +"After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I can manage +all right. Don't you worry," she added after a long pause. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later +than usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs +with far heartier an appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice +slice of roast pork downstairs. + +"I hope you're feeling a little better, sir," Mrs. Bunting had forced +herself to say when she first took in his tray. + +And he had answered plaintively, querulously, "No, I can't say I +feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired--very tired. And as I +lay in bed I seemed to hear so many sounds--so much crying and +shouting. I trust the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy +thoroughfare, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, no, sir, I don't think that. We're generally reckoned very +quiet indeed, sir." + +She waited a moment--try as she would, she could not allude to what +those unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. "I expect you've +got a chill, sir," she said suddenly. "If I was you, I shouldn't +go out this afternoon; I'd just stay quietly indoors. There's a lot +of rough people about--" Perhaps there was an undercurrent of +warning, of painful pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated +in some way to the brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and +an uneasy, watchful look came into his luminous grey eyes. + +"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think I'll take your +advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss +to know what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of +Books." + +"Then you're not afraid about your eyes, sir?" said Mrs. Bunting +curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted +her to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about +him downstairs. It seemed to banish the terror which filled her +soul--aye, and her body, too--at other times. When she was with +him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so reasonable, so--so grateful. + +Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely +wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentric--so much +must be admitted. But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric +folk, eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long career +as useful maid. + +Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced +woman, she had never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on +certain things she had learnt as to the aberrations of which human +nature is capable--even well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human +nature--as exemplified in some of the households where she had +served. It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now became morbid +or--or hysterical. + +So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she +had talked during the first few days of Mr. Sleuth's stay in her +house, that she exclaimed, "Well, sir, I'll be up again to clear +away in about half an hour. And if you'll forgive me for saying so, +I hope you will stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather +--that's what it is! If there's any little thing you want, me or +Bunting can go out and get it." + +****** + +It must have been about four o'clock when there came a ring at the +front door. + +The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up +--she really was saving her stepmother a good bit of trouble--and +the girl was now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Aunt's +pernickety ways. + +"Whoever can that be?" said Bunting, looking up. "It's too early +for Joe Chandler, surely." + +"I'll go," said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her chair. +"I'll go! We don't want no strangers in here." + +And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, +"A clue? What clue?" + +But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from +her. "Why, Joe? We never thought 'twas you! But you're very +welcome, I'm sure. Come in." + +And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, +fair young face. + +"I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to know--" he began, +in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. +She didn't want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler +might be going to say. + +"Don't talk so loud," she said a little sharply. "The lodger is +not very well to-day. He's had a cold," she added hastily, "and +during the last two or three days he hasn't been able to go out." + +She wondered at her temerity, her--her hypocrisy, and that moment, +those few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Bunting's life. It was +the first time she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was +one of those women--there are many, many such--to whom there is +a whole world of difference between the suppression of the truth +and the utterance of an untruth. + +But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. "Has Miss Daisy arrived?" +he asked, in a lower voice. + +She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father +and daughter were sitting. + +"Well?" said Bunting, starting up. "Well, Joe? Now you can tell +us all about that mysterious clue. I suppose it'd be too good news +to expect you to tell us they've caught him?" + +"No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If they'd caught +him," said Joe ruefully, "well, I don't suppose I should be here, +Mr. Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. +And--well, they've found his weapon!" + +"No?" cried Bunting excitedly. "You don't say so! Whatever sort +of a thing is it? And are they sure 'tis his?" + +"Well, 'tain't sure, but it seems to be likely." + +Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. +But she was still standing with her back against the door, looking +at the group in front of her. None of them were thinking of her +--she thanked God for that! She could hear everything that was +said without joining in the talk and excitement. + +"Listen to this!" cried Joe Chandler exultantly. "'Tain't given +out yet--not for the public, that is--but we was all given it by +eight o'clock this morning. Quick work that, eh?" He read out: + + + "WANTED + + A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height + approximately 5 ft. 8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or + whiskers. Wearing a black diagonal coat, hard felt hat, high + white collar, and tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very + respectable appearance." + + +Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of +unutterable relief. + +"There's the chap!" said Joe Chandler triumphantly. "And now, Miss +Daisy"--he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little +tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice--"if you knows of any +nice, likely young fellow that answers to that description--well, +you've only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hundred +pounds." + +"Five hundred pounds!" cried Daisy and her father simultaneously. + +"Yes. That's what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private +bloke--nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred +from taking that reward, worse luck. And it's too bad, for we has +all the trouble, after all." + +"Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?" said Bunting. "I'd +like to con it over to myself." + +Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. + +A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. "Well, it's +clear enough, isn't it?" + +"Yes. And there's hundreds--nay, thousands--of young fellows +that might be a description of," said Chandler sarcastically. "As +a pal of mine said this morning, 'There isn't a chap will like to +carry a newspaper parcel after this.' And it won't do to have a +respectable appearance--eh?" + +Daisy's voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly +appreciated Mr. Chandler's witticism. + +"Why on earth didn't the people who saw him try and catch him?" +asked Bunting suddenly. + +And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, "Yes, Joe--that seems +odd, don't it?" + +Joe Chandler coughed. "Well, it's this way," he said. "No one +person did see all that. The man who's described here is just made +up from the description of two different folk who think they saw +him. You see, the murders must have taken place--well, now, let +me see--perhaps at two o'clock this last time. Two o'clock-- +that's the idea. Well, at such a time as that not many people are +about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one woman declares she +saw a young chap walking away from the spot where 'twas done; and +another one--but that was a good bit later--says The Avenger +passed by her. It's mostly her they're following in this 'ere +description. And then the boss who has charge of that sort of +thing looked up what other people had said--I mean when the other +crimes was committed. That's how he made up this 'Wanted.'" + +"Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?" said +Bunting slowly, disappointedly. + +"Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description +fits him all right," said Chandler; but he also spoke in a +hesitating voice. + +"You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?" observed Bunting +insinuatingly. + +He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on--in fact, +that she even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She +had come up close to them, and now looked quite her old self again. + +"Yes. They believe they've found the weapon what he does his awful +deeds with," said Chandler. "At any rate, within a hundred yards +of that little dark passage where they found the bodies--one at +each end, that was--there was discovered this morning a very +peculiar kind o' knife--'keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger'-- +that's the exact words the boss used when he was describing it to +a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that clue than of +the other--I mean than of the description people gave of the chap +who walked quickly by with a newspaper parcel. But now there's a +pretty job in front of us. Every shop where they sell or might a' +sold, such a thing as that knife, including every eating-house in +the East End, has got to be called at!" + +"Whatever for?" asked Daisy. + +"Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling +about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the +time. But, Mr. Bunting"--Chandler's voice changed; it became +businesslike, official--"they're not going to say anything about +that--not in newspapers--till to-morrow, so don't you go and +tell anybody. You see, we don't want to frighten the fellow off. +If he knew they'd got his knife--well, he might just make himself +scarce, and they don't want that! If it's discovered that any knife +of that kind was sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways +are known, then--then--" + +"What'll happen then?" said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer. + +"Well, then, nothing'll be put about it in the papers at all," said +Chandler deliberately. "The only objec' of letting the public know +about it would be if nothink was found--I mean if the search of +the shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try +and find out someone--some private person-like, who's watched that +knife in the criminal's possession. It's there the reward--the +five hundred pounds will come in." + +"Oh, I'd give anything to see that knife!" exclaimed Daisy, clasping +her hands together. + +"You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!" cried her stepmother passionately. + +They all looked round at her, surprised. + +"Come, come, Ellen!" said Bunting reprovingly. + +"Well, it is a horrible idea!" said his wife sullenly. "To go and +sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds." + +But Daisy was offended. "Of course I'd like to see it!" she cried +defiantly. "I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. +Chandler said that! I only said I'd like to see the knife." + +Chandler looked at her soothingly. "Well, the day may come when +you will see it," he said slowly. + +A great idea had come into his mind. + +"No! What makes you think that?" + +"If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our +Black Museum at the Yard, you'll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. +They keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this +weapon should lead to the conviction of The Avenger--well, then, +that knife 'ull be there, and you'll see it!" + +"The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your +place for?" asked Daisy wonderingly. "I thought there was only the +British Museum--" + +And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, +laughed aloud. + +"You are a goosey girl!" said her father fondly. "Why, there's a +lot of museums in London; the town's thick with 'em. Ask Ellen +there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when we was +courting--if the weather was bad." + +"But our museum's the one that would interest Miss Daisy," broke in +Chandler eagerly. "It's a regular Chamber of 'Orrors!" + +"Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before," said Bunting +excitedly. "D'you really mean that there's a museum where they +keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives +murders have been committed with?" + +"Knives?" cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of +attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even +Mrs. Bunting looked at him expectantly. "Much more than knives, Mr. +Bunting! Why, they've got there, in little bottles, the real poison +what people have been done away with." + +"And can you go there whenever you like?" asked Daisy wonderingly. +She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable +privileges are attached to the position of a detective member of +the London Police Force. + +"Well, I suppose I could--" Joe smiled. "Anyway I can certainly +get leave to take a friend there." He looked meaningly at Daisy, +and Daisy looked eagerly at him. + +But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? +Ellen was so prim, so--so irritatingly proper. But what was this +father was saying? "D'you really mean that, Joe?" + +"Yes, of course I do!" + +"Well, then, look here! If it isn't asking too much of a favour, I +should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don't +want to wait till The Avenger's caught"--Bunting smiled broadly. +"I'd be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum +o' yours. Ellen, there,"--he looked across at his wife--"don't +agree with me about such things. Yet I don't think I'm a +bloodthirsty man! But I'm just terribly interested in all that sort +of thing--always have been. I used to positively envy the butler +in that Balham Mystery!" + +Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man--it was a look +which contained and carried a great many things backwards and +forwards, such as--"Now, isn't it funny that your father should +want to go to such a place? But still, I can't help it if he does +want to go, so we must put up with his company, though it would +have been much nicer for us to go just by our two selves." And +then Daisy's look answered quite as plainly, though perhaps Joe +didn't read her glance quite as clearly as she had read his: "Yes, +it is tiresome. But father means well; and 'twill be very pleasant +going there, even if he does come too." + +"Well, what d'you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? I'd +call for you here about--shall we say half-past two?--and just +take you and Miss Daisy down to the Yard. 'Twouldn't take very +long; we could go all the way by bus, right down to Westminster +Bridge." He looked round at his hostess: "Wouldn't you join us, +Mrs. Bunting? 'Tis truly a wonderful interesting place." + +But his hostess shook her head decidedly. "'Twould turn me sick," +she exclaimed, "to see the bottle of poison what had done away with +the life of some poor creature! + +"And as for knives--!" a look of real horror, of startled fear, +crept over her pale face. + +"There, there!" said Bunting hastily. "Live and let live--that's +what I always say. Ellen ain't on in this turn. She can just +stay at home and mind the cat--I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!" + +"I won't have Mr. Sleuth laughed at," said Mrs. Bunting darkly. +"But there! I'm sure it's very kind of you, Joe, to think of giving +Bunting and Daisy such a rare treat"--she spoke sarcastically, but +none of the three who heard her understood that. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the +stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart +of that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, +Daisy Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of +Romance. Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up +to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a +new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, +quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this +was the first time a lift had come her way. + +With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler +marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. + +Daisy clung to her father's arm, a little bewildered, a little +oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was +stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful place where she +found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of great rooms full +of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling--or so she supposed +--the mysteries of crime. + +They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped +short. "Look in there," he said, in a low voice, addressing the +father rather than the daughter, "that's the Finger-Print Room. +We've records here of over two hundred thousand men's and women's +finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we've got +the print of a man's five finger-tips, well, he's done for--if he +ever does anything else, that is. Once we've got that bit of him +registered he can't never escape us--no, not if he tries ever so. +But though there's nigh on a quarter of a million records in there, +yet it don't take--well, not half an hour, for them to tell +whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful +thought, ain't it?" + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a +troubled look came over his stolid face. "Wonderful, but also a +very fearful thought for the poor wretches as has got their +finger-prints in, Joe." + +Joe laughed. "Agreed!" he said. "And the cleverer ones knows that +only too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was +here safe, managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just +so as to make a blurred impression--you takes my meaning? But +there, at the end of six weeks the skin grew all right again, and +in exactly the same little creases as before!" + +"Poor devil!" said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came +over Daisy's bright eager face. + +They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they +came to a half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than +that of the Finger-Print Identification Room. + +"If you'll glance in there," said Joe briefly, "you'll see how we +finds out all about any man whose finger-tips has given him away, so +to speak. It's here we keeps an account of what he's done, his +previous convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where I told +you, and his record in there--just connected by a number." + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was +longing to get on--to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe +and her father were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the +matter of that not worth taking the trouble to understand. However, +she had not long to wait. + +A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on +very friendly terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, +unlocking a common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of +three through into the Black Museum. + +For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment +and surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they +called the Science Room in the public library of the town where she +lived with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up with +plain glass cases fixed at a height from the floor which enabled +their contents to be looked at closely. + +She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The +exhibits shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, +the sort of things one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in +an untidy house--old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what +looked like a child's broken lantern, even a box of pills. . . + +As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking +objects; bits of old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and +leather, and so on. + +It was really rather disappointing. + +Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf +just below the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the +great room look so light and shadowless, was a row of life-size +white plaster heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. +There were about a dozen of these, not more--and they had such odd, +staring, helpless, real-looking faces. + +"Whatever's those?" asked Bunting in a low voice. + +Daisy clung a thought closer to her father's arm. Even she guessed +that these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of +those men and women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains +that the murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death. + +"All hanged!" said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. "Casts +taken after death." + +Bunting smiled nervously. "They don't look dead somehow. They +looks more as if they were listening," he said. + +"That's the fault of Jack Ketch," said the man facetiously. "It's +his idea--that of knotting his patient's necktie under the left +ear! That's what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom he has +to act valet on just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a +bit to one side. You look here--?" + +Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed +with his finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each +neck; running from this indentation was a curious little furrow, +well ridged above, showing how tightly Jack Ketch's necktie had been +drawn when its wearer was hurried through the gates of eternity. + +"They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or--or hurt," said +Bunting wonderingly. + +He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring +faces. + +But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, +"Well, a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his +plans brought to naught--and knowing he's only got a second to live +--now wouldn't he?" + +"Yes, I suppose he would," said Bunting slowly. + +Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere +of the place was beginning to tell on her. She now began to +understand that the shabby little objects lying there in the glass +case close to her were each and all links in the chain of evidence +which, in almost every case, had brought some guilty man or woman +to the gallows. + +"We had a yellow gentleman here the other day," observed the guardian +suddenly; "one of those Brahmins--so they calls themselves. Well, +you'd a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He +declared--what was the word he used?"--he turned to Chandler. + +"He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, +mind you--queer to say, he left them out--exuded evil, that was +the word he used! Exuded--squeezed out it means. He said that +being here made him feel very bad. And twasn't all nonsense either. +He turned quite green under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him +out quick. He didn't feel better till he'd got right to the other +end of the passage!" + +"There now! Who'd ever think of that?" said Bunting. "I should say +that man 'ud got something on his conscience, wouldn't you?" + +"Well, I needn't stay now," said Joe's good-natured friend. "You +show your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place nearly as +well as I do, don't you?" + +He smiled at Joe's visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed +that he could not tear himself away after all. + +"Look here," he said to Bunting. "In this here little case are the +tools of Charles Peace. I expect you've heard of him." + +"I should think I have!" cried Bunting eagerly. + +"Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of +all. Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he +would have been, had he been put in the way of it. Here's his +ladder; you see it folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little +bundle--just like a bundle of old sticks any man might have been +seen carrying about London in those days without attracting any +attention. Why, it probably helped him to look like an honest +working man time and time again, for on being arrested he declared +most solemnly he'd always carried that ladder openly under his arm." + +"The daring of that!" cried Bunting. + +"Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could reach from the +ground to the second storey of any old house. And, oh! how clever +he was! Just open one section, and you see the other sections open +automatically; so Peace could stand on the ground and force the +thing quietly up to any window he wished to reach. Then he'd go +away again, having done his job, with a mere bundle of old wood +under his arm! My word, he was artful! I wonder if you've heard +the tale of how Peace once lost a finger. Well, he guessed the +constables were instructed to look out for a man missing a finger; +so what did he do?" + +"Put on a false finger," suggested Bunting. + +"No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do without a hand +altogether. Here's his false stump: you see, it's made of wood +--wood and black felt? Well, that just held his hand nicely. +Why, we considers that one of the most ingenious contrivances in +the whole museum." + +Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. With Chandler +in delighted attendance, she had moved away to the farther end of +the great room, and now she was bending over yet another glass case. +"Whatever are those little bottles for?" she asked wonderingly. + +There were five small phials, filled with varying quantities of +cloudy liquids. + +"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what they are. There's +enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to do for you and me +--aye, and for your father as well, I should say." + +"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said Daisy, smiling. +Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little +bottles only brought a pleasant thrill. + +"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was. +Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was +really going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband. +She'd got a bit tired of him, I suspect." + +"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with," +said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they +began to laugh aloud in unison. + +"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?" asked Chandler, +becoming suddenly serious. + +"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. "That was the +wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother. +They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she won't let me go +to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father take me there +last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow +I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!" + +"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of relics of Mrs. +Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that's at Madame +Tussaud's--at least so they claim, I can't say. Now here's something +just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that man's jacket +there?" + +"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed, +frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had +been taken queer. + +"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and by mistake he +went and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one +of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't seem much of a +clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you +that that other bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged +the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all three buttons +was different!" + +Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which +had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked, pointing to a +piece of dirty-looking stuff. + +"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a horrible thing +--that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried with a woman-- +buried in the ground, I mean--after her husband had cut her up and +tried, to burn her. 'Twas that bit o' shirt that brought him to the +gallows." + +"I considers your museum's a very horrid place!" said Daisy +pettishly, turning away. + +She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly +lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room. + +But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types +of infernal machines. "Beautiful little works of art some of them +are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree. + +"Come along--do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've seen about +enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it 'ud give me +the horrors. I don't want to have no nightmares to-night. It's +dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the world. +Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without +knowing it, mightn't we?" + +"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I don't suppose +you'll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone +who's committed a murder--not one in a million does that. Why, +even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!" + +But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every +moment of the time. Just now he was studying intently the various +photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially +was he pleased to see those connected with a famous and still +mysterious case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, +and in which the servant of the man who died had played a +considerable part--not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery. + +"I suppose a good many murderers get off?" he said musingly. + +And Joe Chandler's friend nodded. "I should think they did!" he +exclaimed. "There's no such thing as justice here in England. +'Tis odds on the murderer every time. 'Tisn't one in ten that +come to the end he should do--to the gallows, that is." + +"And what d'you think about what's going on now--I mean about +those Avenger murders?" + +Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already +moving towards the door. + +"I don't believe he'll ever be caught," said the other +confidentially. "In some ways 'tis a lot more of a job to catch a +madman than 'tis to run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of +course--leastways to my thinking--The Avenger is a madman--one +of the cunning, quiet sort. Have you heard about the letter?" his +voice dropped lower. + + "No," said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. "What letter d'you +mean?" + +"Well, there's a letter--it'll be in this museum some day--which +came just before that last double event. 'Twas signed 'The Avenger,' +in just the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always +leaves behind him. Mind you, it don't follow that it actually was The +Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, +and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it." + +"And where was it posted?" asked Bunting. "That might be a bit of a +clue, you know." + +"Oh, no," said the other. "They always goes a very long way to +post anything--criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But +this particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office." + +"What? Close to us?" said Bunting. "Goodness! dreadful!" + +"Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don't suppose +The Avenger's in any way peculiar-looking--in fact we know he ain't." + +"Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?" asked +Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Our description was made up from what she said," answered the other +cautiously. "But, there, you can't tell! In a case like that it's +groping--groping in the dark all the time--and it's just a lucky +accident if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it's upsetting +us all very much here. You can't wonder at that!" + +"No, indeed," said Bunting quickly. "I give you my word, I've hardly +thought of anything else for the last month." + +Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage +she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was +saying. + +He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother +lived, at Richmond--that it was a nice little house, close to the +park. He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there +one afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and +how nice it would be. + +"I don't see why Ellen shouldn't let me," the girl said rebelliously. +"But she's that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen--a regular +old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I'm staying with them, +father don't like for me to do anything that Ellen don't approve of. +But she's got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her--?" +She looked at him, and he nodded sagely. + +"Don't you be afraid," he said confidently. "I'll get round Mrs. +Bunting. But, Miss Daisy"--he grew very red--"I'd just like to +ask you a question--no offence meant--" + +"Yes?" said Daisy a little breathlessly. "There's father close to +us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?" + +"Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you've never +walked out with any young fellow?" + +Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her +cheek. "No," she said sadly. "No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not." +In a burst of candour she added, "You see, I never had the chance!" + +And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. + + + +CHAPTER X + +By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found +herself for close on an hour quite alone in the house during her +husband's and Daisy's jaunt with young Chandler. + +Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on this +particular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was +falling, he suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, +and his landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. + +As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the +drawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two +rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, +that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room she +wanted to do--as to engage in a vague search for--she hardly knew +for what. + +During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always +had a deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who +read their employers' private letters, and who furtively peeped +into desks and cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of +discovering family skeletons. + +But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to +do herself what she had once so scorned others for doing. + +Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He +was a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, +under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had early +undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of +washing he required done, with her own and Bunting's. Luckily he +wore soft shirts. + +At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with +this tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at +it herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting's +shirts. Everything else she managed to do herself. + +From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the +dressing-table. + +Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he +generally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned +looking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulled +out the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there; +she only glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver. +The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes +he required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost, +making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely +comforted Mrs. Bunting. + +Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a +little way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap +of paper. And at last, when more or less giving up the search, as +she came and went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting door +wide open, her mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as +to the lodger's past life. + +Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible +sort of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct +as have other people of his class. He was queer about the drink--one +might say almost crazy on the subject--but there, as to that, he +wasn't the only one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a +lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the +question of drink and drunkards--She looked round the neat +drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place +where anything could be kept concealed--that place was the +substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea +suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought of before. + +After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly +bring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the +corner where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her +not very great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece +of furniture. + +As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,--something rolling +about on the second shelf, something which had not been there before +Mr. Sleuth's arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier +backwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice--satisfied, yet strangely +troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the +disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by +its owner. + +Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Bunting's mind. +She hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside +the cupboard. A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier +must become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some +dark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the bottom of the little +cupboard door. + +She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red, +on her finger. + +Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. In +fact the colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over. + +It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset--that was all! How +could she have thought it was anything else? + +It was the more silly of her--so she told herself in scornful +condemnation--because she knew that the lodger used red ink. +Certain pages of Cruden's Concordance were covered with notes written +in Mr. Sleuth's peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some places +you couldn't see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarks +and notes of interrogation. + +Mr. Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in the +chiffonnier--that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done; +and it was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to know +things she would be none the better, none the happier, for knowing, +that this accident had taken place. + +She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallen +on the green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily told +herself, foolishly upset she went once more into the back room. + +It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She would +have expected him to have made that one of his first purchases--the +more so that paper is so very cheap, especially that rather +dirty-looking grey Silurian paper. Mrs. Bunting had once lived with +a lady who always used two kinds of notepaper, white for her friends +and equals, grey for those whom she called "common people." She, +Ellen Green, as she then was, had always resented the fact. 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. 21 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. "Taking advantage of your being out I went up to +dust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the +chiffonnier it tilted. I'm afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that +was inside may have got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, +sir. But I hope there's no harm done. I wiped it up as well as +I could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked." + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. +But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now +than she had felt before he came in. Then she had been so +frightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to the +pavement, for company. + +"Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there." + +She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger's brow +cleared. + +"I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went on, "for I have +seen you marking that book of yours--I mean the book you read +together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you +another bottle, sir?" + +"No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will at once proceed +upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you I +shall ring." + +He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room bell +did ring. + +At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier was +wide open, and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle of +red ink which had turned over and now lay in a red pool of its own +making on the lower shelf. + +"I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps I +was ill-advised to keep my ink in there." + +"Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a drop or two fell +out on to the carpet, and they don't show, as you see, sir, for it's +a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well." + +Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long pause, "I think +not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the ink +remaining in the bottle will do quite well, especially if I add a +little water, or better still, a little tea, to what already +remains in the bottle. I only require it to mark up passages which +happen to be of peculiar interest in my Concordance--a work, Mrs. +Bunting, which I should have taken great pleasure in compiling +myself had not this--ah--this gentleman called Cruden, been before." + +****** + +Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter in +her manner than usual that evening. She listened to all they had +to say about their interesting visit to the Black Museum, and did +not snub either of them--no, not even when Bunting told of the +dreadful, haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged. + +But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked her +a question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she had +not heard the last few words he had been saying. + +"A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. But she shook her +head. + +Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came back +dressed up in a blue-and-white check silk gown. + +"My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy. I've never seen +you wearing that before." + +"And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed Mrs. Bunting +sarcastically. And then, "I suppose this dressing up means that +you're expecting someone. I should have thought both of you must +have seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that +young chap does his work--that I do! He never seems too busy to +come and waste an hour or two here." + +But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. And +even Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlike +herself. She went about her cooking and the various little things +she had to do even more silently than was her wont. + +Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was the +storm of dread, of sombre anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense, +which shook her soul, and which so far affected her poor, ailing +body that often she felt as if she could not force herself to +accomplish her simple round of daily work. + +After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a penny +evening paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather rueful +smile, that he had read so much of that nasty little print this +last week or two that his eyes hurt him. + +"Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy eagerly, and he +handed her the paper. + +Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock +echoed through the house. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no +longer "Chandler," as he had mostly used to do. + +Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. +She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her. + +To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel +which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty +horde with right on their side. And she was always expecting that +first single spy who would herald the battalion against whom her +only weapon would be her woman's wit and cunning. + +But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her +face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look +it assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and +stepdaughter. + +"Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door open behind +her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had +bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold to-night." + +A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news. + +Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? +Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the +sooner where he was now. + +Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the +double murder which had been committed early in the morning of +the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the thousands of +men belonging to the Metropolitan Police--to say nothing of the +smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force-- +were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that +there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with +horror, breeds contempt. + +But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something +happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest +this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the +more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering +severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the +huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent +speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary. + +But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little +house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle +of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a +moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an +unsatisfactory, job. He secretly agreed with one of his pals who +had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last double +crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a needle in a rick o' hay +than this--bloke!" + +And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now--after +nine long, empty days had gone by? + +Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. +Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. +Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the +father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented +domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight. + +Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her +stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left +side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable +arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude--as +it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought +a pang to Mrs. Bunting--which showed that age was beginning to +creep over the listener. + +One of Daisy's duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of +reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her +accomplishment. + +Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been asking, +"Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had answered quickly, +"Aye, do, my dear." + +He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the +door, he had only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming +so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves. + +Daisy read out: + +"The Avenger: A--" + +And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. +Bravely, however, she went on. "A the-o-ry." + +"Go in--do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. "Why should +we stay out here in the cold? It's ridiculous." + +"I don't want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered Chandler back, +rather hoarsely. + +"Well, you'll hear it all the better in the room. Don't think +she'll stop because of you, bless you! There's nothing shy about +our Daisy!" + +The young man resented the tart, short tone. "Poor little girl!" +he said to himself tenderly. "That's what it is having a stepmother, +instead of a proper mother." But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then +he was pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright +blush came over her pretty face. + +"Joe begs you won't stop yet awhile. Go on with your reading," +commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. "Now, Joe, you can go and sit over +there, close to Daisy, and then you won't miss a word." + +There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed +that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went +and sat on a chair just behind Daisy. From there he could note with +reverent delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards from +the nape of her slender neck. + +"The AVENGER: A THE-O-RY" + +began Daisy again, clearing her throat. + +"DEAR Sir--I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think +there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable +that The Avenger--to give him the name by which he apparently +wishes to be known--comprises in his own person the peculiarities +of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson's now famous hero. + +"The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, +pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of +London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the +husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and +is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his +widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he +has become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, +occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy +nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out +of the house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes +his way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area. +Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like +gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home +again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once +more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, +esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and +acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene +of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal +lunatic. + +"I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that +I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to +the part of London where these murders have been actually committed. +I am quite sure from all that has come out--and we must remember +that full information is never given to the newspapers--The Avenger +should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London +--Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly--" + +Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the +word "Gab-o-ri-you," said she. + +"What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly. + +And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French chap what wrote +detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of them are, too!" + +"Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, +I take it?" said Bunting. + +"Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's written that silly +letter just signed that name for fun." + +"It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. "I +wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish." + +"Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman!" cried Daisy, in +an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how-to-do!" + +"There may be something in the notion," said her father thoughtfully. +"After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute he must +be somewhere a-hiding of himself." + +"Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting scornfully. + +She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. 'Twould soon be time +for the lodger's supper. + +She hurried on: "But what I do say is that--that--he has nothing +to do with the West End. Why, they say it's a sailor from the Docks +--that's a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I'm fair +sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. +The Avenger this--The Avenger that--" + +"I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night," said Bunting +cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything new?" + +"I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in excitedly. +She read out: + + +"BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED" + + +"Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her +tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!" + +Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. "Why, 'twould be +a very good idea, if 'twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. +But, there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers' shops, +to say nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o' that sort?" + +But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking ear there +seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her +fresh young voice. + +"Hark to this," she said: + +"A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn +was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious +instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and +hanged." + +"La, now! Who'd ever have thought of such a thing?" Bunting +exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do have some useful +hints in sometimes, Joe." + +But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds ain't no use," he +said; "no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the +suggestions that the last few days have brought in--well, all I +can say is our work would be cut out for us--not but what it's +cut out for us now, if it comes to that!" He sighed ruefully. He +was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this +pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on +for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would presently have +to do, into the cold and foggy night! + +Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There +was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, +even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where +he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to +taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than that one of +his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the young fellow +had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had +spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent +speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan +Police, but also against the Home Secretary. + +But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the +possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading +just yet. + +"Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another letter, father!" + + +"PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES. + + +"DEAR Sir--During the last day or two several of the more +Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, +whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. +It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however +nomad he may be in his habits--" + +"Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy interrupted herself, and +looked round at her little audience. + +"I've always declared the fellow had all his senses about him," +observed Bunting confidently. + +Daisy went on, quite satisfied: + +"--however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat +where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person +who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information +in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory +after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My +suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. +The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. +Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly +difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for +English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence." + +"There's something worth listening to in that letter," said Joe, +leaning forward. + +Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as +she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he +was saying. + +"Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively. + +"Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in +a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone--a woman his +mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. +But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!" + +"I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a reward," said +Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. + +"Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler confidently. "You'd +only be doing what it's the plain duty of everyone--everyone, that +is, who's a good citizen. And you'd be getting something for doing +it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty." + +"A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common +informer," went on Bunting obstinately. "And no man 'ud care to be +called that! It's different for you, Joe," he added hastily. "It's +your job to catch those who've done anything wrong. And a man'd be +a fool who'd take refuge--like with you. He'd be walking into the +lion's mouth--" Bunting laughed. + +And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: "If I'd done anything I +wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," she said. + +And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you did you needn't +be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!" + +And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, +sitting with bowed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience +and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain. + +"Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting quickly. + +"Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like," answered the poor +woman heavily. "It's over now. Don't mind me." + +"But I don't believe--no, that I don't--that there's anybody in +the world who knows who The Avenger is," went on Chandler quickly. +"It stands to reason that anybody'd give him up--in their own +interest, if not in anyone else's. Who'd shelter such a creature? +Why, 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house along with one!" + +"Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for the wicked things +he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at Chandler +with eager, anxious eyes. + +"I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough to hang!" said +Chandler deliberately. "After all the trouble he's been giving us, too!" + +"Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said Bunting. + +"Not if he's not responsible," said his wife sharply. "I never +heard of anything so cruel--that I never did! If the man's a +madman, he ought to be in an asylum--that's where he ought to be." + +"Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. +"Contrary isn't the word for her! But there, I've noticed the last +few days that she seemed to be taking that monster's part. That's +what comes of being a born total abstainer." + +Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What nonsense you do talk!" +she said angrily. "Not but what it's a good thing if these murders +have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. England's drink +is England's shame--I'll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, +get up, do! Put down that paper. We've heard quite enough. You can +be laying the cloth while I goes down the kitchen." + +"Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's supper," called out +Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring--" he turned to Chandler. +"For one thing, he's often out about this time." + +"Not often--just now and again, when he wants to buy something," +snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I hadn't forgot his supper. He +never do want it before eight o'clock." + +"Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's eager voice +broke in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was +now laying the cloth. + +"Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You +have your work cut out looking after things down here--that's where +I wants you to help me." + +Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be doing nothing +while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, looking across at Mrs. +Bunting, "I'd forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?" + +"Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman," said Bunting. +"He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth." + +His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy laughed. +"You'll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I've never seen this +wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she does! If I +was father I'd be jealous!" + +Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too funny. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can't always do +just what one wants to do--not in this world, at any rate!" + +Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, +though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She +was standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she +spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in +her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which +they were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other +would have to bow. + +There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, +"I don't see why I should go if I don't want to!" she cried. +"You'll allow I've been useful to you, Ellen? 'Tisn't even as if +you was quite well." + +"I am quite well--perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and +she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her +stepdaughter. + +"'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and father." There +were tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at +his wife. + +An invitation had come to Daisy--an invitation from her own dead +mother's sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave +Square. "The family" had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and +Aunt Margaret--Daisy was her godchild--had begged that her niece +might come and spend two or three days with her. + +But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was +like in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt +Margaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modern +employer is always sighing. While "the family" were away it was +her joy--she regarded it as a privilege--to wash sixty-seven pieces +of very valuable china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room; +she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. +These were the two duties with which she intended her young niece +to assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened at the prospect. + +But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an +hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret +was not one to be trifled with. + +Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the +very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go--that there +was no doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But +discuss it they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. +But that, as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set +on her own view. + +"What the child says is true," he observed. "It isn't as if you +was quite well. You've been took bad twice in the last few days +--you can't deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn't I just take a bus +and go over and see Margaret? I'd tell her just how it is. She'd +understand, bless you!" + +"I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried Mrs. Bunting, +speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. +"Haven't I a right to be ill, haven't I a right to be took bad, +aye, and to feel all right again--same as other people?" + +Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh, Ellen!" she cried; +"do say that you can't spare me! I don't want to go across to that +horrid old dungeon of a place." + +"Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm fair tired of +you both! There'll come a day, Daisy, when you'll know, like me, +that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and when +your Aunt Margaret's left her savings to somebody else just because +you wouldn't spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you'll +know what it's like to go without--you'll know what a fool you +were, and that nothing can't alter it any more!" + +And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it +snatched from her. + +"Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does matter--a +terrible deal--though I never thought to hear Ellen say 'twas the +only thing that mattered. But 'twould be foolish--very, very +foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It'll only be +two days after all--two days isn't a very long time." + +But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She had already +rushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her +childish tears of disappointment--the childish tears which came +because she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman's natural +instinct for building her own human nest. + +Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange +young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police. + +"Who'd ever have thought she'd have minded as much as that!" +Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart +was misgiving him. + +"It's plain enough why she's become so fond of us all of a sudden," +said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her +uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, "as plain as +the nose on your face, my man." + +"What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit slow, Ellen, but +I really don't know what you'd be at?" + +"Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe +Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only +foolishness then, but I've come round to your view--that's all." + +Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of +coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome +Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested +in the Avenger murders that he hadn't thought of Joe in any other +connection--not this time, at any rate. + +"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an unwonted tone of +excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting's voice. + +His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly +smile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I've never been one +to prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don't mind +telling you, Bunting--Daisy'll have plenty o' time to get tired +of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!" + +"Well, she might do worse," said Bunting ruminatingly. "He's as +steady as God makes them, and he's already earning thirty-two +shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt'd like the notion? +I don't see her parting with Daisy before she must." + +"I wouldn't let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing +as that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not for millions of gold!" +And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a +very different tune now to what she'd sung a few minutes ago, when +she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square. + +"If she still seems upset while she's having her dinner," said his +wife suddenly, "well, you just wait till I've gone out for something, +and then you just say to her, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' +--just that, and nothing more! She'll take it from you. And I +shouldn't be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot." + +"For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn't +go over and see her there," said Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. "Plenty of +reason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to +know any of her secrets. I've only seen that woman once, but I know +exactly the sort Margaret is. She's just waiting for Old Aunt to +drop off and then she'll want to have Daisy herself--to wait on +her, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young +fellow what stood in her way." + +She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day clock which +had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. +It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and +had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth's +arrival. + +"I've time to go out with that telegram," she said briskly--somehow +she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days-- +"and then it'll be done. It's no good having more words about it, +and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait till the +child comes upstairs again." + +She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather +wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as "the child" +--in fact, he could only remember her having done so once before, +and that was a long time ago. They had been talking over their +future life together, and she had said, very solemnly, "Bunting, +I promise I will do my duty--as much as lies in my power, that +is--by the child." + +But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. +As not infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to +do, that particular duty had been taken over by someone else who +had no mind to let it go. + +"What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked Bunting, rather +nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them +that Ellen had offered to go out in the morning. + +She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, +she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so +--strange, and, to herself, very comfortable and pleasant. + +"Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door and say I'll be +back in a few minutes--that I had to go out with a message. He's +quite a reasonable gentleman." She went into the back room to put +on her bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold--getting colder +every minute. + +As she stood, buttoning her gloves--she wouldn't have gone out +untidy for the world--Bunting suddenly came across to her. "Give +us a kiss, old girl," he said. And his wife turned up her face. + +"One 'ud think it was catching!" she said, but there was a lilt in +her voice. + +"So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that old cook get +married just after us? She'd never 'a thought of it if it hadn't +been for you!" + +But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. +Sleuth revenged himself for his landlady's temporary forgetfulness. + +During the last two days the lodger had been queer, odder than usual, +unlike himself, or, rather, very much as he had been some ten days +ago, just before that double murder had taken place. + +The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadful +place to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs. +Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead, restlessly +walking up and down his sitting-room. And later, when she took up +his supper, she had listened a moment outside the door, while he +read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in--terrible texts +telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge. + +Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with the +curious personality of her lodger, that she did not look where she +was going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up against her. + +She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young person +muttered a word of apology;--then she again fell into deep thought. + +It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the +problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She, +Ellen, was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after +all it wasn't wonderful that she had been snappy. This last night +she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake listening +--and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake listening for a +sound that never comes. + +The house had remained so still you could have heard a pin drop. Mr. +Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. +Had he stirred his landlady was bound to have heard him, for his bed +was, as we know, just above hers. No, during those long hours of +darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had fallen on +Mrs. Bunting's ears. + +And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined +effort to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts. + +It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe +had said only last evening, it was full time that he should again +turn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. +Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre +a bright blinding light--but the shadow had no form or definite +substance. Sometimes he looked like one thing, sometimes like +another . . . + +Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the street +where there was a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to the +left she stopped short for a minute. + +There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebuke +and even self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women, +should have longed to hear that another murder had been committed +last night! + +Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all through +breakfast hoping to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes, +and more or less during the long discussion which had followed on +the receipt of Margaret's letter she had been hoping--hoping +against hope--that those dreadful triumphant shouts of the +newspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone Road. +And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when he +had expressed, not disappointment exactly--but, well, surprise, +that nothing had happened last night. + +Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think how +afraid she had been of that young man! She was no longer afraid of +him, or hardly at all. He was dotty--that's what was the matter +with him, dotty with love for rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy. +Anything might now go on, right under Joe Chandler's very nose--but, +bless you, he'd never see it! Last summer, when this affair, this +nonsense of young Chandler and Daisy had begun, she had had very +little patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way Joe +had gone on then, the tiresome way he would be always dropping in, +had been one reason (though not the most important reason of all) +why she had felt so terribly put about at the idea of the girl +coming again. But now? Well, now she had become quite tolerant, +quite kindly--at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was concerned. + +She wondered why. + +Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for a +couple of days. In fact 'twould be a very good thing, for then he'd +think of Daisy--think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absence +does make the heart grow fonder--at first, at any rate. Mrs. +Bunting was well aware of that. During the long course of hers +and Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated for about three +months, and it was that three months which had made up her mind for +her. She had got so used to Bunting that she couldn't do without +him, and she had felt--oddest fact of all--acutely, miserably +jealous. But she hadn't let him know that--no fear! + +Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job--that would never do. But +what a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn't like some of +those detective chaps that are written about in stories--the sort +of chaps that know everything, see everything, guess everything +--even where there isn't anything to see, or know, or guess! + +Why, to take only one little fact--Joe Chandler had never shown +the slightest curiosity about their lodger. . . . + +Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurried +quickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her. + +She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman +without a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed to +manage other people's affairs, had even written out the words: "Will +be with you to tea.--DAISY." + +It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anything +horrible was going to happen in the next two or three days--it was +just as well Daisy shouldn't be at home. Not that there was any real +danger that anything would happen,--Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. + +By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentally +counting up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine, +or was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by +now, if--as that writer in the newspaper had suggested--he was a +quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, whatever vengeance +he had to wreak, must be satisfied? + +She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for the lodger to ring +before she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr. +Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed into +the house. Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. There +came the sound of voices--of voices she thought she did not know-- +in the sitting-room. + +She opened the door, and then drew a long breath. It was only Joe +Chandler--Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stopped +rather guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heard +Chandler utter the words: "That don't mean nothing! I'll just run +out and send another saying you won't come, Miss Daisy." + +And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting's face. There +had fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shouts +which betokened that something had happened last night--something +which made it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying +down the Marylebone Road. + +"Well?" she said a little breathlessly. "Well, Joe? I suppose +you've brought us news? I suppose there's been another?" + +He looked at her, surprised. "No, that there hasn't, Mrs. Bunting +--not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you're thinking of those +newspaper chaps? They've got to cry out something," he grinned. +"You wouldn't 'a thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They're just +shouting out that there's been an arrest; but we don't take no +stock of that. It's a Scotchman what gave himself up last night +at Dorking. He'd been drinking, and was a-pitying of himself. +Why, since this business began, there's been about twenty arrests, +but they've all come to nothing." + +"Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed," said Bunting +jokingly. "Come to think of it, it's high time The Avenger was at +work again." He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned to +young Chandler: "Well, you'll be glad when its all over, my lad." + +"Glad in a way," said Chandler unwillingly. "But one 'ud have liked +to have caught him. One doesn't like to know such a creature's at +large, now, does one?" + +Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. "I must just go +and see about Mr. Sleuth's breakfast," she said in a weary, +dispirited voice, and left them there. + +She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plot +which had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance of +success; Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out another +telegram contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy's stepmother +shrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself wouldn't care to +do such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere +in her pretty little head. If it ever became her fate to live as +a married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the right +side of Aunt Margaret. + +And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother's heart became +very soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact, +there was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth's two eggs. Feeling +suddenly more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took +the tray upstairs. + +"As it was rather late, I didn't wait for you to ring, sir," she +said. + +And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was +studying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book. +"Quite right, Mrs. Bunting--quite right! I have been pondering +over the command, 'Work while it is yet light.'" + +"Yes, sir?" she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over her +heart. "Yes, sir?" + +"'The spirit is willing, but the flesh--the flesh is weak,'" said +Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy sigh. + +"You studies too hard, and too long--that's what's ailing you, sir," +said Mr. Sleuth's landlady suddenly. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had +been settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler +was going to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He +could carry Daisy's modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead +of walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station +to Victoria--that would land them very near Belgrave Square. + +But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn't had a walk, she +declared, for a long, long time--and then she blushed rosy red, +and even her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was very +nice looking, not at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to +go about the London streets by herself. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, +watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. + +A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had +come a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining, rather +lamely, that it was the fog which had brought him so soon. + +"If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, 'twouldn't have been +possible to walk a yard," he explained, and they had accepted, +silently, his explanation. + +"I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that?" Bunting looked +deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once +that he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was +like an old hen with her last chicken. + +"She's safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn't have +a smarter young fellow to look after her." + +"It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner," said Bunting. "It's +always worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I'd 'a taken +her by the Underground Railway to Victoria--that 'ud been the best +way, considering the weather 'tis." + +"They don't think anything of the weather, bless you!" said his +wife. "They'll walk and walk as long as there's a glimmer left for +'em to steer by. Daisy's just been pining to have a walk with that +young chap. I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they both +were when you was so set on going along with them to that horrid +place." + +"D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked upset. "I understood +Joe to say he liked my company." + +"Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect he liked it just +about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go +out with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how +the woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her." + +"But I'm Daisy's father; and an old friend of Chandler," said Bunting +remonstratingly. "I'm quite different from that cook. She was +nothing to us, and we was nothing to her." + +"She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt," observed +his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little +foolishly. + +By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and +a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. +Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. +The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and +she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very +unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You might +just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, only +that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. "No, that I won't! +He's a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes, +and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even your +father's hardly seen him." + +But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr. +Sleuth. + +There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her +stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence young +Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken +to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to +her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe +Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be human nature +--at any rate, not girlish human nature--not to do so, even if +Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret. + +Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, +would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a +good thing. + +When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. +Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 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. . . . + +Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than +usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it +later than it was. + +When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, and just one +piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don't +feel like having anything else this afternoon." + +"It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice +than usual. "No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir. And then it +isn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it?" + +"No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting." + +She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, +as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp +dismay. + +Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long +Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, +ready for him to put on. + +"You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly. +"Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!" + +Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a +scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between +the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way--to erect +between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living +barrier. + +"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and he +looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, +slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed +for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right +hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been +on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him. + +"It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered, +"but--but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do +not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I--I +cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are +watched--spied upon." + +She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, sir," she +said, with considerable dignity. "I've done my best to satisfy +you--" + +"You have--you have!" he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone. +"But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing +what I wish to do--indeed, what I have to do. For years I have +been misunderstood--persecuted"--he waited a moment, then in +a hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not tell me that +you are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid I'll ever be +that, sir. I only spoke as I did because--well, sir, because I +thought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out this +afternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so near +Christmas." + +He walked across to the window and looked out. "The fog is clearing +somewhat; Mrs. Bunting," but there was no relief in his voice, rather +was there disappointment and dread. + +Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. +The fog was lifting--rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in +which local fogs sometimes do lift in London. + +He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversation has made me +forget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you +would just leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for +me this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for +after my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through +a very difficult experiment." + +"Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. + +But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it +had drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing +Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing +--a thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. She +pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass let +into the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" she +moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" + +But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming +intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery +never occurred to Mrs. Bunting. + +In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that +a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The +timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human +being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not +revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost +be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayer +has been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for revenge. So +far, perhaps because she is subject rather than citizen, her duty +as a component part of civilised society weighs but lightly on +woman's shoulders. + +And then--and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become +attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his +sad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals, and when +this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased--pleased and vaguely +touched. In between those--those dreadful events outside, which +filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, +she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. + +Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over +the strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have +lived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She did not +even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters; friends she +knew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he was, he had +evidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind +of life, till--till now. + +What had made him alter all of a sudden--if, that is, he had +altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully +with herself; and, what was more, and very terribly, to the point, +having altered, why should he not in time go back to what he +evidently had been--that is, a blameless, quiet gentleman? + +If only he would! If only he would! + +As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these +thoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed through +her brain. + +She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day--that +there had never been, in the history of the world, so strange a +murderer as The Avenger had proved himself to be. + +She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated, +on Joe's words, as he had told them of other famous series of +murders which had taken place in the past, not only in England but +abroad--especially abroad. + +One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, +respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order +to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale +of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, +living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers +who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any +valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or +murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in +almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. + +At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she +went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. + +"The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. "I hope +that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it." + +But the other shook his head silently. "No such luck!" he said +briefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I +expect 'twill soon be just as heavy here as 'twas half an hour ago!" + +She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. +"Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she observed. + +"There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking +of asking if you wouldn't like to go along there with me." + +"No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at home." + +She was listening--listening for the sounds which would betoken +that the lodger was coming downstairs. + +At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled +shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact +when the front door shut to. + +"That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on his wife, +startled. "Why, the poor gentleman'll come to harm--that he will! +One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn't +taken any of his money out with him." + +"'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog," said Mrs. +Bunting sombrely. + +Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true words. And then +she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken +what she said. + +But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. "We +don't get the good old fogs we used to get--not what people used +to call 'London particulars.' I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. +Crowley--I've often told you about her, Ellen?" + +Mrs. Bunting nodded. + +Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of those he had +liked best--a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her +servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat +they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated +her kind thought. + +"Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic +way, "that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so +long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked +the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. +Fog never kept her from going out--no, that it didn't. She wasn't +a bit afraid. But--" he turned round and looked at his wife-- +"I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a +timid kind of gentleman--" + +He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him. + +"I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a low voice, "but +he is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes going out when +there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don't +suppose he'll be out long." + +She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon +--that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. + +Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She +got up, and went over to the farthest window. + +The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on +the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and +shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards +the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops. + +At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to +the cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one +out. + +"I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I've +looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, +but now there's nothing in 'em." + +His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days +had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had +very little to say about them that they hadn't said in different +language a dozen times before. + +She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. + +Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so +engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not +had much time for that sort of work. + +It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or--or +the lodger, in it. + +At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric +slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. +Sleuth's return home. + +And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful +wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she +knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any +kind of--well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he +had lived during the last few weeks. + +No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way +as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, +until, perhaps--God, what a horrible thought--a picture published +in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting's +knowledge. + +But if that happened--if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, +she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also +would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the +astounding revelation. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't a night +you would wish a dog to be out in." + +Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and +look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the +evening paper he held in his hand. + +He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his +nice arm-chair. He looked very well--well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting +stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of +resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry +way, very fond of Bunting. + +"You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for +himself all right." + +Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. "I +can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather," he said +impatiently. + +"Well, it's none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?" + +"No, that's true enough. Still, 'twould be a very bad thing for us +if anything happened to him. This lodger's the first bit of luck +we've had for a terrible long time, Ellen." + +Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She +remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious +to be worth answering. Also she was listening, following in +imagination her lodger's quick, singularly quiet progress-- +"stealthy" she called it to herself--through the fog-filled, +lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What +was that Bunting was saying? + +"It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather--no, that +it ain't, not unless they have something to do that won't wait till +to-morrow." The speaker was looking straight into his wife's narrow, +colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove +himself right. "I've a good mind to speak to him about it, that +I have! He ought to be told that it isn't safe--not for the sort +of man he is--to be wandering about the streets at night. I read +you out the accidents in Lloyd's--shocking, they were, and all +brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster 'ull soon +be at his work again--" + +"Monster?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. + +She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead. She was +very curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, +or straight upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always +called it. + +But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up +trying to listen to what was going on above. + +"It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that +in the fog, eh, Ellen?" He spoke as if the notion had a certain +pleasant thrill in it after all. + +"What stuff you do talk!" said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then she +got up. Her husband's remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn't they +talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time +together? + +Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she moved quietly about +the room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and to-night she +was going to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That +fortunate man, as she was fond of telling him, with mingled contempt +and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, and yet he was rather +fanciful, as gentlemen's servants who have lived in good places +often are. + +Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. +Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, and she would never +have allowed an unrefined word--such a word as "stomach," for +instance, to say nothing of an even plainer term--to pass her +lips, except, of course, to a doctor in a sick-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen; +instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading +into her bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back +into the darkness, and stood motionless, listening. + +At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her +listening ears the sound of someone moving softly about in the +room just overhead, that is, in Mr. Sleuth's bedroom. But, try as +she might, it was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was +doing. + +At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little +landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, +that Mr. Sleuth would pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless +room above. He hadn't spent any time up there for quite a long +while--in fact, not for nearly ten days. 'Twas odd he chose to-night, +when it was so foggy, to carry out an experiment. + +She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired-- +strangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical +exertion. + +Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck, +and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that. + +As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first +time, what the lodger's departure would mean. It would almost +certainly mean ruin; just as his staying meant all sorts of good +things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth +stayed on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, it +meant respectability, and, above all, security. + +Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He never received a +letter, and yet he must have some kind of income--so much was +clear. She supposed he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out +of a bank as he required it. + +Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr. +Sleuth. + +The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that +there would come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel +satiated; when he would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. + +To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so +pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady +--indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish +to leave such nice lodgings. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook +off her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the +handle of the door giving into the passage she turned it, and then, +with light, firm steps, she went down into the kitchen. + +When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by +her care, if not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very +clean place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still +white walls the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron +and bright steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one +pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in +the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that +kind of business. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for +what she consumed after she had consumed it. + +Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she +turned up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle. + +Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the +stove, and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, +to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting +gentleman than the lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, +so--so peculiar. + +She thought of the bag--that bag which had rumbled about so +queerly in the chiffonnier. Something seemed to tell her that +tonight the lodger had taken that bag out with him. + +And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently +from her mind, and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. +Sleuth's income, and of how little trouble he gave. Of course, +the lodger was eccentric, otherwise he wouldn't be their lodger +at all--he would be living in quite a different sort of way with +some of his relations, or with a friend in his own class. + +While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, +Mrs. Bunting went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting +it up into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing +everything, as was always her way, with a certain delicate and +cleanly precision. + +And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to +be poured the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled +her, made her feel uncomfortable. + +Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. + +She looked up and listened. + +Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy +night--going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second +time? But no; the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar +footsteps, did not continue down the passage leading to the front +door. + +Instead--Why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen +so intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the +toasting-fork grew quite black. With a start she became aware +that this was so, and she frowned, vexed with herself. That came +of not attending to one's work. + +Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. +He was coming down into the kitchen. + +Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the +kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting's heart began to beat as if in +response. She put out the flame of the gas-ring, unheedful of the +fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. + +Then she turned and faced the door. + +There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door +opened, and revealed, as she had at once known and feared it would +do, the lodger. + +Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid +dressing-gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though +she knew that he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In +his hand was a lighted candle. + +When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in +it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. + +"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn't ring, sir?" + +Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had +no business to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to +let him know that such was her view. + +"No, I--I didn't ring," he stammered awkwardly. "The truth is, I +didn't know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. +My gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot +arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had a +gas-stove. I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to-night for +an important experiment I wish to make." + +Mrs. Bunting's heart was beating quickly--quickly. She felt +horribly troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn't Mr. Sleuth's +experiment wait till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but +there was that in his face that made her at once afraid and pitiful. +It was a wild, eager, imploring look. + +"Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here." + +"It seems most pleasantly warm," he observed, his voice full of +relief, "warm and cosy, after my cold room upstairs." + +Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even +that cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and +more cosy than this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. + +"I'll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it's in +perfect order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house +was to have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might +have set the house on fire." Mrs. Bunting's housewifely instincts +were roused. "For the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in +your bedroom this cold night." + +"By no means--I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire +there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told +you as much." + +Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his +candle still alight, just inside the kitchen door. + +"I shan't be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You +could come down then. I'll have everything quite tidy for you. Is +there anything I can do to help you?" + +"I do not require the use of your kitchen yet--thank you all the +same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later--altogether later-- +after you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much +obliged if you would see that the gas people come to-morrow and +put my stove in order. It might be done while I am out. That the +shilling-in-the-slot machine should go wrong is very unpleasant. +It has upset me greatly." + +"Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter +of that, I could ask him to go up now." + +"No, no, I don't want anything of that sort done to-night. Besides, +he couldn't put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, +and I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite +simple. The machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish +plan, so I always felt it to be." + +Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to +speak, but Mrs. Bunting sympathised with him in this matter. She +had always suspected that those slot machines were as dishonest as +if they were human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up +the shillings! She had had one once, so she knew. + +And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward +and stared at the stove. "Then you haven't got a slot machine?" he +said wonderingly. "I'm very glad of that, for I expect my experiment +will take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you something for +the use of the stove, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't think of charging you anything for that. +We don't use our stove very much, you know, sir. I'm never in the +kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather." + +Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually +in Mr. Sleuth's presence her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps +because his manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. +But still there came over her an eerie feeling, as, with him +preceding her, they made a slow progress to the ground floor. + +Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady good-night, +and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments. + +Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove; +but she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she was +cooking the cheese, she tried to concentrate her mind on what she +was doing, and on the whole she succeeded. But another part of her +mind seemed to be working independently, asking her insistent +questions. + +The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she +caught herself listening--which was absurd, for, of course, she +could not hope to hear what Mr. Sleuth was doing two, if not three, +flights upstairs. She wondered in what the lodger's experiments +consisted. It was odd that she had never been able to discover what +it was he really did with that big gas-stove. All she knew was +that he used a very high degree of heat. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting made +up her mind to keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour +of the night the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry +through his experiment, and, above all, she was anxious to know +how long he would stay there. + +But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she +fell asleep. + +The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs. Bunting +awoke. She felt put out, sharply annoyed with herself. How could +she have dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down +and up again hours ago! + +Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid +odour in the room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass +her and the snoring man by her side, almost as a vapour might have +done. + +Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the +cold, she quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and +crawled along to the bottom of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady did a very curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail +and put her face close to the hinge of the door giving into the +hall. Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor was +coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage. + +As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to +give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard +herself saying, "Bunting, get up! There's something strange and +dreadful going on downstairs which we ought to know about." + +But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening with painful +intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she +would do nothing of the sort. + +What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess--a certain +amount of smell--in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not--was he +not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, +where could they ever hope to get another like him? + +Three o'clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps +creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight +up to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he +went to the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he +came past her door, and she thought--but could not be sure--that +he sat down on the stairs. + +At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage +again. Very softly he closed the front door. By then she had +divined why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted +to get the strong, acrid smell of burning--was it of burning wool? +--out of the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the +lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get +rid of the horrible odour. + +Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. + +At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and +then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse +voices seemed to be shouting in her ear: "The Avenger close here! +The Avenger close here!" "'Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!" +"The Avenger at his work again!" + +And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered--angered and +impatient. She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this +horrid nightmare! It was because of Bunting--Bunting, who could +think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders, in +which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest. + +Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking +to her about it: + +"Ellen"--so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear--"Ellen, my dear, +I'm just going to get up to get a paper. It's after seven o'clock." + +The shouting--nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet +smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead +with both hands, she sat up and listened. + +It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse-- +reality. + +Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and +let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have +been easier to bear than this awakening. + +She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the +paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then +he came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the +gas-ring in the sitting-room. + +Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had +promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet +broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, +no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge +that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale blue eyes. +This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job. + +When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his +wife lying with her face to the wall. + +"Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, +nay happy, excitement in his voice. + +She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she asked. "Well? +Why don't you tell me about it?" + +"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I thought, Ellen, +you never heard nothing." + +"How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. +Why don't you tell me?" + +"I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly. + +"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the +rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don't +tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?" + +"Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you. The +Avenger's moving West--that's what he's doing. Last time 'twas +King's Cross--now 'tis the Edgware Road. I said he'd come our way, +and he has come our way!" + +"You just go and get me that paper," she commanded. "I wants to +see for myself." + +Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her +silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. + +"Why, whatever's this?" she asked. "This ain't our paper!" + +"'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly. "It's a special early +edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger. Here's the bit +about it"--he showed her the exact spot. But she would have found +it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring +over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear +characters:-- + +"Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger +has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, +and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an +interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were +concentrating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, +he moved swiftly and silently Westward. And, choosing a time when +the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another +human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery. + +"Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had +lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of +happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that +cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing +his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest accident +that the body was discovered as soon as it was--that is, just +after midnight. + +"Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that +the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at +first thought--we were going to say, hoped--that this murder had +nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying +the whole of the civilised world. But no--pinned on the edge of the +dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of +grey paper--the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of +man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his +audacity and daring--so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent +wickedness." + +All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful +intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to +burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his +Ellen's unsympathetic ears. + +At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. + +"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?" +she said irritably. "Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go +away--do!" + +And Bunting went off into the next room. + +After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried +to think of nothing. Nay, more--so strong, so determined was her +will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She +felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does +a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness. + +Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of +her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if +those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; +she wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her +brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret +was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as +that. + +Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes--to-morrow, not +to-day. Well, that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things +Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl +had an excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise, +funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," lent herself to +the cruel gift. + +And then Mrs. Bunting's mind--her poor, weak, tired mind--wandered +off to young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you came to +think of it--which she, Ellen Bunting, didn't often do. There was +Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty +young women, too,--quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times more +artful--and yet there! He passed them all by, had done so ever +since last summer, though you might be sure that they, artful minxes, +by no manner of means passed him by,--without giving them a thought! +As Daisy wasn't here, he would probably keep away to-day. There +was comfort in that thought, too. + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful +turgid flood. If Joe did come in, she must nerve herself to hear +all that--that talk there'd be about The Avenger between him and +Bunting. + +Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she +had just recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, +very, very tired in body and soul. + +She stood for a moment listening--listening, and shivering, for +it was very cold. Considering how early it still was, there +seemed a lot of coming and going in the Marylebone Road. She could +hear the unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and the tightly +fastened windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular +crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene +of The Avenger's last extraordinary crime. + +She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling +from the letter-box on to the floor of the hall, and a moment later +came the sound of Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. +She visualised him coming back, and sitting down with a sigh of +satisfaction by the newly-lit fire. + +Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant +tramping and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume +and in sound as the moments slipped by. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen everything looked just +as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she +had expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed +room was full of fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were +bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had +been widely opened to the air. She had left them shut. + +Making a "spill" out of a twist of newspaper--she had been taught +the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses--she stooped and +flung open the oven-door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had +expected, a fierce heat had been generated there since she had last +used the oven, and through to the stone floor below had fallen a +mass of black, gluey soot. + +Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous +day for her own and Bunting's breakfast upstairs, and broiled them +over the gas-ring in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in +surprised silence. She had never done such a thing before. + +"I couldn't stay down there," she said; "it was so cold and foggy. +I thought I'd make breakfast up here, just for to-day." + +"Yes," he said kindly; "that's quite right, Ellen. I think you've +done quite right, my dear." + +But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the +nice breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea. + +"I'm afraid you're ill, Ellen?" Bunting asked solicitously. + +"No," she said shortly; "I'm not ill at all. Don't be silly! The +thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me, +and put me off my food. Just hark to them now!" + +Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet +and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd; nay, what a mob, must be +hastening busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing +to be seen! + +Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. "I don't want +any of those ghouls in here!" she exclaimed angrily. And then, +"What a lot of idle people there are in the world!" she said. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the +window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; +then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down. + +But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up +he would rise from his chair, and go to the window again. + +"I wish you'd stay still," his wife said at last. And then, a few +minutes later, "Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and go +out?" she exclaimed. + +And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat +and coat and go out. + +As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it +was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, +extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn't +reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had +been that very morning--angry with him because he had gone out +to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had +come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her +to hear about it! + +Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the +kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, +a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned and +did what she had never in her life done before, and what she had +never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. + +But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from +everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She +felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which +mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns. + +Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? +Daisy, at any rate, was company--kind, young, unsuspecting company. +With Daisy she could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort +to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say +nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of +guilt, of shame. She was the man's wedded wife--in his stolid way +he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something +he certainly had a right to know. + +Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful +suspicion--nay, of her almost certainty. + +At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went +upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little +better. + +She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved +by his absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet +she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house. + +And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind +into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what +was going on upstairs. + +What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only +natural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last +night, or rather this morning. + +****** + +Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did +not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal +which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she +went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food. + +Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and +just outside the sitting-room--for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had +got up, that he was there already, waiting for her--she rested the +tray on the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments she +heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice +with which she had become so familiar: + +"'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in +secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, +and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'" + +There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of +her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. +Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer voice: + +"'She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men +have been slain by her.'" And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone +came the words: "'I applied my heart to know, and to search, and +to seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the +wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.'" + +And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of +spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time +in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and +strangeness, of human life. + +Poor Mr. Sleuth--poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An +overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the +loathing, she had been feeling for her lodger. + +She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. + +"Come in, Mrs. Bunting." Mr. Sleuth's voice sounded feebler, more +toneless than usual. + +She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was +not sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round table +on which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of +his bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it +were placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But as his +landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and began +staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying +crowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road. + +"There seem a great many people out today," he observed, without +looking round. + +"Yes, sir, there do." + +Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and +putting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized +with a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there. + +At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to +look at him. How tired, how worn, he looked, and--how strange! + +Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands +together with a nervous gesture--it was a gesture he only made when +something had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at +him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he +had first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained a +large gas-stove and a convenient sink. + +What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a +play she had once seen--a play to which a young man had taken her +when she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled +and fascinated her. "Out, out, damned spot!" that was what the tall, +fierce, beautiful lady who had played the part of a queen had said, +twisting her hands together just as the lodger was doing now. + +"It's a fine day," said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and unfolding his +napkin. "The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with +me, Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining, +as it is now, at any rate, trying to shine." He looked at her +inquiringly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. +However, that did not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. + +He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, +taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced +any such feeling for many years past. + +He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. "I +don't feel as if I could eat very much to-day," he said plaintively. +And then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. + +Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat +Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the day before. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?" + +And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. + +"Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly +allowed me to make of your kitchen last night?" he said quietly. +"I tried to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but-- +well, the truth is I was carrying out a very elaborate experiment." + +Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took +the coin. The fingers which for a moment brushed lightly against +her palm were icy cold--cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently +not well. + +As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball +hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's landlady, and +threw blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece of +gold she was holding in her hand. + +****** + +The day went by, as other days had gone by in that quiet household, +but, of course, there was far greater animation outside the little +house than was usually the case. + +Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some +days, the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that part +of the town. + +When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while he +told her of the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. And +then, after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot a +strange look at him. + +"I suppose you went to see the place?" she said. + +And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. + +"Well?" + +"Well, there wasn't anything much to see--not now. But, oh, Ellen, +the daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry +out--which they don't believe she had--it's impossible someone +wouldn't 'a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like +that--in the afternoon, like--he never will be caught. He must +have just got mixed up with all the other people within ten seconds +of what he'd done!" + +During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly--in fact, he +must have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all the +supposed and suggested clues, there was nothing--nothing at all new +to read, less, in fact than ever before. + +The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting +began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less--less +terrified than she had felt through the morning. + +And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the +quietude of the day. + +They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the +papers he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, +thundering, double knock at the door. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. "Why, whoever can that be?" she +said. + +But as Bunting got up she added quickly, "You just sit down again. +I'll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I'll soon send +them to the right-about!" + +And then she left the room, but not before there had come another +loud double knock. + +Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the +person who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark +man, with fierce, black moustaches. And somehow--she could not +have told you why--he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting's mind. + +This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. +For, "I'm here to execute a warrant!" he exclaimed in a theatrical, +hollow tone. + +With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms +as if to bar the way; she turned deadly white--but then, in an +instant the supposed stranger's laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, +familiar sound! + +"There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I'd take you in as well +as all that!" + +It was Joe Chandler--Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he +sometimes, not very often, did dress up in the course of his work. + +Mrs. Bunting began laughing--laughing helplessly, hysterically, +just as she had done on the morning of Daisy's arrival, when the +newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road. + +"What's all this about?" Bunting came out + +Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I didn't mean to +upset her like this," he said, looking foolish; "'twas just my silly +nonsense, Mr. Bunting." And together they helped her into the +sitting-room. + +But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she +threw her black apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically. + +"I made sure she'd know who I was when I spoke," went on the young +fellow apologetically. "But, there now, I have upset her. I am +sorry!" + +"It don't matter!" she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, +but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and +laughed by turns. "Don't matter one little bit, Joe! 'Twas stupid +of me to be so taken aback. But, there, that murder that's happened +close by, it's just upset me--upset me altogether to-day." + +"Enough to upset anyone--that was," acknowledged the young man +ruefully. "I've only come in for a minute, like. I haven't no +right to come when I'm on duty like this--" + +Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were +still on the table. + +"You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup," said Bunting +hospitably; "and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We're +right in the middle of everything now, ain't we?" He spoke with +evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. + +Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He +waited a moment, and then: "Well I have got one piece of news--not +that I suppose it'll interest you very much." + +They both looked at him--Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her +breast still heaved from time to time. + +"Our Boss has resigned!" said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. + +"No! Not the Commissioner o' Police?" exclaimed Bunting. + +"Yes, he has. He just can't bear what's said about us any longer +--and I don't wonder! He done his best, and so's we all. The +public have just gone daft--in the West End, that is, to-day. As +for the papers, well, they're something cruel--that's what they +are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You'd never believe the +things they asks us to do--and quite serious-like." + +"What d'you mean?" questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to +know. + +"Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-house +investigation--all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to +let the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, +just to see if The Avenger isn't concealed there. Dotty, I calls +it! Why, 'twould take us months and months just to do that one +job in a town like London." + +"I'd like to see them dare come into my house!" said Mrs. Bunting +angrily. + +"It's all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to +work a different way this time," said Chandler slowly. + +Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was +eagerly listening. "How d'you mean?" he asked. "I don't take +your meaning, Joe." + +"Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was always saying +how extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar +time to do his deeds--I mean, the time when no one's about the +streets. Now, doesn't it stand to reason that the fellow, reading +all that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, 'I'll go on +another tack this time'? Just listen to this!" He pulled a strip +of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket: + + +"'AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE AVENGER + + +"'Will the murderer be caught? Yes,' replied Sir John, 'he will +certainly be caught--probably when he commits his next crime. A +whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his +track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community +against him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered that +he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes. + +"'Londoners are now in such a state of nerves--if I may use the +expression, in such a state of funk--that every passer-by, however +innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his +avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and +three in the morning.' + +"I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!" concluded Joe Chandler +wrathfully. + +Just then the lodger's bell rang. + +"Let me go up, my dear," said Bunting. + +His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. + +"No, no," she said hastily. "You stop down here, and talk to Joe. +I'll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a +bit earlier than usual to-day." + +Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton +wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, +and then went in. + +"You did ring, sir?" she said, in her quiet, respectful way. + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up. + +She thought--but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have +been just her idea, and nothing else--that for the first time the +lodger looked frightened--frightened and cowed. + +"I heard a noise downstairs," he said fretfully, "and I wanted to +know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I +first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me." + +"It was just a friend of ours, sir. I'm sorry you were disturbed. +Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting'll be +pleased to do it if you don't like to hear the sound of the knocks." + +"Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such trouble as that." Mr. Sleuth +looked quite relieved. "Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. +Bunting? He made a great deal of noise." + +"Just a young fellow," she said apologetically. "The son of one of +Bunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did +give such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak to +him about it." + +"Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of +the kind. It was just a passing annoyance--nothing more!" + +She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of +the hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam +every hour or two throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no +allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at +his reading. + +"I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little earlier to-night, +sir?" + +"Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting--just when it's convenient. I +do not wish to put you out in any way." + +She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door. + +As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed +--Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the +lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her +kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came +to her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow. + +Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly +giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought +her, she got up and dressed. + +She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase +required a thorough "doing down," and she did not even wait till +they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It +made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading +his morning paper--the paper which was again of such absorbing +interest--he called out, "There's no need for so much hurry, Ellen. +Daisy'll be back to-day. Why don't you wait till she's come home to +help you?" + +But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, +his wife's voice came back: "Girls ain't no good at this sort of +work. Don't you worry about me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing an +extra bit of cleaning to-day. I don't like to feel as anyone could +come in and see my place dirty." + +"No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck +him. "Ain't you afraid of waking the lodger?" he called out. + +"Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night," she +answered quickly. "As it is, I study him over-much; it's a long, +long time since I've done this staircase down." + +All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left +the sitting-room door wide open. + +That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn't like to get +up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn't +read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had +never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he +looked up and frowned rather crossly. + +There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellen +was standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing. + +"Come in," he said, "do! Ain't you finished yet?" + +"I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don't tell me nothing. +I'd like to know if there's anything--I mean anything new--in the +paper this morning." + +She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her +unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting +suddenly uneasy. "Come in--do!" he repeated sharply. "You've +done quite enough--and before breakfast, too. 'Tain't necessary. +Come in and shut that door." + +He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him. + +She came in, and did what she had never done before--brought the +broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. + +Then she sat down. + +"I think I'll make breakfast up here," she said. "I--I feel cold, +Bunting." And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of +perspiration were glistening on her forehead. + +He got up. "All right. I'll go down and bring the eggs up. Don't +you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if +you like." + +"No," she said obstinately. "I'd rather do my own work. You just +bring them up here--that'll be all right. To-morrow morning we'll +have Daisy to help see to things." + +"Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair," he suggested +kindly. "You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see'd +such a woman!" + +And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room +with languid steps. + +He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. + +She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took +two steps towards her. + +"I'll show you the most interesting bit" he said eagerly. "It's +the piece headed, 'Our Special Investigator.' You see, they've +started a special investigator of their own, and he's got hold of +a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man +who writes all that--I mean the Special Investigator--was a +famous 'tec in his time, and he's just come back out of his +retirement o' purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You +read what he says--I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he ends by +getting that reward! One can see he just loves the work of +tracking people down." + +"There's nothing to be proud of in such a job," said his wife +listlessly. + +"He'll have something to be proud of if he catches The Avenger!" +cried Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put off +by Ellen's contradictory remarks. "You just notice that bit about +the rubber soles. Now, no one's thought o' that. I'll just tell +Chandler--he don't seem to me to be half awake, that young man +don't." + +"He's quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! +How about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast +even if you don't--" + +Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly +described to himself as "Ellen's snarling voice." + +He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There +was something queer about her, and he couldn't make it out. He +didn't mind it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was +used to that. 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. In his +time he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he +thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first +drawn him to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap as +cordially as he had done when they first came to London. + +But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort +of talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed +reproachfully: "To hear you two, one would think there was no nice, +respectable, quiet people left in the world!" + +But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be +to hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her +own view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had had +her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman +who thought for herself--a clever woman, not an everyday woman by +any manner of means. + +While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, +Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give +Ellen a nice little surprise--to cook an omelette as a French chef +had once taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn't know how +she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but +never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn't +been eating her food properly of late. + +And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be +admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even +noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading +with intense, painful care the column that the great daily paper +they took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective. + +According to this Special Investigator's own account he had +discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the +police and of the official detectives. For instance, owing, he +admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where +the two last murders had been committed very soon after the double +crime had been discovered--in fact within half an hour, and he +had found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavement +imprints of the murderer's right foot. + +The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. +At the same time, he also admitted--for the Special Investigator +was very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the +enterprising paper which had engaged him to probe the awful +mystery--that there were thousands of rubber soles being worn in +London. . . . + +And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, and +there came a wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It was +quite true--that about rubber soles; there were thousands of +rubber soles being worn just now. She felt grateful to the Special +Investigator for having stated the fact so clearly. + +The column ended up with the words: + +"And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten +days ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public +inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery +of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible +to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general +public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same people +have been examined and cross-examined in private by the police, +their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly +confused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubt +that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually +saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double +crime--this being so, to-day's investigation may be of the highest +value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account of +the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements +made during its course." + +Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had +gone on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he +said rather crossly, "Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The +omelette I've cooked for you will be just like leather if you don't +eat it." + +But once his wife had eaten her breakfast--and, to Bunting's +mortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched +--she took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, +until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to +The Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and then +uttered an exclamation under her breath. + +What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for--what at last she had found +--was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that +day. The hour named was a rather odd time--two o'clock in the +afternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting's point of view, it was most +convenient. + +By two o'clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had +his lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have +had their dinner, and--and Daisy wasn't coming home till tea-time. + +She got up out of her husband's chair. "I think you're right," she +said, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about me seeing a doctor, +Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon." + +"Wouldn't you like me to go with you?" he asked. + +"No, that I wouldn't. In fact I wouldn't go at all you was to go +with me." + +"All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my dear; you know +best." + +"I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned." + +Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. "'Twas I said, +long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; 'twas you said you +wouldn't!" he exclaimed pugnaciously. + +"Well, I've never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, +I'm going." + +"Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with a look of real +solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. + +Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there opposite him. Her +shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a +little. She had never looked so bad--not even when they had been +half starving, and dreadfully, dreadfully worked. + +"Yes," she said briefly, "I've a pain in my head, at the back of +my neck. It doesn't often leave me; it gets worse when anything +upsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler." + +"He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!" said Bunting +crossly. "I'd a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, +Ellen, I wonder he took you in--he didn't me!" + +"Well, you had no chance he should--you knew who it was," she said +slowly. + +And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had +already spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and saw +their cleverly disguised visitor. + +"Those big black moustaches," he went on complainingly, "and that +black wig--why, 'twas too ridic'lous--that's what I call it!" + +"Not to anyone who didn't know Joe," she said sharply. + +"Well, I don't know. He didn't look like a real man--nohow. If +he's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever see him looking like +that!" and Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. + +He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last +two days, and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, +unnatural life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe was +earning good money. They wouldn't have long to wait, these two +young people, as a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, +Bunting, and Daisy's mother had had to do, for ever so long before +they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn't +be spliced quite soon--if so the fancy took them. And Bunting +had very little doubt that so the fancy would take Joe, at any rate. + +But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn't be eighteen till the +week after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that +time Old Aunt might be dead, and Daisy might have come into quite +a tidy little bit of money. + +"What are you smiling at?" said his wife sharply. + +And he shook himself. "I--smiling? At nothing that I knows of." +Then he waited a moment. "Well, if you will know, Ellen, I was +just thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is +gone on her, ain't he?" + +"Gone?" And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly +laugh. "Gone, Bunting?" she repeated. "Why, he's out o' sight +--right, out of sight!" + +Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, +twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:-- +"I suppose he'll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or--or +d'you think he'll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?" + +"Inquest? What inquest?" He looked at her puzzled. + +"Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King's +Cross." + +"Oh, no; he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o' +that, I know he's going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night +--just when you went up to the lodger." + +"That's just as well." Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable +satisfaction. "Otherwise I suppose you'd ha' had to go. I wouldn't +like the house left--not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be +upset if there came a ring at the door." + +"Oh, I won't leave the house, don't you be afraid, Ellen--not while +you're out." + +"Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting." + +"No fear. Of course, you'll be a long time if it's your idea to see +that doctor at Ealing?" + +He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow +nodding didn't seem as bad as speaking a lie. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, +when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is +entirely novel. + +Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a +witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was +sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. + +In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for +a fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of +those sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the +serenity, the apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household. + +The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned +herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause +for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles +to the strange lady's maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, +and it was during the conversation the two women had had together +that the girl had threatened to take her own life. + +As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going +out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful +affair, and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. + +She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, +unfortunate creature had been held. + +The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give +evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful +animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women +as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl's fate had +aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those +who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid. + +Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to +Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in +the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with +chairs, but with cake and wine. + +She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had +felt as if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place, +rather than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the +sad business. + +But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had +been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on +the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the +exact words the unhappy girl had used. + +One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by +an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, +low-ceilinged room. "Ought not Miss Ellen Green," so the man had +asked, "to have told someone of the girl's threat? If she had done +so, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself +into the lake?" And she, the witness, had answered, with some +asperity--for by that time the coroner's kind manner had put her +at her ease--that she had not attached any importance to what the +girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman +could be so silly as to drown herself for love! + +****** + +Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was +going to be present this afternoon would be like that country +inquest of long ago. + +It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well +how little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, +had got the whole truth out--the story, that is, of how that +horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first +minute she had set eyes on him, had taken up with another young +woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited +by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the +dead girl's letters had been read out--piteous, queerly expressed +letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And +the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered +the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a +passage for him to slink out of the crowded room. + +Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting +that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and +somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it. + +She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed +to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess +where she was thinking of going. + +And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head +--no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, +never suspect her of telling him a lie. + +Stop--had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after +the inquest was finished--if there was time, that is. She wondered +uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, +as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely +be very formal--formal and therefore short. + +She herself had one quite definite object--that of hearing the +evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving +the spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowing +blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager +curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter +would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of +people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day +before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a +living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and +where he spent his time between his awful crimes. + +As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her +husband. + +"Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the doctor. You +looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along with +you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Not +by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know." + +"There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first +minute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully +and sadly. + +And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone and clean +forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait +till to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?" + +"I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone +else's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting +really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, "I'll +be all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!" + +As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl +she had put over her long jacket more closely round her. + +She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. +And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden +with poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft. +Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer--as if she +would give the world to tell someone--anyone--what it was that she +suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth. + +But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it +was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the +last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house +unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come +into contact with the lodger. + +When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There +were two ways of getting to St. Pancras--she could go by bus, or +she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before +turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the +early afternoon papers lying on the ground. + +Two words, + + THE AVENGER, + +stared up at her in varying type. + +Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, +Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined +to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes +were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the +close print in the paper Bunting took in. + +Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. + +And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. + +The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be +empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they +were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question +she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. + +"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquests +are held"--she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then +concluded--"in the neighbourhood of King's Cross?" + +The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at +all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest--there are many +such--just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a +widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain +Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face. + +"I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said good-naturedly. +"So you can come along of me. You see there's that big Avenger +inquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to make other +arrangements for--hum, hum--ordinary cases." And as she looked +at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd of people at +The Avenger inquest--a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to +say nothing of the public." + +"That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could +scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, +yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was +going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder +inquest! + +During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened +by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the +stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have +regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a +simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet--and yet that was +just what she was about to do herself. + +"I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she murmured. It was +a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. + +"Ah!" he said reflectively. "A--a relative connected with one of +the two victims' husbands, I presume?" + +And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. + +"Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and then he turned and +looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. + +"Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker's voice. + +And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't seen her for +quite a long time, I suppose?" + +"Never had, seen her. I'm from the country." Something impelled +Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, +"At least, I was." + +"Will he be there?" + +She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was +alluding. + +"I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. "I felt sorry +for the last poor chap--I mean the husband of the last one--he +seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a good wife and a +good mother till she took to the drink." + +"It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting. + +"Aye." He waited a moment. "D'you know anyone about the court?" he +asked. + +She shook her head. + +"Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o' me. You'd never +get in by yourself." + +They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one's charge, of +having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even +now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial +about the whole business. + +"If he knew--if he only knew what I know!" she kept saying over +and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly +form of the police inspector. + +"'Tisn't far--not three minutes," he said suddenly. "Am I walking +too quick for you, ma'am?"' + +"No, not at all. I'm a quick walker." + +And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, +a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking +little door sunk into a high wall. + +"Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. "Make way there! +Make way!" he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the +serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight +of his uniform. + +"Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd never have got +through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner of +means." + +The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves +on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few +men were out there, smoking. + +Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of +the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his watch. +"There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he said. +"There's the mortuary"--he pointed with his thumb to a low room +built out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in and +see them?" he whispered. + +"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked +down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a +nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued +with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it +her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to +one of The Avenger's victims. + +They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men +talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones. + +"I think you'd better sit down here," he said considerately, and, +leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed +walls--"unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is." + +But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an effort, "Oughtn't +I to go into the court now, if it's likely to be so full?" + +"Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get a proper place. +I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come back in good time +and look after you." + +She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while +they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, +and looked about her. + +Many of the gentlemen--they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats +--standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She picked +out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated +face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely +advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair--the +preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had +great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to +himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a +dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, +and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody. + +How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, +from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious +beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid +place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all +thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality +--that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose +to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away +from them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly +trained minds--aye, and bodies, too--at bay. + +Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her +presence among them. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long +time--it was really about a quarter of an hour--when her official +friend came back. + +"Better come along now," he whispered; "it'll begin soon." + +She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, +and so into the Coroner's Court. + +The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a +chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a +gallery evidently set aside for the general public, for it was now +crammed to its utmost capacity. + +Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces. Had +it not been for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now +following, it was there that she would have had to try and make her +way. And she would have failed. Those people had rushed in the +moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their way in a way +she could never have pushed or fought. + +There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking +women, belonging to every class, but made one by their love of +sensation and their power of forcing their way in where they wanted +to be. But the women were few; the great majority of those standing +there were men--men who were also representative of every class of +Londoner. + +The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three +steps below the surrounding gallery. Just now it was comparatively +clear of people, save for the benches on which sat the men who were +to compose the jury. Some way from these men, huddled together in +a kind of big pew, stood seven people--three women and four men. + +"D'you see the witnesses?" whispered the inspector, pointing these +out to her. He supposed her to know one of them with familiar +knowledge, but, if that were so, she made no sign. + +Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little +platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting +guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would sit. And to +the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also raised +considerably above the jury. + +Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than +the scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that +bright April day, in the village inn. There the coroner had sat on +the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped +forward one by one, and taken their place before him. + +Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely +die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that +curious box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat +the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart. + +But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman +witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the +centre of attention and attraction to the general public. It was +plain each was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress +in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the attention of all +London--it might almost be said of the whole world. + +Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was +which. Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who +had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten +seconds of the double crime being committed? The woman who, aroused +by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed to her window and +seen the murderer's shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog? + +Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most +circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it +was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed. + +Those two women now before her had been interrogated and +cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by +representatives of every newspaper in London. It was from what they +had both said--unluckily their accounts materially differed--that +that official description of The Avenger had been worked up--that +which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow +of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel. + +As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon +companion of the dead. + +Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze +on another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed +through the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the +coroner's high dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, +was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her +place, there had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now +every seat at the table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking +men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, +before him. + +"Them's the reporters," whispered her friend. "They don't like +coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last to go. +At an ordinary inquest there are only two--maybe three--attending, +but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well applied for a +pass to that reporters' table." + +He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. "Now let +me see what I can do for you--" + +Then he beckoned to the coroner's officer: "Perhaps you could put +this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a +relation of the deceased, but doesn't want to be--" He whispered +a word or two, and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at +Mrs. Bunting with interest. "I'll put her just here," he muttered. +"There's no one coming there to-day. You see, there are only seven +witnesses--sometimes we have a lot more than that." + +And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite to where the +seven witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set faces, ready +--aye, more than ready--to play their part. + +For a moment every eye in the court was focused on Mrs. Bunting, but +soon those who had stared so hungrily, so intently, at her, realised +that she had nothing to do with the case. She was evidently there +as a spectator, and, more fortunate than most, she had a "friend at +court," and so was able to sit comfortably, instead of having to +stand in the crowd. + +But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon some of the +important-looking gentlemen she had seen downstairs came into the +court, and were ushered over to her seat while two or three among +them, including the famous writer whose face was so familiar that +it almost seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly acquaintance, +were accommodated at the reporters' table. + +"Gentlemen, the Coroner." + +The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat down again; +over the spectators there fell a sudden silence. + +And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the +first time, that informal little country inquest of long ago. + +First came the "Oyez! Oyez!" the old Norman-French summons to all +whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death +--sudden, unexplained, terrible--of a fellow-being. + +The jury--there were fourteen of them--all stood up again. They +raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words +of their oath. + +Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences 'twixt the coroner +and his officer. + +Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies--he +quickly corrected himself--the body, for, technically speaking, the +inquest just about to be held only concerned one body. + +And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could +be heard through the court, the coroner--a clever-looking gentleman, +though not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to +occupy so important a position on so important a day--gave a little +history, as it were, of the terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes. + +He spoke very clearly, warming to his work as he went on. + +He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of +The Avenger's former victims. "I only went through professional +curiosity," he threw in by way of parenthesis, "little thinking, +gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would +ever be held in my court." + +On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and +though that little was known to every one of his listeners. + +Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her +whisper to another: "Drawing it out all he can; that's what he's +doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!" And then the other +whispered back, so low that she could only just catch the words, +"Aye, aye. But he's a good chap--I knew his father; we were at +school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know--he does +to-day, at any rate." + +****** + +She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which +would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm +them. But the word, the sentence, was never uttered. + +And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did +throw out a hint which might mean anything--or nothing. + +"I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence to-day as +will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has +committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes." + +Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner's firm, +determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any +new evidence--evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was +ignorant? And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart +gave a sudden leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the +witness-box--a policeman who had not been sitting with the other +witnesses. + +But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply +the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like +tones he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, +foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it +slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place +--no, he was making a mistake--that was the place where the other +body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had got rather +mixed up between the two bodies--that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy +Hurtle. + +And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: "For the purpose +of this inquiry," he said, "we must, I think, for a moment consider +the two murders together." + +After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he +proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of +The Avenger's acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood +of sick fear and--and, yes, remorse. + +Up to now she had given very little thought--if, indeed, any thought +--to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had +filled her thoughts,--he and those who were trying to track him down. +But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here to-day. She +wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman's +words had conjured up out of her mind--out of her memory. + +And then there came an eager stir of excitement and of attention +throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of +the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to +his place. + +Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, +remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that +poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman +had looked so cheerful, so--so well pleased with herself till a +minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round +her as a hunted animal might have done. + +But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his +manner, just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen +Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl. + +After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words +of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. +At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed +to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, +as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, +stifled screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively +jumped out of bed and rushed to her window. + +The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. "Let me +see! Here is the plan. Yes--I think I understand that the house +in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes +were committed?" + +And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face +the alley, but the window of the witness's bedroom faced the alley. + +"A distinction without a difference," said the coroner testily. +"And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when +you looked out." + +There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman +broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. +"I saw 'im!" she cried. "I shall never forget it--no, not till my +dying day!" And she looked round defiantly. + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had +had with a person who slept under this woman's room. That person +had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that +night--that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept +lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, +she would have heard if there had been either the scream described +by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed. + +"We quite understand that you think you saw the"--the coroner +hesitated--"the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible +crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. +In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you +say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your +window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like." + +The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured +handkerchief she held in her hand. + +"Let us begin at the beginning," said the coroner patiently. "What +sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from +the passage?" + +"It was just a black 'at" said the witness at last, in a husky, +rather anxious tone. + +"Yes--just a black hat. And a coat--were you able to see what +sort of a coat he was wearing?" + +"'E 'adn't got no coat" she said decidedly. "No coat at all! I +remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was +so cold--everybody as can wears some sort o' coat this weather!" + +A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and +apparently not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here +jumped up and put out his hand. + +"Yes?" the coroner turned to him. + +"I just want to say that this 'ere witness--if her name is Lizzie +Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat--a big, heavy +coat. I've got it here, in this bit of paper." + +"I never said so!" cried the woman passionately. "I was made to +say all those things by the young man what came to me from the +Evening Sun. Just put in what 'e liked in 'is paper, 'e did--not +what I said at all!" + +At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. + +"In future," said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who +had now sat down again, "you must ask any question you wish to ask +through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my +examination of the witness." + +But this interruption, this--this accusation, had utterly upset +the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man +she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall--no, +he was short. He was thin--no, he was a stoutish young man. And +as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an +acrimonious discussion. + +Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had +seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back +--so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that +she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard +who had taken down her first account--in fact, to him she had +declared confidently that the man had carried nothing--nothing at +all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down. + +One fact--if fact it could be called--the coroner did elicit. +Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed +her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. + +"He looked up at you?" repeated the coroner. "You said nothing of +that in your examination." + +"I said nothink because I was scared--nigh scared to death!" + +"If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was +dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?" + +But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his +desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman's story. + +"Dark!" she answered dramatically. "Dark, almost black! If you can +take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look." + +And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the +coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. + +Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. + +This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. +Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse +situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the +crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some +food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, +breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been +drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and +because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. + +Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much +from what this witness had said that the official description of The +Avenger had been composed--that description which had brought such +comfort to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul. + +This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the +newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and +positive. + +"It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with string." + +She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man +to carry such a parcel--that was what had made her notice it. But +when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night +--so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, +though every step was familiar. + +When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears +told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna +Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had +nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that +she admitted reluctantly that "Anny" would have been such a nice, +respectable young woman if it hadn't been for the drink. + +Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that +of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very +respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. +He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn't seen his +wife for two years; he hadn't had news of her for six months. Before +she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and--and yes, +mother. + +Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or +imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered +woman was in the box. He had had later news of his unfortunate +daughter than her husband had had, but of course he could throw no +light at all on her murder or murderer. + +A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the +public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He +had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it +looking cast down, uneasy. + +And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly +unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made +the utmost much to Mrs. Bunting's indignation. But neither coroner +nor jury--and they, after all, were the people who mattered-- +thought a great deal of it. + +There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had +been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, "They are +now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He's been in every big murder case for +the last thirty years. He's sure to have something interesting to +say. It was really to hear him I came." + +But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with +which he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a +stir among the general public, or, rather, among those spectators +who stood near the low wooden door which separated the official +part of the court from the gallery. + +The coroner's officer, with an apologetic air, approached the +coroner, and handed him up an envelope. And again in an instant, +there fell absolute silence on the court. + +Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced +down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up. + +"Mr.--" then he glanced down again. "Mr.--ah--Mr.--is it Cannot?" +he said doubtfully, "may come forward." + +There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned. + +A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, +with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from +the place where he had been standing among the general public, to +the witness-box. + +"This is somewhat out of order, Mr.--er--Cannot," said the +coroner severely. "You should have sent me this note before the +proceedings began. This gentleman," he said, addressing the jury, +"informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to +reveal in connection with our investigation." + +"I have remained silent--I have locked what I knew within my own +breast"--began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, "because I am so +afraid of the Press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, +that my house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. . . . +I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things--the +state of things I imagine--might cause her death--indeed, I hope +she will never read a report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she +has an excellent trained nurse--" + +"You will now take the oath," said the coroner sharply. He already +regretted having allowed this absurd person to have his say. + +Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum which had been +lacking in most of those who had preceded him. + +"I will address myself to the jury," he began. + +"You will do nothing of the sort," broke in the coroner. "Now, +please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who +is the--the--" + +"The Avenger," put in Mr. Cannot promptly. + +"The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met +him on the very night he committed the murder we are now +investigating?" + +"I do so declare," said Mr. Cannot confidently. "Though in the best +of health myself,"--he beamed round the court, a now amused, +attentive court--"it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to +have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private +affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out +at so undue an hour as one o'clock in the morning--" + +Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into +broad smiles. + +"Yes," went on the witness solemnly, "I was with a sick friend--in +fact, I may say a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. +I will not reveal my exact dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my +notepaper. It is not necessary to reveal it, but you will understand +me when I say that in order to come home I had to pass through a +portion of the Regent's Park; and it was there--to be exact, about +the middle of Prince's Terrace--when a very peculiar-looking +individual stopped and accosted me." + +Mrs. Bunting's hand shot up to her breast. A feeling of deadly fear +took possession of her. + +"I mustn't faint," she said to herself hurriedly. "I mustn't faint! +Whatever's the matter with me?" She took out her bottle of +smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff. + +"He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. Coroner, with a +very odd-looking face. I should say an educated man--in common +parlance, a gentleman. What drew my special attention to him was +that he was talking aloud to himself--in fact, he seemed to be +repeating poetry. I give you my word, I had no thought of The +Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, I thought this +gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a man who'd got away from his +keeper. The Regent's Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you, is a +most quiet and soothing neighbourhood--" + +And then a member of the general public gave a loud guffaw. + +"I appeal to you; sir," the old gentleman suddenly cried out "to +protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come here with +any other object than that of doing my duty as a citizen!" + +"I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant," said the +coroner stiffly. "Time is going on, and I have another important +witness to call--a medical witness. Kindly tell me, as shortly as +possible, what made you suppose that this stranger could possibly +be--" with an effort he brought out for the first time since the +proceedings began, the words, "The Avenger?" + +"I am coming to that!" said Mr. Cannot hastily. "I am coming to +that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It was a foggy +night, but not as foggy as it became later. And just when we were +passing one another, I and this man, who was talking aloud to +himself--he, instead of going on, stopped and turned towards +me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the more so that +there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as +soothingly as possible, 'A very foggy night, sir.' And he said, +'Yes--yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of +dark and salutary deeds.' A very strange phrase, sir, that--'dark +and salutary deeds.'" He looked at the coroner expectantly-- + +"Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person +go off in the direction of--of King's Cross, for instance?" + +"No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. "No, I must honestly +say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then +he crossed the road and was lost in the fog." + +"That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. "I thank +you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently +consider important information." + +Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some +of those present tittered rather foolishly. + +As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked +up at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a +murmur of talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard +quite distinctly what it was that he said: + +"One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The +man carried a bag--a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left +hand. It was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled +knife." + +Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She remembered suddenly +that she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag. +And then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a +single reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put down that last +remark of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one of them had heard it. + +Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And +then silence did fall on the court. + +"One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May I ask to be +accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see +there is some room left on the witnesses' bench." And, without +waiting for permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was +bending over her. + +"Perhaps you'd like to come along now," he said urgently.--"I +don't suppose you want to hear the medical evidence. It's always +painful for a female to hear that. And there'll be an awful rush +when the inquest's over. I could get you away quietly now." + +She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed +him obediently. + +Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty, +room downstairs. + +"I'll let you out the back way," he said. "I expect you're tired, +ma'am, and will like to get home to a cup o' tea." + +"I don't know how to thank you!" There were tears in her eyes. +She was trembling with excitement and emotion. "You have been good +to me." + +"Oh, that's nothing," he said a little awkwardly. "I expect you +went though a pretty bad time, didn't you?" + +"Will they be having that old gentleman again?" she spoke in a +whisper, and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look. + +"Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We're troubled with a lot of +those sort of people, you know, ma'am, and they often do have funny +names, too. You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City, +or what not; then they retires when they gets about sixty, and +they're fit to hang themselves with dulness. Why, there's hundreds +of lunies of the sort to be met in London. You can't go about at +night and not meet 'em. Plenty of 'em!" + +"Then you don't think there was anything in what he said?" she +ventured. + +"In what that old gent said? Goodness--no!" he laughed +good-naturedly. "But I'll tell you what I do think. If it wasn't +for the time that had gone by, I should believe that the second +witness had seen that crafty devil--" he lowered his voice. "But, +there, Dr. Gaunt declares most positively--so did two other medical +gentlemen--that the poor creatures had been dead hours when they +was found. Medical gentlemen are always very positive about their +evidence. They have to be--otherwise who'd believe 'em? If we'd +time I could tell you of a case in which--well, 'twas all because +of Dr. Gaunt that the murderer escaped. We all knew perfectly well +the man we caught did it, but he was able to prove an alibi as to +the time Dr. Gaunt said the poor soul was killed." + + + +CHAPTER XX + +It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, +but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go +to Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think of +nothing. + +Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she +began listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt +that it would do her more good to stay out in the air than take the +train. Also she would thus put off the moment--the moment to which +she looked forward with dread and dislike--when she would have to +invent a circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor, +and what the doctor had said to her. + +Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest +in other people's ailments, the more interest that he was himself so +remarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn't +tell him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that the +doctor had told her. + +As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, +and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest +edition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. "Avenger +Inquest?" they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" At +one place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the +pavement by stones, she stopped and looked down. "Opening of the +Avenger Inquest. What is he really like? Full description." On yet +another ran the ironic query: "Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?" + +And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. +Bunting turned sick--so sick and faint that she did what she had +never done before in her life--she pushed her way into a +public-house, and, putting two pennies down on the counter, asked +for, and received, a glass of cold water. + +As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind +dwelling persistently--not on the inquest at which she had been +present, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims. + +Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the +mortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, though +cold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this time +yesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul-- +alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers had +already interviewed, particularly merry and bright. + +Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of +The Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered +wearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear +which encompassed her night and day. + +As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. +The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others +exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front +yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, +keep any secret closely hidden. + +For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from her +mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were +concentrated on Bunting--Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what +had happened during her absence--whether the lodger had rung his +bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with +him? + +She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a +pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must +have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, +for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door. + +"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in, +Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now--and you +out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all +right?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety. + +And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No," +she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and +waited, but he never came in at all. 'Twas my own fault," she added +quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though +she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, +she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her +years ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night," she +said. "Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance +of finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to go out +to people at all times of day." + +"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said. + +And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the +doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, +would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained +she'd known him a long time. + +She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired +voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'd +be very grateful for a cup now--if you'd just make it for me over +the ring." + +"'Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in and sit down, +my dear. Don't trouble to take your things off now--wait till +you've had tea." + +And she obeyed him. "Where's Daisy?" she asked suddenly. "I thought +the girl would be back by the time I got home." + +"She ain't coming home to-day"--there was an odd, sly, smiling look +on Bunting's face. + +"Did she send a telegram?" asked Mrs. Bunting. + +"No. Young Chandler's just come in and told me. He's been over +there and,--would you believe it, Ellen?--he's managed to make +friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain't it? He +went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, +and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money +to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this +evening--she and Daisy--to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o' +such a thing?" + +"Very nice for them, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bunting absently. But +she was pleased--pleased to have her mind taken off herself. "Then +when is that girl coming home?" she asked patiently. + +"Well, it appears that Chandler's got to-morrow morning off too-- +this evening and to-morrow morning. He'll be on duty all night, +but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early +dinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?" + +"Yes. That'll be all right," she said. "I don't grudge the girl +her bit of pleasure. One's only young once. By the way, did the +lodger ring while I was out?" + +Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to +see the kettle boil. "No," he said. "Come to think of it, it's +rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. +Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all +about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened +while you was out, Ellen." + +"Something else happened?" she said in a startled voice. Getting +up from her chair she came towards her husband: "What happened? +Who came?" + +"Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a +young lady's birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter +--one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing--fell out +just at the last minute and so they had to send for me." + +His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his +old friend's business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very +badly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for +ever so long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this new +man had never employed him--no, not once. + +"I hope you didn't make yourself too cheap?" said his wife jealously. + +"No, that I didn't! I hum'd and haw'd a lot; and I could see the +fellow was quite worried--in fact, at the end he offered me +half-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!" + +Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long +time. + +"You won't mind being alone, here? I don't count the lodger--he's +no good--" Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted +to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so +unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that +she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been +so in the days when he got more jobs. + +She stared at him, a little suspiciously. "I be afraid?" she echoed. +"Certainly not. Why should I be? I've never been afraid before. +What d'you exactly mean by that, Bunting?" + +"Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone +on this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young +fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door." + +"I shouldn't have been frightened if he'd just been an ordinary +stranger," she said shortly. "He said something silly to me--just +in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I +feel better now." + +As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise +outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers. + +"I'll just run out," said Bunting apologetically, "and see what +happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue +about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it-- +when he wasn't talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He's +on to-night, luckily not till twelve o'clock; plenty of time to +escort the two of 'em back after the play. Besides, he said +he'll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto' +goes on too long for him to take 'em home." + +"On to-night?" repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever for?" + +"Well, you see, The Avenger's always done 'em in couples, so to +speak. They've got an idea that he'll have a try again to-night. +However, even so, Joe's only on from midnight till five o'clock. +Then he'll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, +Fine thing to be young, ain't it, Ellen?" + +"I can't believe that he'd go out on such a night as this!" + +"What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken +so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. + +"What do I mean?" she repeated--and a great fear clutched at her +heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. + +"Why, by saying he won't go out. Of course, he has to go out. +Besides, he'll have been to the play as it is. 'Twould be a pretty +thing if the police didn't go out, just because it was cold!" + +"I--I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bunting. She looked +at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter +those true words. + +"He don't take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting sombrely. +"I take it the man's dead to all human feeling--saving, of +course, revenge." + +"So that's your idea about him, is it?" She looked across at her +husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between +them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. +"D'you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young +man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?" + +"Let me see," he said slowly. "I thought that 'twas from the bedroom +window a woman saw him?" + +"No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband's +breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most +respectable-looking woman of the two," said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. + +And then, seeing her husband's look of utter, blank astonishment, +she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly +mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. +"There, now," she said; "here I am gossiping all about nothing when +I ought to be seeing about the lodger's supper. It was someone in +the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The +Avenger." + +Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the +gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to +buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous +discussion. + +As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, +Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite +unnaturally cold even for the time of year. + +She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed +by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that +stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going +to be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and +she didn't like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suit +her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, +in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to +cheer her up after he had gone. + +Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little +sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, +at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little +ease, listening--listening. . . . + +She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth's +supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so +as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so. + +Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she +listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good +fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! +But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was +moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his +wont at this time of the evening. + +She knocked, and then waited a moment. + +There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in +the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard--or so Mr. Sleuth's landlady +could have sworn. + +There was a pause--she knocked again. + +"Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and +carried in the tray. + +"You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?" +he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice. + +"I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I lost count of +the time. I thought you'd like your breakfast early, as you had +dinner rather sooner than usual." + +"Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." He looked at +her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible +questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes. + +"Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look well, Mrs. +Bunting." + +"No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went over to see a doctor +this afternoon, to Ealing, sir." + +"I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting"--the lodger's voice had +become softer, kinder in quality. + +"It always does me good to see the doctor," said Mrs. Bunting +evasively. + +And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth's face. "Doctors are a +maligned body of men," he said. "I'm glad to hear you speak well of +them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable +to err, but I assure you they do their best." + +"That I'm sure they do, sir"--she spoke heartily, sincerely. +Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously. + +And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger's one hot dish +upon it, she went towards the door. "Wouldn't you like me to bring +up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it's bitterly cold--getting +colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in--" she +looked at him deprecatingly. + +And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. +Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full +height. + +"What d'you mean?" he stammered. "Why did you say that, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an +awful questioning look over his face. + +"I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He's got a job to-night. He's +going to act as waiter at a young lady's birthday party. I was +thinking it's a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, +too"--she brought out her words jerkily. + +Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. "Ah!" +he said. "Dear me--I'm sorry to hear that! I hope your husband +will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting." + +And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. + +****** + +Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy +washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. + +Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. + +"Time for you to dress," she cried out cheerfully, "and I've got a +little bit of fire for you to dress by." + +As he exclaimed at her extravagance, "Well, 'twill be pleasant for +me, too; keep me company-like while you're out; and make the room +nice and warm when you come in. You'll be fair perished, even +walking that short way," she said. + +And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs +and cleared away Mr. Sleuth's supper. + +The lodger said no word while she was so engaged--no word at all. + +He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him +to do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees. + +Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, a +great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting's +heart. He was such a--a--she searched for a word in her mind, but +could only find the word "gentle"--he was such a nice, gentle +gentleman, was Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving his +money about, as he had done the first day or two, and with some +concern his landlady had seen that the store had diminished a good +deal. A very simple calculation had made her realise that almost the +whole of that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, had +passed through her hands. + +Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his +landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. +And Mrs. Bunting's conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly +ever used that room upstairs--that room for which he had paid extra +so generously. If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty +man in Baker Street,--and now that the ice had been broken between +them it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a very +well-trained, experienced waiter--then she thought she would tell +Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was +now doing. + +She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. + +"Good-night, sir," she said at last. + +Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. + +"I hope you'll sleep well, sir." + +"Yes, I'm sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a +little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been +studying all day I require a little exercise." + +"Oh, I wouldn't go out to-night," she said deprecatingly. "'Tisn't +fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold." + +"And yet--and yet"--he looked at her attentively--"there will +probably be many people out in the streets to-night." + +"A many more than usual, I fear, sir." + +"Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a strange thing, +Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse +themselves should carry their revels far into the night?" + +"Oh, I wasn't thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking"--she +hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the +words, "of the police." + +"The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or +three times with a nervous gesture. "But what is man--what is man's +puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over +whose feet God has set a guard?" + +Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up +his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then +she had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, +that--was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? + +"Very true, sir," she said respectfully. "But Providence means us +to take care o' ourselves too." And then she closed the door behind +her and went downstairs. + +But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She +came into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think +the next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger's meal on +her table. 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. It even +occurred to her to do the one thing that might have quieted her +excited brain--to get a book, one of those detective stories of +which Bunting had a slender store in the next room, and then, +lighting the gas, to sit up and read. + +No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read in +bed, and she was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything that +she had been told was wrong. . . . + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +It was a very cold night--so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was the +atmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors. + +Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved a +really pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his way +this evening, all the more welcome because it was quite unexpected! +The young lady at whose birthday party he had been present in +capacity of waiter had come into a fortune that day, and she had had +the gracious, the surprising thought of presenting each of the hired +waiters with a sovereign! + +This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had gone +to Bunting's heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservative +principles; only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet, +old-fashioned, respectable, gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom +those nasty Radicals know nothing and care less! + +But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been. +Slackening his footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern of +how queer his wife had seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous, +so "jumpy," that he didn't know what to make of her sometimes. She +had never been really good-tempered--your capable, self-respecting +woman seldom is--but she had never been like what she was now. And +she didn't get better as the days went on; in fact she got worse. +Of late she had been quite hysterical, and for no reason at all! +Take that little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. Ellen knew +quite well he often had to go about in some kind of disguise, and yet +how she had gone on, quite foolish-like--not at all as one would +have expected her to do. + +There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in more +senses than one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had taken +to talking in her sleep. "No, no, no!" she had cried out, only the +night before. "It isn't true--I won't have it said--it's a lie!" +And there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her usually +quiet, mincing voice. + +****** + +Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves. + +He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walking +more quickly. + +As he tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sight +of his lodger walking along the opposite side of the solitary street +--one of those short streets leading off the broad road which +encircles Regent's Park. + +Well! This was a funny time o' night to be taking a stroll for +pleasure, like! + +Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth's tall, thin figure +was rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. His +left arm was thrust into his long Inverness cape, and so was quite +hidden, but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger +were carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung down straight. + +Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talked +aloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who live +much alone. It was clear that he had not yet become aware of the +proximity of his landlord. + +Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger was +certainly a most eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not, +that that odd, luny-like gentleman should have made all the +difference to his, Bunting's, and Mrs. Bunting's happiness and +comfort in life? + +Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for +the first time, of this perfect lodger's one fault--his odd dislike +to meat, and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food. + +But there, you can't have everything! The more so that the lodger +was not one of those crazy vegetarians who won't eat eggs and cheese. +No, he was reasonable in this, as in everything else connected with +his dealings with the Buntings. + +As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife. +Indeed, he had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr. +Sleuth had been with them, and when his landlord had had occasion +to wait on him the lodger had remained silent. Indeed, their +gentleman had made it very clear that he did not like either the +husband or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitely +asked to do so. + +Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genial +conversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increased +his general comfortable sense of satisfaction. + +So it was that the butler, still an active man for his years, +crossed over the road, and, stepping briskly forward, began trying +to overtake Mr. Sleuth. But the more he hurried along, the more the +other hastened, and that without ever turning round to see whose +steps he could hear echoing behind him on the now freezing pavement. + +Mr. Sleuth's own footsteps were quite inaudible--an odd circumstance, +when you came to think of it--as Bunting did think of it later, +lying awake by Mrs. Bunting's side in the pitch darkness. What it +meant of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes. +Now Bunting had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down to +him to clean. He had always supposed the lodger had only one pair of +outdoor boots. + +The two men--the pursued and the pursuer--at last turned into the +Marylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home. +Plucking up courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly +on the still air: + +"Mr. Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!" + +The lodger stopped and turned round. + +He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physical +condition, that the sweat was pouring down his face. + +"Ah! So it's you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and +I hurried on. I wish I'd known that it was you; there are so many +queer characters about at night in London." + +"Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have business +out of doors would be out such a night as this. It is cold, sir!" + +And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there suddenly crept +the query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth's own business out could be +on this bitter night. + +"Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words +came out sharp and quick through his thin lips. "I can't say that +I find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air always +becomes milder." + +"Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind. Why, it +freezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, there's nothing like +walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, +sir." + +Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange +way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, +on the wall side, to his landlord. + +"I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over Primrose Hill to +see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, +and then, coming back, I lost my way." + +Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the +shabby, paved court in front of the house--that gate which now was +never locked. + +Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged +path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, stepping +aside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front +door for him. + +As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left hand +brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was +wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth against +which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from +stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet--wet and +gluey. + +Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other +that he placed the key in the lock of the door. + +The two men passed into the hall together. + +The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up +road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the +lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of +mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful +immediate danger. + +A stuffless voice--the voice of his first wife, the long-dead +girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays--uttered into +his ear the words, "Take care!" + +And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, +though not loud. + +"I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, +foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but I +brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some +thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose +Hill." + +"No, sir, no. I didn't notice nothing. 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. Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and +dipped a hand into the water-jug. + +"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came a +voice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily. + +"I'm just washing my hands." + +"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such +a thing--putting your hand into the water in which I was going to +wash my face to-morrow morning!" + +"I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away. +You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?" + +She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting +lay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more +uncomfortable than he was already. + +At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence +by telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, +but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if +it had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside. + +Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook +the bed. + +"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning in +the hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly. + +He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as +she had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money--or, +rather, Mr. Sleuth's good money. Since he had come to be their lodger +they had not had to touch their rent money. + +Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and +so to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and +wife lay awake till dawn. + +The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he felt +curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes. + +Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven +o'clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the +blind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the +way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, +curiously still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage. +As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already +lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being pushed +through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful +sleep. + +He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, +shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper +wide open on the table, and bent over it. + +As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression +of intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he +had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet +was not there. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit +the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea. + +While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: + +"Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" Quickly he hurried in +response to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my dear? I +won't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly, rather +foolishly. + +She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face. + +"What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously. + +"I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. "But you was +so cross last night that I simply didn't dare tell you about it." + +"Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice. + +"I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her +birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice bit of money, and +she gave each of us waiters a sovereign." + +Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her +eyes. + +"What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly. "You didn't +say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about +it yesterday." + +"Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner." + +"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?" +said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting's +round face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing +if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit--especially now that +they were doing so well! + +"Daisy'll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly. +"It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all +she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, 'twould +be cruel--cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and +that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that +even you would see the justice o' that!" + +But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. + +Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling +now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, +his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill--ill and wizened. +He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything. +She had never been one to grouse about herself. + +"The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed +genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn't +the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now +was it? And yet he must 'a been out a long time if what he said +was true." + +"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the +crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day-- +that they do! But go along now; I want to get up." + +He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire +and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. + +Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with +a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible +thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his +head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No +doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled--that was what had happened; +though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against +a dead animal. + +Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for one to be +always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It +made one go dotty--that's what it did. + +And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a +loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before +he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, +Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and +shawl. + +"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't you +trouble." + +He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. + +She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the +telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said. +"If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she tore +the envelope open--"Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's +only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this +morning. Then you'll have to go." + +She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said. +"There it is, Bunting. You just read it." + +"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.-- +Chandler." + +"I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. +"I thought Joe's hours was as regular as clockwork--that nothing +could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose +it'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock? It may have +left off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again just +now. I'm pretty tired this morning." + +"You start about twelve," said his wife quickly. + +"That'll give plenty of time." + +The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a +letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a +little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at +any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting +often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there +came no sounds at all from overhead. + +Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more +cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a +pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, +before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +"Daisy will be surprised to see you--not to say disappointed!" she +observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at +the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made +him stay on a little longer. "There's no such great hurry as that," +she said good-temperedly. "It'll do quite well if you're there by +half-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't help +with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard." + +But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and +his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, +less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming +and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously +along through the slush. + +Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a +knock at the door--a now very familiar ring and knock. "Joe thinks +Daisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to herself. + +Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's voice. "Don't +be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not exactly scared, +she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to +represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, +with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his +seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. + +"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. "But I thought +I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got +my telegram all right? I couldn't send no other kind of message." + +"She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone long after her." +Then, struck by a look in his eyes, "Joe, what's the matter?" she +asked quickly. + +There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, +while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very +pale. + +"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no business to say +anything about it--but I will tell you!" + +He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind +him. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered. "But this time +no one is to know anything about it--not for the present, I mean," +he corrected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got a clue-- +and a good clue, too, this time." + +"But where--and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting. + +"Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the +present"--he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. "The +poor soul was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by +chance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his +way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd be able to get an +ambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I +'spect he'll get promotion for that!" + +"What about the clue?" asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. "You said +there was a clue?" + +"Well, I don't rightly understand about the clue myself. All I +knows is it's got something to do with a public-house, 'The Hammer +and Tongs,' which isn't far off there. They feels sure The Avenger +was in the bar just on closing-time." + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural +the police should suspect a public-house loafer. "Then that's why you +wasn't able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?" + +He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll all be in the last +editions of the evening newspapers--it can't be kep' out. There'd be +too much of a row if 'twas!" + +"Are you going off to that public-house now?" she asked. + +"Yes, I am. I've got a awk'ard job--to try and worm something out +of the barmaid." + +"Something out of the barmaid?" repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. +"Why, whatever for?" + +He came and stood close to her. "They think 'twas a gentleman," he +whispered. + +"A gentleman?" + +Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. "Whatever +makes them think such a silly thing as that?" + +"Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with a +leather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass of +milk. And what d'you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! +He wouldn't take no change--just made the girl a present of it! +That's why the young woman what served him seems quite unwilling to +give him away. She won't tell now what he was like. She doesn't +know what he's wanted for, and we don't want her to know just yet. +That's one reason why nothing's being said public about it. But +there! I really must be going now. My time'll be up at three +o'clock. I thought of coming in on the way back, and asking you for +a cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," but there was no +welcome in her tired voice. + +She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to her +kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Bunting +and Daisy might be home, and they'd want something, too. Margaret +always had breakfast even when "the family" were away, unnaturally +early. + +As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of all +thought. But it is very difficult to do that when one is in a state +of torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler what +they supposed that man who had gone into the public-house was really +like. It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that inquisitive +young chap had never met face to face. + +At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang--a quiet little tinkle. But when +she went up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room. + +Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the cloth +on the table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps coming +down the stairs, and her quick ears detected the slight whirring +sound which showed that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had +already lit the stove; that meant that he would carry out some +elaborate experiment this afternoon. + +"Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very quiet and +still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known +it quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A +very pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in +the Marylebone Road." + +"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day--too quiet to my +thinking. 'Tain't natural-like." + +The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air. + +"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, +hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window +and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?" + +And his landlady obeyed him. + +"It's only Bunting, sir--Bunting and his daughter." + +"Oh! Is that all?" + +Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She +had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that +first day when she had been showing him her rooms. + +Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if +aware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face +up towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at the +lodger, whose face she could only dimly discern. + +"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. +And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. +Bunting very much aback. + +"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little read +nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, +for youth, for innocence." + +"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfast +will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now." + +He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child +rebuked might have done. + +And then his landlady left him. + +"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right. +And Daisy's a lucky girl--that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her +five shillings." + +But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought +to do. + +"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little +disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was +that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time +went on and he didn't come." + +"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly. + +"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and +fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?" + +"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along, +child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself +useful." + +And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her +stepmother didn't want her to hear. + +"I've something to tell you, Bunting." + +"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?" + +"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want +anyone to know about it--not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over +and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again." + +Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the +mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much +concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it. + +There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a +great effort to appear unconcerned. + +"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?" + +She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!" +she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror +in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum." + +And he acquiesced. + +"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away +the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried +upstairs. + +Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. +"I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? +I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I +saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, +but I should like to do so now." + +She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly, +"the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun." + +Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed. +"You can tell him that I don't want it back again." + +On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third +of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in +rather large characters: + +"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic +reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which +was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his +double murder ten days ago." + +She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. + +"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffled +voice from the upper landing. + +She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper back +again, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out of +the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, +listening and waiting--Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; +Daisy for the knock which would herald Joe Chandler. + +And about four there came the now familiar sound. + +Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the +front door she whispered, "We haven't said anything to Daisy yet. +Young girls can't keep secrets." + +Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked the low character +he had assumed to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, +and tired out. + +Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of +welcome, when she saw how cleverly he was disguised. + +"I never!" she exclaimed. "What a difference it do make, to be +sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. Chandler." + +And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much +that he quite cheered up. Bunting had been very dull and quiet +all that afternoon. + +"It won't take me ten minutes to make myself respectable again," +said the young man rather ruefully. + +His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came +to the conclusion that he had been unsuccessful--that he had failed, +that is, in getting any information worth having. And though, in a +sense, they all had a pleasant tea together, there was an air of +constraint, even of discomfort, over the little party. + +Bunting felt it hard that he couldn't ask the questions that were +trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during +the last month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, +but now it seemed almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of +half suspense. There was one important fact he longed to know, +and at last came his opportunity of doing so, for Joe Chandler rose +to leave, and this time it was Bunting who followed him out into +the hall. + +"Where did it happen?" he whispered. "Just tell me that, Joe?" + +"Primrose Hill," said the other briefly. "You'll know all about it +in a minute or two, for it'll be all in the last editions of the +evening papers. That's what's been arranged." + +"No arrest I suppose?" + +Chandler shook his head despondently. "No," he said, "I'm inclined +to think the Yard was on a wrong tack altogether this time. But one +can only do one's best. I don't know if Mrs. Bunting told you I'd +got to question a barmaid about a man who was in her place just +before closing-time. Well, she's said all she knew, and it's as +clear as daylight to me that the eccentric old gent she talks about +was only a harmless luny. He gave her a sovereign just because she +told him she was a teetotaller!" He laughed ruefully. + +Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. "Well, that's a queer +thing for a barmaid to be!" he exclaimed. "She's niece to the people +what keeps the public," explained Chandler; and then he went out of +the front door with a cheerful "So long!" + +When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy had disappeared. +She had gone downstairs with the tray. "Where's my girl?" he said +irritably. + +"She's just taken the tray downstairs." + +He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called out sharply, +"Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down there?" + +"Yes, father," came her eager, happy voice. + +"Better come up out of that cold kitchen." + +He turned and came back to his wife. "Ellen, is the lodger in? I +haven't heard him moving about. Now mind what I says, please! I +don't want Daisy to be mixed up with him." + +"Mr. Sleuth don't seem very well to-day," answered Mrs. Bunting +quietly. "'Tain't likely I should let Daisy have anything to do +with him. Why, she's never even seen him. 'Tain't likely I should +allow her to begin waiting on him now." + +But though she was surprised and a little irritated by the tone in +which Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of the truth illumined her mind. +So accustomed had she become to bearing alone the burden of her awful +secret, that it would have required far more than a cross word or +two, far more than the fact that Bunting looked ill and tired, for +her to have come to suspect that her secret was now shared by another, +and that other her husband. + +Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trembled at the +thought of her house being invaded by the police, but that was only +because she had always credited the police with supernatural powers +of detection. That they should come to know the awful fact she kept +hidden in her breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a +natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly suspect it appeared +beyond the range of possibility. + +And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering +over the fire--saying nothing, doing nothing. + +"Why, father, ain't you well?" the girl asked more than once. + +And, looking up, he would answer, "Yes, I'm well enough, my girl, +but I feels cold. It's awful cold. I never did feel anything like +the cold we've got just now." + + * * * + +At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside. + +"The Avenger again!" "Another horrible crime!" "Extra speshul +edition!"--such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through +the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room. + +Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy's cheeks grew +pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled. + +"Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D'you hear that?" she exclaimed +childishly, and even clapped her hands. "I do wish Mr. Chandler +had been here. He would 'a been startled!" + +"Don't, Daisy!" and Bunting frowned. + +Then, getting up, he stretched himself. "It's fair getting on my +mind," he said, "these horrible things happening. I'd like to get +right away from London, just as far as I could--that I would!" + +"Up to John-o'-Groat's?" said Daisy, laughing. And then, "Why, +father, ain't you going out to get a paper?" + +"Yes, I suppose I must." + +Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, +he put on his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, +and walked down the flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped +out on the pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys +now stood. + +The boy nearest to him only had the Sun--a late edition of the paper +he had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a +ha'penny rag of which he already knew the main contents. But there +was nothing else to do. + +Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was +bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked +down at the big headlines. For Bunting had been very unfair to the +enterprise of the editor of his favourite evening paper. This +special edition was full of new matter--new matter concerning +The Avenger. + +First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement +that The Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had +chosen quite a new locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising +ground known to Londoners as Primrose Hill. + +"The police," so Bunting read, "are very reserved as to the +circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger's +latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess +several really important clues, and that one of them is concerned +with the half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to reproduce +an outline to-day. (See over page.)" + +And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline +he had already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting +to be a facsimile of the imprint left by The Avenger's rubber sole. + +He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the +space which should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, +sinking feeling of terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had +been tracked by the marks their boots or shoes had made at or near +the scenes of their misdoings. + +Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial +kind was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already +visualised early this very afternoon the little row with which he +dealt each morning--first came his wife's strong, serviceable +boots, then his own two pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and +next to his own Mr. Sleuth's strong, hardly worn, and expensive +buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high-heeled pair +of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for +her trip to London, had ended the row. The girl had worn these +thin shoes persistently, in defiance of Ellen's reproof and advice, +and he, Bunting, had only once had to clean her more sensible +country pair, and that only because the others had become wet though +the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to Scotland Yard. + +Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going +in again, of hearing his wife's sarcastic comments, of parrying +Daisy's eager questions, had become intolerable. So he walked +slowly, trying to put off the evil moment when he would have to tell +them what was in his paper. + +The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite +the house. It was rather to the right of it. And when, having +crossed over the roadway, he walked along the pavement towards his +own gate, he heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side +of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard from the pavement. + +Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward +to drive out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had +trouble, before the cold weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter +there. But to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick +with suspense and fear. + +Was it possible that their place was being watched--already? He +thought it only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited +the police with almost supernatural powers, especially since he +had paid that visit to Scotland Yard. + +But to Bunting's amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who +suddenly loomed up in the dim light. + +Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form +had been quite concealed till he stepped forward from behind the +low wall on to the flagged path leading to the front door. + +The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked +along, the new boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of +hard nail-studded heels rang out on the flat-stones of the narrow +path. + +Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was +his lodger had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. +Sleuth had evidently been out to buy himself another pair of new +boots, and then he had gone inside the gate and had put them on, +placing his old footgear in the paper in which the new pair had +been wrapped. + +The ex-butler waited--waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. +Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had +time to get well away, upstairs. + +Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in +the door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and +coat up in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out +to him. Then he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, +he said sullenly: "There it is! You can see it all for yourself-- +not that there's very much to see," and groped his way to the fire. + +His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. "Whatever have you done to +yourself?" she exclaimed. "You're ill--that's what it is, Bunting. +You got a chill last night!" + +"I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered. "'Twasn't last night, +though; 'twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. +Margaret keeps that housekeeper's room o' hers like a hothouse-- +that's what she does. 'Twas going out from there into the biting +wind, that's what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in +such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, +can stand the life--being out in all weathers like he is." + +Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what +was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. + +"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm," +said his wife testily. "But if you felt so bad, whatever was you +out so long for, Bunting? I thought you'd gone away somewhere! +D'you mean you only went to get the paper?" + +"I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp," he +muttered apologetically. + +"That was a silly thing to do!" + +"Perhaps it was," he admitted meekly. + +Daisy had taken up the paper. "Well, they don't say much," she +said disappointedly. "Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. +Chandler 'll be in soon again. If so, he'll tell us more about it." + +"A young girl like you oughtn't to want to know anything about +murders," said her stepmother severely. "Joe won't think any the +better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I +was you, Daisy, I shouldn't say nothing about it if he does come in +--which I fair tell you I hope he won't. I've seen enough of that +young chap to-day." + +"He didn't come in for long--not to-day," said Daisy, her lip +trembling. + +"I can tell you one thing that'll surprise you, my dear"--Mrs. +Bunting looked significantly at her stepdaughter. She also wanted +to get away from that dread news--which yet was no news. + +"Yes?" said Daisy, rather defiantly. "What is it, Ellen?" + +"Maybe you'll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning. +He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that +you shouldn't be told anything about it." + +"Never!" cried Daisy, much mortified. + +"Yes," went on her stepmother ruthlessly. "You just ask your father +over there if it isn't true." + +"'Tain't a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings," +said Bunting heavily. + +"If I was Joe," went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage, +"I shouldn't want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in +to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that +poor young chap is set upon--mostly, I admit, by your father," she +looked at her husband severely. "But you does your share, too, +Daisy! You asks him this, you asks him that--he's fair puzzled +sometimes. It don't do to be so inquisitive." + +****** + +And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting's part +when young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was +said of the new Avenger murder. + +Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though Daisy said a +word, it was but a word. And Joe Chandler thought he had never +spent a pleasanter evening in his life--for it was he and Daisy +who talked all the time, their elders remaining for the most part +silent. + +Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Margaret. She +described the long, dull hours and the queer jobs her aunt set her +to do--the washing up of all the fine drawing-room china in a big +basin lined with flannel, and how terrified she (Daisy) had been +lest there should come even one teeny little chip to any of it. +Then she went on to relate some of the funny things Aunt Margaret +had told her about "the family." + +There came a really comic tale, which hugely interested and delighted +Chandler. This was of how Aunt Margaret's lady had been taken in by +an impostor--an impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping +out of her carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the doorstep. +Aunt Margaret's lady, being a soft one, had insisted on the man +coming into the hall, where he had been given all kinds of +restoratives. When the man had at last gone off, it was found that +he had "wolfed" young master's best walking-stick, one with a fine +tortoise-shell top to it. Thus had Aunt Margaret proved to her lady +that the man had been shamming, and her lady had been very angry-- +near had a fit herself! + +"There's a lot of that about," said Chandler, laughing. +"Incorrigible rogues and vagabonds--that's what those sort of people +are!" + +And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an exceptionally +clever swindler whom he himself had brought to book. He was very +proud of that job, it had formed a white stone in his career as a +detective. And even Mrs. Bunting was quite interested to hear about +it. + +Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth's bell rang. For +awhile no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife. + +"Did you hear that?" he said. "I think, Ellen, that was the lodger's +bell." + +She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. + +"I rang," said Mr. Sleuth weakly, "to tell you I don't require any +supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump +of sugar in it. That is all I require--nothing more. I feel very +very far from well"--and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on +his face. "And then I thought your husband would like his paper +back again, Mrs. Bunting." + +Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze +of which she was quite unconscious, answered, "Oh, no, sir! +Bunting don't require that paper now. He read it all through." +Something impelled her to add, ruthlessly, "He's got another paper +by now, sir. You may have heard them come shouting outside. Would +you like me to bring you up that other paper, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. "No," he said querulously. "I much +regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it +disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it-- +there never is in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers +years ago, and I much regret that I broke though my rule to-day." + +As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more +conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in +his landlady's presence. He went over to the fireplace and +deliberately turned his back on her. + +She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of +sugar he had asked for. + +Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the +Book. + +When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting +merrily. She did not notice that the merriment was confined to the +two young people. + +"Well?" said Daisy pertly. "How about the lodger, Ellen? Is he +all right?" + +"Yes," she said stiffly. "Of course he is!" + +"He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself--awful +lonely-like, I call it," said the girl. + +But her, stepmother remained silent. + +"Whatever does he do with himself all day?" persisted Daisy. + +"Just now he's reading the Bible," Mrs. Bunting answered, shortly +and dryly. + +"Well, I never! That's a funny thing for a gentleman to do!" + +And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed--a long hearty peal +of amusement. + +"There's nothing to laugh at," said Mrs. Bunting sharply. "I should +feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected with the +Bible." + +And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time +that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he +answered very humbly, "I beg pardon. I know I oughtn't to have +laughed at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy +said it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a +queer card, Mrs. Bunting." + +"He's no queerer than many people I could mention," she said quickly; +and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed +of aching fear and suspense. + +The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he +should pursue, and, according to his mood and to the state of his +mind at any particular moment, he would waver between various +widely-differing lines of action. + +He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the +most awful thing about it all was that he wasn't sure. If only he +could have been sure, he might have made up his mind exactly what +it was he ought to do. + +But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was +vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting's point of view, +almost any alternative would have been preferable to that which to +some, nay, perhaps to most, householders would have seemed the only +thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners of Bunting's +class have an uneasy fear of the law. To his mind it would be ruin +for him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly in such a terrible +affair. No one concerned in the business would give them and their +future a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, and, +above all, it would make it quite impossible for them ever to get +again into a good joint situation. It was that for which Bunting, +in his secret soul, now longed with all his heart. + +No, some other way than going to the police must be found--and he +racked his slow brain to find it. + +The worst of it was that every hour that went by made his future +course more difficult and more delicate, and increased the awful +weight on his conscience. + +If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite sure! And +then he would tell himself that, after all, he had very little to +go upon; only suspicion--suspicion, and a secret, horrible +certainty that his suspicion was justified. + +And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution which he knew +to be indefensible from every point of view; he began to hope, that +is, in the depths of his heart, that the lodger would again go out +one evening on his horrible business and be caught--red-handed. + +But far from going out on any business, horrible or other, Mr. +Sleuth now never went out at all. He kept upstairs, and often spent +quite a considerable part of his day in bed. He still felt, so he +assured Mrs. Bunting, very far from well. He had never thrown off +the chill he had caught on that bitter night he and his landlord +had met on their several ways home. + +Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication to Daisy's +father. The detective spent every waking hour that he was not on +duty with the Buntings; and Bunting, who at one time had liked him +so well and so cordially, now became mortally afraid of him. + +But though the young man talked of little else than The Avenger, +and though on one evening he described at immense length the +eccentric-looking gent who had given the barmaid a sovereign, +picturing Mr. Sleuth with such awful accuracy that both Bunting and +Mrs. Bunting secretly and separately turned sick when they listened +to him, he never showed the slightest interest in their lodger. + +At last there came a morning when Bunting and Chandler held a strange +conversation about The Avenger. The young fellow had come in earlier +than usual, and just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were +starting out to do some shopping. The girl would fain have stopped +behind, but her stepmother had given her a very peculiar, disagreeable +look, daring her, so to speak, to be so forward, and Daisy had gone +on with a flushed, angry look on her pretty face. + +And then, as young Chandler stepped through into the sitting-room, +it suddenly struck Bunting that the young man looked unlike himself +--indeed, to the ex-butler's apprehension there was something almost +threatening in Chandler's attitude. + +"I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting," he began abruptly, falteringly. +"And I'm glad to have the chance now that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Daisy +are out." + +Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words--the accusation of +having sheltered a murderer, the monster whom all the world was +seeking, under his roof. And then he remembered a phrase, a +horrible legal phrase--"Accessory after the fact." Yes, he had +been that, there wasn't any doubt about it! + +"Yes?" he said. "What is it, Joe?" and then the unfortunate man +sat down in his chair. "Yes?" he said again uncertainly; for young +Chandler had now advanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting +fixedly--the other thought threateningly. "Well, out with it, +Joe! Don't keep me in suspense." + +And then a slight smile broke over the young man's face. "I don't +think what I've got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bunting." + +And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything--yes +or no, as the case might be. + +The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long +time to the elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe +Chandler brought out the words, "Well, I suppose you know what it +is I want to talk about. I'm sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look +or two she's lately cast on me. It's your daughter--it's Miss +Daisy." + +And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, 'twixt a sob and a laugh. +"My girl?" he cried. "Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to +talk about? Why, you fair frightened me--that you did!" + +And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as +he stared across it at his daughter's lover, that lover who was +also the embodiment of that now awful thing to him, the law. He +smiled, rather foolishly, at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp +wave of irritation, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. +Daisy's father was an old stupid--that's what he was. + +And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. "As +far as I'm concerned," he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even +a little dignity, "you have my blessing, Joe. You're a very likely +young chap, and I had a true respect for your father." + +"Yes," said Chandler, "that's very kind of you, Mr. Bunting. But +how about her--her herself?" + +Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn't +given herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing. + +"I can't answer for Daisy," he said heavily. "You'll have to ask +her yourself--that's not a job any other man can do for you, my lad." + +"I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by our two selves," +said Chandler, with some heat. "You don't seem to understand, Mr. +Bunting, that I never do see Miss Daisy alone," he repeated. "I +hear now that she's going away Monday, and I've only once had the +chance of a walk with her. Mrs. Bunting's very particular, not to +say pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bunting--" + +"That's a fault on the right side, that is--with a young girl," +said Bunting thoughtfully. + +And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as regarded other young +chaps Mrs. Bunting could not be too particular. + +"She's been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has," went on Bunting, +with some pride. "That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of her +sight." + +"I was coming to the old aunt," said Chandler heavily. "Mrs. +Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that +old woman the whole of her natural life--now is that right? That's +what I wants to ask you, Mr. Bunting,--is that right?" + +"I'll say a word to Ellen, don't you fear," said Bunting abstractedly. + +His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap, +to his now constant anxious preoccupation. "You come along +to-morrow," he said, "and I'll see you gets your walk with Daisy. +It's only right you and she should have a chance of seeing one +another without old folk being by; else how's the girl to tell +whether she likes you or not! For the matter of that, you hardly +knows her, Joe--" He looked at the young man consideringly. + +Chandler shook his head impatiently. "I knows her quite as well as +I wants to know her," he said. "I made up my mind the very first +time I see'd her, Mr. Bunting." + +"No! Did you really?" said Bunting. "Well, come to think of it, +I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. +But I hope you'll never want no second, Chandler." + +"God forbid!" said the young man under his breath. And then he +asked, rather longingly, "D'you think they'll be out long now, Mr. +Bunting?" + +And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. "Sit down, sit +down; do!" he said hastily. "I don't believe they'll be very long. +They've only got a little bit of shopping to do." + +And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, "And +how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you're +all just waiting for the next time?" + +"Aye--that's about the figure of it." Chandler's voice had also +changed; it was now sombre, menacing. "We're fair tired of it-- +beginning to wonder when it'll end, that we are!" + +"Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master's +like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that. + +"Yes," said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion--a savage, +fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that description that +was circulated put us wrong. I don't believe it was the man that +knocked up against that woman in the fog--no, not one bit I don't. +But I wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it's +a sailor--the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight +or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, +again, I says to myself that it's a butcher, a man from the Central +Market. Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat." + +"Then it don't seem to you possible--?" (Bunting got up and walked +over to the window.) "You don't take any stock, I suppose, in that +idea some of the papers put out, that the man is"--then he +hesitated and brought out, with a gasp--"a gentleman?" + +Chandler looked at him, surprised. "No," he said deliberately. +"I've made up my mind that's quite a wrong tack, though I knows that +some of our fellows--big pots, too--are quite sure that the fellow +what gave the girl the sovereign is the man we're looking for. You +see, Mr. Bunting, if that's the fact--well, it stands to reason the +fellow's an escaped lunatic; and if he's an escaped lunatic he's got +a keeper, and they'd be raising a hue and cry after him; now, +wouldn't they?" + +"You don't think," went on Bunting, lowering his voice, "that he +could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?" + +"D'you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some +West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that +'ud be have come to pass." He smiled as if the notion was a funny +one. + +"Yes, something o' that sort," muttered Bunting. + +"Well, if your idea's correct, Mr. Bunting--" + +"I never said 'twas my idea," said Bunting, all in a hurry. + +"Well, if that idea's correct then, 'twill make our task more +difficult than ever. Why, 'twould be looking for a needle in a +field of hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! I don't think it's +anything quite so unlikely as that--not myself I don't." He +hesitated. "There's some of us"--he lowered his voice--"that +hopes he'll betake himself off--The Avenger, I mean--to another +big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There'd be plenty of +work for him to do there," and Chandler chuckled at his own grim +joke. + +And then, to both men's secret relief, for Bunting was now +mortally afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and +his doings, they heard Mrs. Bunting's key in the lock. + +Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young +Chandler was still there. She had feared that when they got home +he would be gone, the more so that Ellen, just as if she was doing +it on purpose, had lingered aggravatingly long over each small +purchase. + +"Here's Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk," +blurted out Bunting. + +"My mother says as how she'd like you to come to tea, over at +Richmond," said Chandler awkwardly, "I just come in to see whether +we could fix it up, Miss Daisy." And Daisy looked imploringly at +her stepmother. + +"D'you mean now--this minute?" asked Mrs. Bunting tartly. + +"No, o' course not"--Bunting broke in hastily. "How you do go on, +Ellen!" + +"What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?" +asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically. + +Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day +--in fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to +see Daisy at all. But he had talked her round. + +"How about Saturday?" suggested Bunting. "That's Daisy's birthday. +'Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she's +going back to Old Aunt on Monday." + +"I can't go Saturday," said Chandler disconsolately. "I'm on duty +Saturday." + +"Well, then, let it be Sunday," said Bunting firmly. And his wife +looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her +presence. + +"What do you say, Miss Daisy?" said Chandler. + +"Sunday would be very nice," said Daisy demurely. And then, as the +young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy +ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute. + +Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing +of Mrs. Bunting's whispered remark: "When I was a young woman folk +didn't gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to +go to church together, decent-like--" + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Daisy's eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave +her what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth +birthday--a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which +Bunting had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy-- +it seemed a long, long time ago now. + +Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but +she was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to +trouble much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generally +had the good sense not to interfere between her husband and his +child. + +In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy +himself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the +last four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed on +his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite +pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden +fruit. + +His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his +nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. +But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him +feel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found himself +starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke +to him suddenly. + +Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting +didn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only +one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly +slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going +out. + +In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above +all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his +acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that +they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his +mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the +knowledge--no, not knowledge, rather the--the suspicion--that +dwelt within him. + +But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing +for human companionship--companionship, that is, other than that +of his wife and of his daughter. + +This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, +populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more +people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the +neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The +ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generally +bought his tobacco. + +Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two +fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief and surprise +the man made no allusion to the subject of which all the +neighbourhood must still be talking. + +And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and +before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, +Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that +Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shop +just opposite. + +Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across +the road. + +"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and left my little +girl alone in the house with the lodger?" + +Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I thought you was +indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come out +for, without first making sure I'd stay in?" + +Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in +exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew. + +They turned and scurried down the crowded street. "Don't run," he +said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. +People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run." + +He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear +and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. + +At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in +front of his wife. + +After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know how he was +feeling. + +He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment +with his latchkey. + +Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice, +"Daisy, my dear! where are you?" + +"Here I am, father. What is it?" + +"She's all right." Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She's +all right, Ellen." + +He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. "It +did give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly, "Don't frighten +the girl, Ellen." + +Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring +herself in the glass. + +"Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round, "I've seen the +lodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, though, to be sure, he does +look a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn't like to go up; and so +he came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nice +little chat--that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and he +asked me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him this +afternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of course, +I could see he was 'centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily. +'And who be you?' he says, threatening-like. And I says to him, +'I'm Mr. Bunting's daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunate +girl'--that's what he says, Ellen--'to 'ave such a nice +stepmother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look such +a good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit of the Prayer +Book. 'Keep innocency,' he says, wagging his head at me. Lor'! +It made me feel as if I was with Old Aunt again." + +"I won't have you going out with the lodger--that's flat." + +Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his forehead +with one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the +little packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had +forgotten to pay. + +Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat +on my birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn't a very good day-- +at least, so I'd heard--for Madame Tussaud's. Then he said we +could go early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners." +She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He particularly +said you was to come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, +Ellen; if I was father, I'd feel quite jealous!" + +Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door. + +Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it +possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door +open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had +crept in behind them? + +Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it +was only Mr. Sleuth--Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall +hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but +he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape. + +"I heard you come in"--he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, +whistling, hesitating voice--"and so I've come down to ask you if +you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's now. I have +never seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the place +all my life." + +As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden +doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to +Mr. Sleuth's landlord. + +Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered +gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting +had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be! + +He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, +staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and +cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy +was already putting on her hat and coat. + +"Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed +to his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. "Well?" + +"Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said dully. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Madame Tussaud's had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. +In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there +part of their afternoon-out. + +The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of +the waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for +"self and lady." But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been +inside the place since she had come to live almost next door, as it +were, to the big building. + +They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after +the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the +first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of +those curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so strangely death +in life, seemed to surprise and affright him. + +Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger's hesitation and unease. + +"Oh, Ellen," she cried, "do let us begin by going into the Chamber +of Horrors! I've never been in there. Old Aunt made father promise +he wouldn't take me the only time I've ever been here. But now that +I'm eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never +know." + +Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over +his worn, gaunt face. + +"Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that's a +good idea, Miss Bunting. I've always wanted to see the Chamber of +Horrors." + +They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were +then kept, and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where +waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. + +Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband's +old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting +the public to the Chamber of Horrors. + +"Well, you are a stranger," the man observed genially. "I do believe +that this is the very first time I've seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, +since you was married!" + +"Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my husband's daughter, +Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this"--she +hesitated a moment--"is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth." + +But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her +stepmother's side, joined him. + +Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. +Bunting put down three sixpences. + +"Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can't go into the Chamber of +Horrors just yet. But you won't have to wait more than four or +five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It's this way, you see; our boss is +in there, showing a party round." He lowered his voice. "It's +Sir John Burney--I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?" + +"No," she answered indifferently, "I don't know that I ever heard +of him." + +She felt slightly--oh, very sightly--uneasy about Daisy. She +would have liked her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and +sound, but Mr. Sleuth was now taking the girl down to the other +end of the room. + +"Well, I hope you never will know him--not in any personal sense, +Mrs. Bunting." The man chuckled. "He's the Commissioner of Police +--the new one--that's what Sir John Burney is. One of the +gentlemen he's showing round our place is the Paris Police boss-- +whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John's. The +Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there are several +other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, Mrs. Bunting; that's +our experience here. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors'-- +that's what they say the minute they gets into this here building!" + +Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred to Mr. Hopkins +that she was very wan and tired; she used to look better in the old +days, when she was still in service, before Bunting married her. + +"Yes," she said; "that's just what my stepdaughter said just now. +'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors'--that's exactly what she +did say when we got upstairs." + +****** + +A group of people, all talking and laughing together; were advancing, +from within the wooden barrier, toward the turnstile. + +Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them +was the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be +brought into personal contact; she thought she could pick him out +among the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome gentleman, with +a military appearance. + +Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. +"Monsieur Barberoux is quite right," he was saying in a loud, +cheerful voice, "our English law is too kind to the criminal, +especially to the murderer. If we conducted our trials in the +French fashion, the place we have just left would be very much +fuller than it is to-day. A man of whose guilt we are absolutely +assured is oftener than not acquitted, and then the public taunt +us with 'another undiscovered crime!'" + +"D'you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? +Take the man who has been committing all these awful murders this +last month? I suppose there's no doubt he'll be hanged--if he's +ever caught, that is!" + +Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could hear every word +that was said. + +The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. "Well, no." +He spoke very deliberately. "I doubt if that particular murderer +ever will be hanged." + +"You mean that you'll never catch him?" the girl spoke with a touch +of airy impertinence in her clear voice. + +"I think we shall end by catching him--because"--he waited a moment, +then added in a lower voice--"now don't give me away to a newspaper +fellow, Miss Rose--because now I think we do know who the murderer +in question is--" + +Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and +incredulity. + +"Then why don't you catch him?" cried the girl indignantly. + +"I didn't say we knew where he was; I only said we knew who he was, +or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that I personally have a very +strong suspicion of his identity." + +Sir John's French colleague looked up quickly. "De Leipsic and +Liverpool man?" he said interrogatively. + +The other nodded. "Yes, I suppose you've had the case turned up?" + +Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject +from his own mind, and from that of his auditors, he went on: + +"Four murders of the kind were committed eight years ago--two in +Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, in Liverpool,--and there were +certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear +they were committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, +fortunately for us, red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of +his last victim, for in Liverpool the murder was committed in a +house. I myself saw the unhappy man--I say unhappy, for there is +no doubt at all that he was mad"--he hesitated, and added in a +lower tone--"suffering from an acute form of religious mania. +I myself saw him, as I say, at some length. But now comes the really +interesting point. I have just been informed that a month ago this +criminal lunatic, as we must of course regard him, made his escape +from the asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole +thing with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and we should +probably have caught him long ago, were it not that he managed, when +on his way out of the place, to annex a considerable sum of money +in gold, with which the wages of the asylum staff were about to be +paid. It is owing to that fact that his escape was, very wrongly, +concealed--" + +He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, and a moment +later the party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, +Sir John Burney leading the way. + +Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt--so she +expressed it to her husband later--as if she had been turned to +stone. + +Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the time nor the power +to warn her lodger of his danger, for Daisy and her companion were +now coming down the room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of +Police. In another moment Mrs. Bunting's lodger and Sir John Burney +were face to face. + +Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible change over +his pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and +terror. + +But, to Mrs. Bunting's relief--yes, to her inexpressible relief +--Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. They passed Mr. Sleuth +and the girl by his side, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that +there was anyone else in the room but themselves. + +"Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting," said the turnstile-keeper; "you and your +friends will have the place all to yourselves for a bit." From an +official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that +gallantly addressed pretty Daisy Bunting: "It seems strange that a +young lady like you should want to go in and see all those 'orrible +frights," he said jestingly. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?" + +The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth's lips. + +His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. + +"A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting." The lodger's face was still +distorted with fear and passion. "Do not think to escape the +consequences of your hideous treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, +and you betrayed me! Put I am protected by a higher power, for +I still have much to do." Then, his voice sinking to a whisper, he +hissed out "Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a +two-edged sword. Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps +take hold on hell." + +Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, dreadful words, +he was looking round, glancing this way and that, seeking a way of +escape. + +At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed above a +curtain. "Emergency Exit" was written there. Mrs. Bunting thought +he was going to make a dash for the place; but Mr. Sleuth did +something very different. Leaving his landlady's side, he walked +over to the turnstile, he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and +then touched the man on the arm. "I feel ill," he said, speaking +very rapidly; "very ill indeed! It is the atmosphere of this place. +I want you to let me out by the quickest way. It would be a pity +for me to faint here--especially with ladies about." + +His left hand shot out and placed what he had been fumbling for in +his pocket on the other's bare palm. "I see there's an emergency +exit over there. Would it be possible for me to get out that way?" + +"Well, yes, sir; I think so." + +The man hesitated; he felt a slight, a very sight, feeling of +misgiving. He looked at Daisy, flushed and smiling, happy and +unconcerned, and then at Mrs. Bunting. She was very pale; but +surely her lodger's sudden seizure was enough to make her feel +worried. Hopkins felt the half-sovereign pleasantly tickling his +palm. The Paris Prefect of Police had given him only half-a-crown +--mean, shabby foreigner! + +"Yes, sir; I can let you out that way," he said at last, "and p'raps +when you're standing out in the air, on the iron balcony, you'll feel +better. But then, you know, sir, you'll have to come round to the +front if you wants to come in again, for those emergency doors only +open outward." + +"Yes, yes," said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. "I quite understand! If I +feel better I'll come in by the front way, and pay another shilling +--that's only fair." + +"You needn't do that if you'll just explain what happened here." + +The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put his shoulder +against the door. It burst open, and the light, for a moment, +blinded Mr. Sleuth. + +He passed his hand over his eyes. "Thank you," he muttered, "thank +you. I shall get all right out there." + +An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, of which the +door opened into a side street. + +Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did feel very ill-- +ill and dazed. How pleasant it would be to take a flying leap over +the balcony railing and find rest, eternal rest, below. + +But no--he thrust the thought, the temptation, from him. Again a +convulsive look of rage came over his face. He had remembered his +landlady. How could the woman whom he had treated so generously have +betrayed him to his arch-enemy?--to the official, that is, who had +entered into a conspiracy years ago to have him confined--him, an +absolutely sane man with a great avenging work to do in the world-- +in a lunatic asylum. + +He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, falling-to behind +him, blotted out the tall, thin figure from the little group of +people who had watched him disappear. + +Even Daisy felt a little scared. "He did look bad, didn't he, now?" +she turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. + +"Yes, that he did, poor gentleman--your lodger, too?" he looked +sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. + +She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Yes," she repeated dully, +"my lodger." + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her pretty stepdaughter +to step through into the Chamber of Horrors. "I think we ought to +go straight home," said Mr. Sleuth's landlady decidedly. And Daisy +meekly assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a little scared by +the lodger's sudden disappearance. Perhaps this unwonted feeling of +hers was induced by the look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on +her stepmother's face. + +Slowly they made their way out of the building, and when they got +home it was Daisy who described the strange way Mr. Sleuth had been +taken. + +"I don't suppose he'll be long before he comes home," said Bunting +heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive look at his wife. She +looked as if stricken in a vital part; he saw from her face that +there was something wrong--very wrong indeed. + +The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill at ease. Daisy +knew there was no chance that young Chandler would come in to-day. + +About six o'clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She lit the gas in +Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room and looked about her with a fearful glance. +Somehow everything seemed to speak to her of the lodger, there lay +her Bible and his Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly +as he had left them, when he had come downstairs and suggested that +ill-starred expedition to his landlord's daughter. She took a few +steps forward, listening the while anxiously for the familiar sound +of the click in the door which would tell her that the lodger had +come back, and then she went over to the window and looked out. + +What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, homeless, +friendless, and, as she suspected with a pang, with but very little +money on him! + +Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger's bedroom and opened the +drawer of the looking-glass. + +Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he +had taken his money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he +had enough on his person to secure a good night's lodging, and then +suddenly she remembered that which brought relief to her mind. The +lodger had given something to that Hopkins fellow--either a sovereign +or half a sovereign, she wasn't sure which. + +The memory of Mr. Sleuth's cruel words to her, of his threat, did +not disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake--all a mistake. +Far from betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him--kept his awful +secret as she could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly +suspected, the horrible fact with which Sir John Burney's words had +made her acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no +temporary aberration, but that he was, and had been for years, a +madman, a homicidal maniac. + +In her ears there still rang the Frenchman's half careless yet +confident question, "De Leipsic and Liverpool man?" + +Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room, +and taking a black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the +leaves of the Bible. Then she opened the Book, and looked at the +page the pin had marked:-- + +"My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . . +There is none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my +curtains." + +At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and +as she opened the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her +stepmother. + +"I'll go down and start getting the lodger's supper ready for you," +said the girl good-naturedly. "He's certain to come in when he gets +hungry. But he did look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad-- +that he did!" + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy +to go down. + +"Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she said sombrely, and +then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which +came over her husband's face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, +of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, +"That's to say, I don't suppose he will." + +And Bunting's face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, +the look it had worn the last few days, returned. + +"What makes you think he mayn't come back?" he muttered. + +"Too long to tell you now," she said. "Wait till the child's gone +to bed." + +And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. + +And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where +she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her +husband to follow her upstairs. + +Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the +door. And about this they had a few sharp whispered words. + +"You're never going to shut him out?" she expostulated angrily, +beneath her breath. + +"I'm not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps +walking in any minute." + +"Mr. Sleuth won't hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt +me," and she gave a half sob. + +Bunting stared at her. "What do you mean?" he said roughly. +"Come upstairs and tell me what you mean." + +And then, in what had been the lodger's sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting +told her husband exactly what it was that had happened. + +He listened in heavy silence. + +"So you see," she said at last, "you see, Bunting, that 'twas me +that was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for +his actions. I never thought he was, for my part." + +And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. "Depends on what you call +responsible--" he began argumentatively. + +But she would have none of that. "I heard the gentleman say myself +that he was a lunatic," she said fiercely. And then, dropping her +voice, "A religious maniac--that's what he called him." + +"Well, he never seemed so to me," said Bunting stoutly. "He simply +seemed to me 'centric--that's all he did. Not a bit madder than +many I could tell you of." He was walking round the room restlessly, +but he stopped short at last. "And what d'you think we ought to do +now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. "I don't think we ought +to do nothing," she said. "Why should we?" + +And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion +that irritated her. + +"If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he +would get it! And his money, too? I hate to feel it's in there." + +"Don't you make any mistake--he'll come back for that," said Bunting, +with decision. + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. "Now," she said, +"you go off up to bed. It's no use us sitting up any longer." + +And Bunting acquiesced. + +She ran down and got him a bedroom candle--there was no gas in the +little back bedroom upstairs. And then she watched him go slowly up. + +Suddenly he turned and came down again. "Ellen," he said, in an +urgent whisper, "if I was you I'd take the chain off the door, and +I'd lock myself in--that's what I'm going to do. Then he can sneak +in and take his dirty money away." + +Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. Slowly she went +downstairs, and there she carried out half of Bunting's advice. +She took, that is, the chain off the front door. But she did not +go to bed, neither did she lock herself in. She sat up all night, +waiting. At half-past seven she made herself a cup of tea, and +then she went into her bedroom. + +Daisy opened her eyes. + +"Why, Ellen," she said, "I suppose I was that tired, and slept so +sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up--funny, +wasn't it?" + +"Young people don't sleep as light as do old folks," Mrs. Bunting +said sententiously. + +"Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he's upstairs now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head. "It looks as if 'twould be a fine +day for you down at Richmond," she observed in a kindly tone. + +And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. + +****** + +That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler +that their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting +had thought carefully over what they would say, and so well did +they carry out their programme, or, what is more likely, so full +was young Chandler of the long happy day he and Daisy had spent +together, that he took their news very calmly. + +"Gone away, has he?" he observed casually. "Well, I hope he paid +up all right?" + +"Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Bunting hastily. "No trouble of that sort." + +And Bunting said shamefacedly, "Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an +honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such +a poor, gentle chap--not the sort o' man one likes to think of as +wandering about by himself." + +"You always said he was 'centric," said Joe thoughtfully. + +"Yes, he was that," said Bunting slowly. "Regular right-down queer. +Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch," and, as he tapped his +head significantly, both young people burst out laughing. + +"Would you like a description of him circulated?" asked Joe +good-naturedly. + +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another. + +"No, I don't think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. 'Twould upset +him awfully, you see." + +And Joe acquiesced. "You'd be surprised at the number o' people +who disappears and are never heard of again," he said cheerfully. +And then he got up, very reluctantly. + +Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into +the passage, and shut the sitting-room door behind her. + +When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting +in his easy chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round +his neck. + +Then she bent down her head. "Father," she said, "I've a bit of +news for you!" + +"Yes, my dear?" + +"Father, I'm engaged! Aren't you surprised?" + +"Well, what do you think?" said Bunting fondly. Then he turned +round and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss. + +"What'll Old Aunt say, I wonder?" he whispered. + +"Don't you worry about Old Aunt," exclaimed his wife suddenly. +"I'll manage Old Aunt! I'll go down and see her. She and I have +always got on pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, Daisy." + +"Yes," said Daisy a little wonderingly. "I know you have, Ellen." + +****** + +Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many +nights had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click +of the lock which she at once hoped and feared would herald her +lodger's return. + +As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the "Avenger" +murders stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when +a gardener, working in the Regent's Park, found a newspaper in which +was wrapped, together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, +a long, peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though of considerable +interest to the police, was not chronicled in any newspaper, but +about the same time a picturesque little paragraph went the round +of the press concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been +anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about "Old Aunt," +and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in a +more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to +do. She only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks +leave a house in charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to +follow--a remark which Daisy resented much more than did her Joe. + + +Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old +lady, by whom they are feared as well as respected, and whom they +make very comfortable. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + +***** This file should be named 2014-8.txt or 2014-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/1/2014/ + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lodger + +Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes + +Release Date: March 13, 2005 [EBook #2014] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + + + + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + + + +The Lodger + +by Marie Belloc Lowndes + + + + +"Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, +and mine acquaintance into darkness." + PSALM lxxxviii. 18 + + + + +CHAPTER I + +Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning, +carefully-banked-up fire. + +The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house +standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare, +was exceptionally clean and well-cared-for. A casual stranger, +more particularly one of a Superior class to their own, on suddenly +opening the door of that sitting-room; would have thought that Mr. +and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of +comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep +leather arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance +what he had been for many years of his life--a self-respecting +man-servant. + +On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed +chair, the marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they +were there all the same--in her neat black stuff dress, and in +her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as +a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid. + +But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn +English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. +Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time--how +long ago it now seemed!--both husband and wife had been proud of +their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was +strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been +bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. + +Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, +drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, +and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. +A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which +covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat +forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair +had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband +to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid +thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had +tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at +it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve +shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping +their arm-chair. + +But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, +much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the +walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded +photographs--photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former +employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had +separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not +unhappy servitude. + +But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than +usually deceitful with regard to these unfortunate people. In +spite of their good furniture--that substantial outward sign of +respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall +into trouble try to dispose of--they were almost at the end of +their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were +beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober +man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago +by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting--prim, prudent, careful woman +as she was in her way--had realised what this must mean to him. +So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had +crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia. + +Bunting had been touched--touched as he had not been for years by +any woman's thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced +themselves into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in +their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart. + +Fortunately he never guessed--how could he have guessed, with his +slow, normal, rather dull mind?--that his poor Ellen had since +more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha'penny, for they +were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell +on the safe tableland of security--those, that is, who are sure of +making a respectable, if not a happy, living--and the submerged +multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the +conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised, +struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison. + +Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they +belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to +so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours +ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they +belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk +whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving. + +There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought +to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this +woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, +Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two +days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, +and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort +with a cruel, sharp rebuff. + +As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, +they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but +one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This +was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting +had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone +into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too +fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective. + +When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they +both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap +to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to--quite +exciting at times. But now poor Bunting didn't want to hear that +sort of stories--stories of people being cleverly "nabbed," or +stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from Chandler's +point of view, richly deserved. + +But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing +his calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him +--nay, more, he had done that which showed him to have a good and +feeling heart. He had offered his father's old acquaintance a loan, +and Bunting, at last, had taken 30s. Very little of that money +now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few coppers in his pocket; +and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that and the rent they would have to +pay in five weeks, was all they had left. Everything of the light, +portable sort that would fetch money had been sold. Mrs. Bunting +had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put her feet in +such a place, and she declared she never would--she would rather +starve first. + +But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual +disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting +valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been +given to him after the death of his first master, a master he had +nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. +There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a large mourning +ring, both gifts of former employers. + +When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure +from the insecure--when they see themselves creeping closer and +closer to its dread edge--they are apt, however loquacious by +nature, to fall into long silences. Bunting had always been a +talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but +then she had always been a silent woman, and that was perhaps one +reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment +he had seen her. + +It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as +butler, and he had been shown, by the man whose place he was to +take, into the dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he +had discovered Ellen Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port +wine which her then mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning. +And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he +had watched her carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into +the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, "That is the woman for +me!" + +But now her stillness, her--her dumbness, had got on the +unfortunate man's nerves. He no longer felt like going into the +various little shops, close by, patronised by him in more prosperous +days, and Mrs. Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases +which still had to be made every day or two, if they were to be +saved from actually starving to death. + +Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there +came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting +outside--boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening +papers. + +Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily +paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And +the paper was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants are +great readers of newspapers. + +As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask +curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him. + +It was a shame--a damned shame--that he shouldn't know what was +happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing +news of what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those +shouts, those hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really +exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for +the moment his own intimate, gnawing troubles. + +He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to +listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused +babel of hoarse shouts, the one clear word "Murder!" + +Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some +sort of connected order. Yes, that was it--"Horrible Murder! +Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting remembered vaguely another murder +which had been committed near St. Pancras--that of an old lady by +her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was +still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among +the class to which he had belonged. + +The newsboys--for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual +thing in the Marylebone Road--were coming nearer and nearer; now +they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they +were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he +could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly "The Avenger! +The Avenger at his work again!" broke on his ear. + +During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had +been committed in London and within a comparatively small area. + +The first had aroused no special interest--even the second had only +been awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a +small paragraph. + +Then had come the third--and with that a wave of keen excitement, +for pinned to the dress of the victim--a drunken woman--had been +found a three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red +ink, and in printed characters, the words, + +"THE AVENGER" + +It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to +investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world +of men and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister +mysteries, that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes; +and before that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into +the public mind there took place yet another murder, and again the +murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some +obscure and terrible lust for vengeance possessed him. + +Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the +man who left their ha'porth of milk at the door each morning had +spoken to Bunting about them that very day. + +****** + +Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild +excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of +weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him. +He felt he could have shaken her! + +Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had +come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had +said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that +she didn't like hearing about such horrid things. + +It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of +pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to +the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories +of immorality or of physical violence. In the old, happy days, +when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper +daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some +exciting "case" or "mystery" which was affording him pleasant mental +relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen. + +But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she +felt. + +Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards +the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his +close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which +a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent. + +But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders +just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, +bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy. + +Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into +the dark hall--they had given up lighting the gas there some time +ago--and opened the front door. + +Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron +gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. +The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he +remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. + +Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, +being sorely tempted--fell. "Give me a Sun," he said roughly, "Sun +or Echo!" + +But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. "Only +penny papers left," he gasped. "What'll yer 'ave, sir?" + +With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny +out of his pocket and took a paper--it was the Evening Standard-- +from the boy's hand. + +Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, +cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful +anticipation. + +Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass +a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, +miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments +of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, +with careworn, troubled Ellen. + +A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen +would never have spent that penny on herself--he knew that well +enough--and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so--so drizzly, +he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the +street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread +the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance +would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a +paper, and that well he knew it! + +Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar +voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, "What on earth are you doing +out there, Bunting? Come in--do! You'll catch your death of cold! +I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!" +Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays. + +He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. "I +went out to get a paper," he said sullenly. + +After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money +as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now +both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him--not on Ellen--by +that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done +all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, +so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring. + +He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew +she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and +contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a +very mild, oath--Ellen had very early made it clear she would +have no swearing in her presence--he lit the hall gas full-flare. + +"How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card?" +he shouted angrily. + +And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the +gas, the oblong card, though not the word "Apartments" printed on +it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned +fanlight above the front door. + +Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, +and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little +banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire +for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made +him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, +Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. + +A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. She was not +used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly +upset, was the mildest of men. + +She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible +touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. + +But her hands trembled--they trembled with excitement, with +self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful--dreadful to +have to worry about a penny! But they had come to the point when +one has to worry about pennies. Strange that her husband didn't +realise that. + +Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen +to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by +now, a little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, +and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. + +But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have +liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, +irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the +door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and +--shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably +by the now brightly burning fire, with the Evening Standard spread +out before him--she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her +hands against her temples. + +Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so--so broken as now. Where +was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting +woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading +poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age +which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter +service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed +cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs. +Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any +lodger she might get would require, but that was all. + +Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For +it had been her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands. + +Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. +There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still +pretty well; and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and +that had meant ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of +other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment +which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in +debt--in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a +good-natured former employer. + +After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have +done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up +their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over, with +the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house +in the Marylebone Road. + +In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, +impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is +the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately +take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both +lived in houses overlooking Regent's Park. It had seemed a wise +plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting, +who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection +which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private +parties. + +But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. +Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and +a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. + +And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had +one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had +not asked his wife's permission to do this, as so good a husband +ought to have done. He had just gone out and done it. And she had +not had the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the +money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that +she had bought that last packet of tobacco. + +And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, +there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, +uncertain double knock. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment +listening in the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line +of light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. + +And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double +knock; not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any +good. Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. +No; this must be some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at +all hours, and asked--whining or threatening--for money. + +Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and women +--especially women--drawn from that nameless, mysterious class +made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every +great city. But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the +passage unlit at night she had been very little troubled with that +kind of visitors, those human bats which are attracted by any kind +of light but leave alone those who live in darkness. + +She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting's place +to go to the front door, but she knew far better than he did how +to deal with difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she +would have liked him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed +in his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the bedroom door +opening was to look up and say, "Didn't you hear a knock?" + +Without answering his question she went out into the hall. + +Slowly she opened the front door. + +On the top of the three steps which led up to the door, there stood +the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an +old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, +perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. +Bunting's trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as +he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with +whom her former employment had brought her in contact. + +"Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?" he asked, and there was +something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. + +"Yes, sir," she said uncertainly--it was a long, long time since +anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they +could think of taking into their respectable house. + +Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger +walked past her, and so into the hall. + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a +narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong +brown leather. + +"I am looking for some quiet rooms," he said; then he repeated the +words, "quiet rooms," in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered +them he looked nervously round him. + +Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully +furnished, and was very clean. + +There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger's weary +feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which +matched in colour the flock-paper on the walls. + +A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior +lodging-house keeper. + +"You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir," she said gently. "And just +now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband +and me, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too +good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a +lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which +recalled to the poor woman her happy, far-off days of youth and +of security. + +"That sounds very suitable," he said. "Four rooms? Well, perhaps +I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see +all four before I make my choice." + +How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the +gas! But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed +them by. + +She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation +that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom +she already in her mind described as "the lodger," who turned and +rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it. + +"Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry you should have +had the trouble." + +For a moment their eyes met. "It's not safe to leave a front door +open in London," he said, rather sharply. "I hope you do not often +do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in." + +Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken +courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. + +"I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open," she answered +hastily. "You needn't be at all afraid of that!" + +And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the +sound of Bunting coughing--it was just a little, hard cough, but +Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started violently. + +"Who's that?" he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. +"Whatever was that?" + +"Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes +ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose." + +"Your husband--?" he looked at her intently, suspiciously. "What +--what, may I ask, is your husband's occupation?" + +Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's +occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do +for her to show offence. "He goes out waiting," she said stiffly. +"He was a gentleman's servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you +should you require him to do so." + +And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. + +At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to +herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a +sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door +of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier. + +This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little +over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green +carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table +which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the +corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, +old-fashioned chiffonnier. + +On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits +of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, +clipped from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of +these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of +elegance and refinement. + +As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that +she had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the +room a thorough turn-out. + +It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been +left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been +scared into going away by Bunting's rough threats of the police. +But now it was in apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, +of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white +curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied +if this gentleman really took the lodgings. + +But what was this--? The stranger was looking round him rather +dubiously. "This is rather--rather too grand for me," he said at +last "I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er--" + +"--Bunting," she said softly. "Bunting, sir." + +And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and +settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, +after all--or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but +perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman--too poor, that is, to +afford the rent of more than one room, say eight or ten shillings +a week; eight or ten shillings a week would be very little use to +her and Bunting, though better than nothing at all. + +"Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?" + +"No," he said, "no. I think I should like to see what you have +farther up the house, Mrs.--," and then, as if making a prodigious +mental effort, he brought out her name, "Bunting," with a kind of +gasp. + +The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the +drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact +that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had +been taken over their arrangement; in fact, they had been left in much +the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. + +For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel +sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features +are a sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete +pattern, was fed by a tiresome, shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +It had been the property of the people from whom the Buntings had +taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no +monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they +had left behind. + +What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as +everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a +bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry +that she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. + +To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sensitive, +hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. "Capital! +Capital!" he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he +held at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a +quick, nervous movement. + +"This is just what I have been looking for." He walked with long, +eager strides towards the gas stove. "First-rate--quite first-rate! +Exactly what I wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs.--er-- +Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of +experiments, and I often require the--ah, well, the presence of +great heat." + +He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the +stove. "This, too, will be useful--exceedingly useful, to me," and +he touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing +touch. + +He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare +forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down--wearily. +"I'm tired," he muttered in a low voice, "tired--tired! I've been +walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit +down upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London +streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far +more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Indeed, sir," she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, +she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, +"Then you mean to take my rooms, sir?" + +"This room, certainly," he said, looking round. "This room is +exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last +few days;" and then hastily he added, "I mean this kind of place +is what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would +be surprised if you knew how difficult it is to get anything of +the sort. But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief +--a very, very great relief to me!" + +He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And +then, "Where's my bag?" he asked suddenly, and there came a note of +sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman +standing before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of +fright shoot through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far +away, right down the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a +perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of +the well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like +other people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. "Surely +I had a bag when I came in?" he said in a scared, troubled voice. + +"Here it is, sir," she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it +up and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the +bag was not at all heavy; it was evidently by no means full. + +He took it eagerly from her. "I beg your pardon," he muttered. +"But there is something in that bag which is very precious to me +--something I procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could +never get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. +That must be the excuse for my late agitation." + +"About terms, sir?" she said a little timidly, returning to the +subject which meant so much, so very much to her. + +"About terms?" he echoed. And then there came a pause. "My name +is Sleuth," he said suddenly,--"S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, +Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I could provide you +with a reference--" (he gave her what she described to herself as +a funny, sideways look), "but I should prefer you to dispense with +that, if you don't mind. I am quite willing to pay you--well, shall +we say a month in advance?" + +A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She felt sick with +relief--nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known +till that moment how hungry she was--how eager for--a good meal. +"That would be all right, sir," she murmured. + +"And what are you going to charge me?" There had come a kindly, +almost a friendly note into his voice. "With attendance, mind! I +shall expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if +you can cook, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir," she said. "I am a plain cook. What would you say +to twenty-five shillings a week, sir?" She looked at him +deprecatingly, and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, +"You see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best +of attendance and careful cooking--and my husband, sir--he would +be pleased to valet you." + +"I shouldn't want anything of that sort done for me," said Mr. +Sleuth hastily. "I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used +to waiting on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to +sharing lodgings--" + +She interrupted eagerly, "I could let you have the use of the two +floors for the same price--that is, until we get another lodger. +I shouldn't like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It's +such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir--do your work +and your experiments up here, and then have your meals in the +drawing-room." + +"Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that sounds a good plan. And if I +offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your +not taking another lodger?" + +"Yes," she said quietly. "I'd be very glad only to have you to +wait on, sir." + +"I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? +I don't like to be disturbed while I'm working." + +He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, "I suppose +you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir, there's a key--a very nice little key. The people +who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door." +She went over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round +disk had been fitted above the old keyhole. + +He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if +absorbed in thought, "Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will +suit me perfectly. And I'll begin now by paying my first month's +rent in advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is"--he +jerked his head back and stared at his new landlady; for the first +time he smiled, a queer, wry smile--"why, just eight pounds eight +shillings, Mrs. Bunting!" + +He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long +cape-like coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began +putting these down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in +the centre of the room. "Here's five--six--seven--eight--nine +--ten pounds. You'd better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, +for I shall want you to do some shopping for me to-morrow morning. +I met with a misfortune to-day." But the new lodger did not speak +as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. + +"Indeed, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Mrs. Bunting's heart was +going thump--thump--thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy +with relief and joy. + +"Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things +I managed to bring away with me." His voice dropped suddenly. "I +shouldn't have said that," he muttered. "I was a fool to say that!" +Then, more loudly, "Someone said to me, 'You can't go into a +lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn't take you in.' But +you have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I'm grateful for--for the +kind way you have met me--" He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, +and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly +towards her new lodger. + +"I hope I know a gentleman when I see one," she said, with a break +in her staid voice. + +"I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. Bunting." +Again he looked at her appealingly. + +"I expect you'd like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you tell +me what you'd like for supper? We haven't much in the house." + +"Oh, anything'll do," he said hastily. "I don't want you to go out +for me. It's a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a +little bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied." + +"I have a nice sausage," she said hesitatingly. + +It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning +for Bunting's supper; as to herself, she had been going to content +herself with a little bread and cheese. But now--wonderful, almost, +intoxicating thought--she could send Bunting out to get anything +they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort +and good cheer. + +"A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh +meat," he said; "it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, +Mrs. Bunting." + +"Is it indeed, sir?" She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, +"And will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?" + +A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth's +pale face. + +"Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. +I had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer--" + +"So I am, sir, lifelong. And so's Bunting been since we married." +She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such +confidences, that she had made Bunting abstain very early in their +acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing +that first made her believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense +that he talked to her, in those far-away days of his courting. Glad +she was now that he had taken the pledge as a younger man; but for +that nothing would have kept him from the drink during the bad times +they had gone through. + +And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom +which opened out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. +Bunting's own room just underneath, excepting that everything up +here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better +in quality. + +The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of +content and peace stealing over his worn face. "A haven of rest," +he muttered; and then, "'He bringeth them to their desired haven.' +Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Yes, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone +had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to +set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth's respectability. + +What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one +lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! +Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and +Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the +seaside. + +How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to +London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately +respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible +underworld of men and women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen +better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of +petty fraud. + +"I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean +towels," she said, going to the door. + +And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. "Mrs. Bunting"--and as +he spoke he stammered a little--"I--I don't want you to interpret +the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off +your feet for me. I'm accustomed to look after myself." + +And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed--even a +little snubbed. "All right, sir," she said. "I'll only just let +you know when I've your supper ready." + + + +CHAPTER III + +But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy +of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune +which had fallen their way? + +Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. +In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still +her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of +emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling "making a fuss." + +Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment +looking at her husband's bent back, and she realised, with a pang +of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him. + +Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He +put the paper he had been holding down on to the table: "Well," he +said, "well, who was it, then?" + +He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have +answered the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard +murmurs. + +And then in a moment his wife's hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns +fell in a little clinking heap on the table. + +"Look there!" she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her +voice. "Look there, Bunting!" + +And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. + +He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion +that his wife had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this +ten pounds represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that +were so, then it was the beginning of the end. That furniture in +the first-floor front had cost--Ellen had reminded him of the fact +bitterly only yesterday--seventeen pounds nine shillings, and +every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she had +only got ten pounds for it. + +Yet he hadn't the heart to reproach her. + +He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that +troubled, rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought +had happened. + +"We've a new lodger!" she cried. "And--and, Bunting? He's quite +the gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance, at +two guineas a week." + +"No, never!" + +Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, +fascinated by the little heap of gold. "But there's ten sovereigns +here," he said suddenly. + +"Yes, the gentleman said I'd have to buy some things for him +to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he's so well spoken, I really felt +that--I really felt that--" and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step +or two sideways, sat down, and throwing her little black apron over +her face burst into gasping sobs. + +Bunting patted her back timidly. "Ellen?" he said, much moved by her +agitation, "Ellen? Don't take on so, my dear--" + +"I won't," she sobbed, "I--I won't! I'm a fool--I know I am! +But, oh, I didn't think we was ever going to have any luck again!" + +And then she told him--or rather tried to tell him--what the +lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing +she did impress on her husband's mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was +eccentric, as so many clever people are eccentric--that is, in a +harmless way--and that he must be humoured. + +"He says he doesn't want to be waited on much," she said at last +wiping her eyes, "but I can see he will want a good bit of looking +after, all the same, poor gentleman." + +And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound +of a loud ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled +again and again. + +Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. "I think I'd better go up, eh, +Ellen?" he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. +For the matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something +again. + +"Yes," she answered, "you go up! Don't keep him waiting! I wonder +what it is he wants? I said I'd let him know when his supper was +ready." + +A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on +his face. "Whatever d'you think he wanted?" he whispered +mysteriously. And as she said nothing, he went on, "He's asked me +for the loan of a Bible!" + +"Well, I don't see anything so out of the way in that," she said +hastily, "'specially if he don't feel well. I'll take it up to him." + +And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, +Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her +as a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had +lived for several years. + +"He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper," said +Bunting; and, then, "Ellen? He's a queer-looking cove--not like +any gentleman I ever had to do with." + +"He is a gentleman," said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. + +"Oh, yes, that's all right." But still he looked at her doubtfully. +"I asked him if he'd like me to just put away his clothes. But, +Ellen, he said he hadn't got any clothes!" + +"No more he hasn't;" she spoke quickly, defensively. "He had the +misfortune to lose his luggage. He's one dishonest folk 'ud take +advantage of." + +"Yes, one can see that with half an eye," Bunting agreed. + +And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting +put down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband +to go out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with +a sovereign. "Be as quick as you can," she said, "for I feel a bit +hungry. I'll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth's supper. +He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I'm glad I've never +fallen to bad eggs!" + +"Sleuth," echoed Bunting, staring at her. "What a queer name! +How d'you spell it--S-l-u-t-h?" + +"No," she shot out, "S-l-e--u--t--h." + +"Oh," he said doubtfully. + +"He said, 'Think of a hound and you'll never forget my name,'" +and Mrs. Bunting smiled. + +When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: "We'll now be able +to pay young Chandler back some o' that thirty shillings. I am +glad." She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. + +And then each went about his and her business--Bunting out into +the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. + +The lodger's tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and +daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. + +Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly +remembered Mr. Sleuth's request for a Bible. Putting the tray down +in the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; +but when back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it +was worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she +could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and +taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. + +But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth's +landlady opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped +the tray. She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy +thud to the ground. + +The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the +early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, +with their faces to the wall! + +For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the +tray down on the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It +troubled her that the Book should have fallen to the ground; but +really she hadn't been able to help it--it was mercy that the +tray hadn't fallen, too. + +Mr. Sleuth got up. "I--I have taken the liberty to arrange the +room as I should wish it to be," he said awkwardly. "You see, +Mrs.--er--Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women's eyes +followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave +me quite an eerie feeling." + +The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the +table. She made no answer to her lodger's remark, for the good +reason that she did not know what to say. + +Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a +long pause, he spoke again. + +"I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting," he spoke with some agitation. +"As a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about +me for a long time." And then, at last his landlady answered him, +in a composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. +"I quite understand, sir. And when Bunting comes in he shall take +the pictures all down. We have plenty of space in our own rooms +for them." + +"Thank you--thank you very much." + +Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. + +"And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understood you wanted +the loan of it?" + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing +himself, he said, "Yes, yes, I do. There is no reading like the Book. +There is something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of +body too--" + +"Very true, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what really +looked a very appetising little meal, turned round and quietly shut +the door. + +She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for +Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen to clear up. And as she +did so there came to her a comfortable recollection, an incident of +her long-past youth, in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had +maided a dear old lady. + +The old lady had a favourite nephew--a bright, jolly young gentleman, +who was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. +Algernon--that was his rather peculiar Christian name--had had the +impudence to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings +done by the famous Mr. Landseer! + +Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only +occurred yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. + +It was quite early; she had come down--for in those days maids +weren't thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the +upper housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid's duty to be down +very early--and, there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. +Algernon engaged in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, his +aunt thought all the world of those pictures, and Ellen had felt +quite concerned, for it doesn't do for a young gentleman to put +himself wrong with a kind aunt. + +"Oh, sir," she had exclaimed in dismay, "whatever are you doing?" +And even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had +answered, "I am doing my duty, fair Helen"--he had always called +her "fair Helen" when no one was listening. "How can I draw ordinary +animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all the +time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?" That was +what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what +he repeated in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when +that dear old lady had come downstairs. In fact he had declared, +quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted by Mr. Landseer +put his eye out! + +But his aunt had been very much annoyed--in fact, she had made him +turn the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he +just had to put up with what he called "those half-human monsters." +Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth's +odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her +long-gone youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so +strange as he appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did +not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told herself +that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the +pictures in the drawing-room herself. + +But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's landlady +went upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the +sound of--was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she +waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then +she realised that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. +There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on +her listening ears: + +"A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for +a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men." + +She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, +and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, +sing-song voice, "Her house is the way to hell, going down to +the chambers of death." + +It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up +courage, knocked, and walked in. + +"I'd better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said. And Mr. Sleuth +nodded. + +Then he got up and closed the Book. "I think I'll go to bed now," +he said. "I am very, very tired. I've had a long and a very +weary day, Mrs. Bunting." + +After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed +up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. +Sleuth. Each left an unsightly mark on the wall--but that, after +all, could not be helped. + +Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried +them down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had +felt for a very, very long time. + +For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different +--and then she suddenly remembered. + +How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, +lay, in the well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction at +an auction held in a Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two +guineas a week! Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would +be "a permanency." In any case, it wouldn't be her fault if he +wasn't. As to his--his queerness, well, there's always something +funny in everybody. But after she had got up, and as the morning +wore itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there +came no sound at all from the new lodger's rooms. At twelve, +however, the drawing-room bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. +She was painfully anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His +coming had only been in the nick of time to save them from terrible +disaster. + +She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was sitting at the +round table which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his +landlady's large Bible lay open before him. + +As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see +how tired and worn he seemed. + +"You did not happen," he asked, "to have a Concordance, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She shook her head; she had no idea what a Concordance could be, +but she was quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. + +And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he +desired her to buy for him. She had supposed the bag he had +brought with him to contain certain little necessaries of +civilised life--such articles, for instance, as a comb and brush, +a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say nothing of a couple of +nightshirts--but no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth +required all these things to be bought now. + +After having cooked him a nice breakfast Mrs. Bunting hurried +out to purchase the things of which he was in urgent need. + +How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse +again--not only someone else's money, but money she was now in +the very act of earning so agreeably. + +Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber's shop close by. +It was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It +was a funny, rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as +she could, the more so that the foreigner who served her insisted +on telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this +Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours before, and +in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. + +The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn't want to think of +anything painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. + +Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. +Sleuth was pleased with everything, and thanked her most courteously. +But when she suggested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked +quite put out. + +"Please wait till this evening," he said hastily. "It is my custom +to stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when +the lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem +a little, just a little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed +to. And I must ask you to understand that I must not be disturbed +when thinking out my problems--" He broke off short, sighed, then +added solemnly, "for mine are the great problems of life and death." + +And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her +prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth's landlady was a true woman +--she had, that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries +and oddities. + + +When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth's landlady met with a +surprise; but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had +been upstairs, talking to the lodger, Bunting's young friend, Joe +Chandler, the detective, had come in, and as she walked into the +sitting-room she saw that her husband was pushing half a sovereign +across the table towards Joe. + +Joe Chandler's fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction: +not at seeing his money again, mark you, but at the news Bunting +had evidently been telling him--that news of the sudden wonderful +change in their fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. + +"Mr. Sleuth don't want me to do his bedroom till he's gone out!" +she exclaimed. And then she sat down for a bit of a rest. + +It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good +breakfast, and there was no need to think of him for the present. +In a few minutes she would be going down to make her own and +Bunting's dinner, and she told Joe Chandler that he might as well +stop and have a bite with them. + +Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood +which seldom surprised her--a mood to be pleased with anything +and everything. Nay, more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler +about the last of those awful Avenger murders, she even listened +with a certain languid interest to all he had to say. + +In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that +very day three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery +which was now beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London, +West and East, North and South. Bunting had read out little bits +about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself +Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. + +"They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They do say, Joe, that +the police have a clue they won't say nothing about?" He looked +expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was +attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police +invested the young man with a kind of sinister glory--especially +just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amazing and +terrifying the town. + +"Them who says that says wrong," answered Chandler slowly, and a +look of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face. +"'Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a clue." + +And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, Joe?" she said, +smiling indulgently; the young man's keenness about his work pleased +her. And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took +his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. + +"Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day I'm on this +business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard's nettled--that's +what it is, and we're all on our mettle--that we are. I was right +down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty in the street +where the last one happened--" + +"No!" said Bunting incredulously. "You don't mean there was a +policeman there, within a few yards?" + +That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper. + +Chandler nodded. "That's exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting! The +man is near off his head, so I'm told. He did hear a yell, so he +says, but he took no notice--there are a good few yells in that +part o' London, as you can guess. People always quarrelling and +rowing at one another in such low parts." + +"Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes +his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly. + +Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those +three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims' skirts, +on which was roughly written in red ink and in printed characters +the words "The Avenger." + +His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his +elbows on the table, and stared across expectantly at the young man. + +"Yes, I have," said Joe briefly. + +"A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting laughed; the notion +struck him as downright comic. + +But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make a joke about," +she said reprovingly. + +And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said feelingly. "I'll +never forget what I've been made to see over this job. And as for +that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting--or, rather, those grey bits of +paper"--he corrected himself hastily--"you know they've three of +them now at the Yard--well, they gives me the horrors!" + +And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I oughtn't to be +wasting my time in pleasant company--" + +"Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs. Bunting +solicitously. + +But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I had a bite +before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you know. A +lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't leave us +much time for lazing about, I can tell you." + +When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate +carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London +again soon?" + +Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very +fond of his only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. "No," +he said, "I'm afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, +keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite +put about that week the child was up with us last June." + +"Indeed? Well, so long!" + +After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, +"Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?" + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly +dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting's +daughter was being managed by that old aunt of hers--an idle, +good-for-nothing way, very different from the fashion in which +she herself had been trained at the Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting +as a little child had known no other home, no other family than +those provided by good Captain Coram. + +"Joe Chandler's too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls +yet awhile," she said tartly. + +"No doubt you're right," Bunting agreed. "Times be changed. In my +young days chaps always had time for that. 'Twas just a notion that +came into my head, hearing him asking, anxious-like, after her." + +****** + +About five o'clock, after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. +Sleuth went out, and that same evening there came two parcels +addressed to his landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But +it was quite clear to Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new +clothes. In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good +second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for a real gentleman like +Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had given up all hope of +getting back his lost luggage. + +When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him, of +that Mrs. Bunting was positive. And yet, though she searched high +and low for it, she could not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept +it. And at last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed +woman, with a good memory, she would have been disposed to think +that the bag had never existed, save in her imagination. + +But no, she could not tell herself that! She remembered exactly +how it had looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange, +queer-looking figure of a man, on her doorstep. + +She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of +the top front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he +had asked her eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was +--only to find it safely lodged at his feet! + +As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, +for, strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again. +But, of course, she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. +The brown leather bag which had formed Mr. Sleuth's only luggage +the afternoon of his arrival was almost certainly locked up in the +lower part of the drawing-room chiffonnier. Mr. Sleuth evidently +always carried the key of the little corner cupboard about his +person; Mrs. Bunting had also had a good hunt for that key, but, +as was the case with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never +saw either the one or the other again. + + + +CHAPTER V + +How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped the next few +days. Already life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on +Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. Bunting could manage to do easily, +and without tiring herself. + +It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred to be waited +on only by one person, and that person his landlady. He gave her +very little trouble. Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the +lodger; it even did her good that he was not like other gentlemen; +for the fact occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. The +more so that whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had none of those +tiresome, disagreeable ways with which landladies are only too +familiar, and which seem peculiar only to those human beings who +also happen to be lodgers. To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did +not ask to be called unduly early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen +into the way of lying rather late in the morning, and it was a great +comfort not to have to turn out to make the lodger a cup of tea at +seven, or even half-past seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom required anything +before eleven. + +But odd he certainly was. + +The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth had brought in +a book of which the queer name was Cruden's Concordance. That and +the Bible--Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a +relation between the two books--seemed to be the lodger's only +reading. He spent hours each day, generally after he had eaten +the breakfast which also served for luncheon, poring over the Old +Testament and over that strange kind of index to the Book. + +As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, +Mr. Sleuth was everything--everything that the most exacting +landlady could have wished. Never had there been a more confiding +or trusting gentleman. On the very first day he had been with them +he had allowed his money--the considerable sum of one hundred and +eighty-four sovereigns--to lie about wrapped up in little pieces +of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing-table. That had quite +upset Mrs. Bunting. She had allowed herself respectfully to point +out to him that what he was doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But +as only answer he had laughed, and she had been startled when the +loud, unusual and discordant sound had issued from his thin lips. + +"I know those I can trust," he had answered, stuttering rather, as +was his way when moved. "And--and I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that +I hardly have to speak to a human being--especially to a woman" +(and he had drawn in his breath with a hissing sound) "before I +know exactly what manner of person is before me." + +It hadn't taken the landlady very long to find out that her lodger +had a queer kind of fear and dislike of women. When she was doing +the staircase and landings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading +aloud to himself passages in the Bible that were very uncomplimentary +to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very great opinion of her sister +woman, so that didn't put her out. Besides, where one's lodger is +concerned, a dislike of women is better than--well, than the other +thing. + +In any case, where would have been the good of worrying about the +lodger's funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he +hadn't been, as Bunting funnily styled it, "just a leetle touched +upstairs," he wouldn't be here, living this strange, solitary life +in lodgings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way +with some of his relatives, or with a friend of his own class. + +There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back--as even the +least imaginative of us are apt to look back to any part of our +own past lives which becomes for any reason poignantly memorable +--wondered how soon it was that she had discovered that her +lodger was given to creeping out of the house at a time when +almost all living things prefer to sleep. + +She brought herself to believe--but I am inclined to doubt whether +she was right in so believing--that the first time she became aware +of this strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth's happened to be +during the night which preceded the day on which she had observed a +very curious circumstance. This very curious circumstance was the +complete disappearance of one of Mr. Sleuth's three suits of clothes. + +It always passes my comprehension how people can remember, over any +length of time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is +natural enough, but the day, the hour, the minute when these +happenings took place! Much as she thought about it afterwards, +even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind whether it was during +the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth's stay under her roof +that she became aware that he had gone out at two in the morning and +had only come in at five. + +But that there did come such a night is certain--as certain as is +the fact that her discovery coincided with various occurrences +which were destined to remain retrospectively memorable. + +****** + +It was intensely dark, intensely quiet--the darkest quietest hour +of the night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, +dreamless sleep by sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She +knew at once what those sounds were. They were those made by Mr. +Sleuth, first coming down the stairs, and walking on tiptoe--she +was sure it was on tiptoe--past her door, and finally softly +shutting the front door behind him. + +Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to +sleep again. There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting +should waken up too, till she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, +creep back into the house and so up to bed. + +Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the morning she +felt very tired, so tired indeed, that she had been very glad when +Bunting good-naturedly suggested that he should go out and do their +little bit of marketing. + +The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of +catering it was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, +and that though he always tried to appear pleased. This perfect +lodger had one serious fault from the point of view of those who +keep lodgings. Strange to say, he was a vegetarian. He would not +eat meat in any form. He sometimes, however, condescended to a +chicken, and when he did so condescend he generously intimated that +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were welcome to a share in it. + +Now to-day--this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. +Bunting's mind so very long, and to remain so very vivid, it had +been arranged that Mr. Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, +while what he left was to be "done up" to serve for his simple supper. + +Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour, for he was +a gregarious soul, and liked to have a gossip in the shops he +frequented, Mrs. Bunting rose and dressed in a leisurely manner; +then she went and "did" her front sitting-room. + +She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after a broken +night, and it was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Sleuth was not +likely to ring before twelve. + +But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged through the +quiet house. She knew it for the front door bell. + +Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened one of those +tiresome people who come round for old bottles and such-like +fal-lals. + +She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then her face cleared, +for it was that good young chap, Joe Chandler, who stood waiting +outside. + +He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked over-quickly +through the moist, foggy air. + +"Why, Joe?" said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. "Come in--do! Bunting's +out, but he won't be very long now. You've been quite a stranger +these last few days." + +"Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting--" + +She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Then, +suddenly she remembered. Why, of course, Joe was on a big job just +now--the job of trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had +alluded to the fact again and again when reading out to her little +bits from the halfpenny evening paper he was taking again. + +She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good thing Bunting +had insisted on lighting the fire before he went out, for now the +room was nice and warm--and it was just horrible outside. She had +felt a chill go right through her as she had stood, even for that +second, at the front door. + +And she hadn't been alone to feel it, for, "I say, it is jolly to +be in here, out of that awful cold!" exclaimed Chandler, sitting +down heavily in Bunting's easy chair. + +And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the young man was tired, +as well as cold. He was pale, almost pallid under his usual healthy, +tanned complexion--the complexion of the man who lives much out of +doors. + +"Wouldn't you like me just to make you a cup of tea?" she said +solicitously. + +"Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful for one, Mrs. +Bunting!" Then he looked round, and again he said her name, "Mrs. +Bunting--?" + +He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. "Yes, +what is it, Joe?" she asked. And then, in sudden terror, "You've +never come to tell me that anything's happened to Bunting? He's +not had an accident?" + +"Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But--but, Mrs. +Bunting, there's been another of them!" + +His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with +unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, eyes. + +"Another of them?" She looked at him, bewildered--at a loss. +And then what he meant flashed across her--"another of them" +meant another of these strange, mysterious, awful murders. + +But her relief for the moment was so great--for she really had +thought for a second that he had come to give her ill news of +Bunting--that the feeling that she did experience on hearing +this piece of news was actually pleasurable, though she would +have been much shocked had that fact been brought to her notice. + +Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested +in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination +of the whole of London's nether-world. Even her refined mind had +busied itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem +so frequently presented to it by Bunting--for Bunting, now that they +were no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in +"The Avenger" and his doings. + +She took the kettle off the gas-ring. "It's a pity Bunting isn't +here," she said, drawing in her breath. "He'd a-liked so much to +hear you tell all about it, Joe." + +As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. + +But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. "Why, +you do look bad!" she exclaimed. + +And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad--very bad indeed. + +"I can't help it," he said, with a kind of gasp. "It was your +saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn +queer. You see, this time I was one of the first there, and it +fairly turned me sick--that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. +Bunting! Don't talk of it." + +He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. + +She looked at him with sympathetic interest. "Why, Joe," she said, +"I never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, +that anything could upset you like that." + +"This isn't like anything there's ever been before," he said. "And +then--then--oh, Mrs. Bunting, 'twas I that discovered the piece of +paper this time." + +"Then it is true," she cried eagerly. "It is The Avenger's bit of +paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in that +practical joker." + +"I did," said Chandler reluctantly. "You see, there are some queer +fellows even--even--" (he lowered his voice, and looked round him +as if the walls had ears)--"even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and +these murders have fair got on our nerves." + +"No, never!" she said. "D'you think that a Bobby might do a thing +like that?" + +He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn't worth answering. +Then, "It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while +the poor soul was still warm,"--he shuddered--"that brought me out +West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince +Albert Terrace, and I had to go and tell him all about it. They +never offered me a bit or a sup--I think they might have done that, +don't you, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Yes," she said absently. "Yes, I do think so." + +"But, there, I don't know that I ought to say that," went on Chandler. +"He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to +me while I was telling him." + +"Have a bit of something now?" she said suddenly. + +"Oh, no, I couldn't eat anything," he said hastily. "I don't feel +as if I could ever eat anything any more." + +"That'll only make you ill." Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, +for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite +out of the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him. + +"I expect you're right," he said. "And I've a goodish heavy day +in front of me. Been up since four, too--" + +"Four?" she said. "Was it then they found--" she hesitated a +moment, and then said, "it?" + +He nodded. "It was just a chance I was near by. If I'd been half +a minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have +knocked up against that--that monster. But two or three people +do think they saw him slinking away." + +"What was he like?" she asked curiously. + +"Well, that's hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful +fog. But there's one thing they all agree about. He was carrying +a bag--" + +"A bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. "Whatever sort of +bag might it have been, Joe?" + +There had come across her--just right in her middle, like--such a +strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering. + +She was at a loss to account for it. + +"Just a hand-bag," said Joe Chandler vaguely. "A woman I spoke to +--cross-examining her, like--who was positive she had seen him, +said, 'Just a tall, thin shadow--that's what he was, a tall, thin +shadow of a man--with a bag.'" + +"With a bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. "How very strange +and peculiar--" + +"Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does +the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. We've always wondered how +he hid it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you +know." + +"Do they, indeed?" Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, wondering +way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the +lodger had done with his bag. It was possible--in fact, when one +came to think of it, it was very probable--that he had just lost +it, being so forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone +out, as she knew he was fond of doing, into the Regent's Park. + +"There'll be a description circulated in an hour or two," went on +Chandler. "Perhaps that'll help catch him. There isn't a London +man or woman, I don't suppose, who wouldn't give a good bit to lay +that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now." + +"Won't you wait a bit longer for Bunting?" she said hesitatingly. + +"No, I can't do that. But I'll come in, maybe, either this evening +or to-morrow, and tell you any more that's happened. Thanks kindly +for the tea. It's made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Well, you've had enough to unman you, Joe." + +"Aye, that I have," he said heavily. + +A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had +quite a little tiff--the first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth +became their lodger. + +It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting +was angry that Mrs. Bunting hadn't got more details of the horrible +occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler. + +"You don't mean to say, Ellen, that you can't even tell me where it +happened?" he said indignantly. "I suppose you put Chandler off +--that's what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, +excepting to tell us all about it?" + +"He came to have something to eat and drink," snapped out Mrs. +Bunting. "That's what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. +He could hardly speak of it at all--he felt so bad. In fact, he +didn't say a word about it until he'd come right into the room and +sat down. He told me quite enough!" + +"Didn't he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had +written his name was square or three-cornered?" demanded Bunting. + +"No; he did not. And that isn't the sort of thing I should have +cared to ask him." + +"The more fool you!" And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys +were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful +discovery which had been made that morning--that of The Avenger's +fifth murder. Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took +the things he had brought in down to the kitchen. + +The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened +Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadn't been in the kitchen ten minutes +before his bell rang. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Mr. Sleuth's bell rang again. + +Mr. Sleuth's breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since +he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at +once. But when there came the second imperative tinkle--for +electric bells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned house-- +she made up her mind to go upstairs. + +As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, +sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wife stepping heavily +under the load of the well-laden tray. + +"Wait a minute!" he called out. "I'll help you, Ellen," and he came +out and took the tray from her. + +She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room +floor landing. + +There she stopped him. "Here," she whispered quickly, "you give me +that, Bunting. The lodger won't like your going in to him." And +then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she +added in a rather acid tone, "You might open the door for me, at +any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on +my hands?" + +She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised--rather +put out. Ellen wasn't exactly what you'd call a lively, jolly woman, +but when things were going well--as now--she was generally equable +enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had +spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder. + +However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, +and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked +into the room. + +And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, +of lightness of heart. + +As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible. + +Somehow--she could not have told you why, she would not willingly +have told herself--she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking +different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the same--in fact, +as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up +his thin, pallid face. + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting," he said genially, "I overslept myself this +morning, but I feel all the better for the rest." + +"I'm glad of that, sir," she answered, in a low voice. "One of the +ladies I once lived with used to say, 'Rest is an old-fashioned +remedy, but it's the best remedy of all.'" + +Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden's Concordance off +the table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady +laying the cloth. + +Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the +morning. "I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you +outside the door just now?" + +"Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray." + +"I'm afraid I give you a good deal of trouble," he said hesitatingly. + +But she answered quickly, "Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was +only saying yesterday that we've never had a lodger that gave us as +little trouble as you do, sir." + +"I'm glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar." + +He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of +denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and +truthful woman. It never occurred to her to question his statement. +Mr. Sleuth's habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at +night, or rather in the early morning, for instance? So she remained +silent. + +After she had laid the lodger's breakfast on the table she prepared +to leave the room. "I suppose I'm not to do your room till you goes +out, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. "No, no!" he said. "I never +want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. +Bunting. But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a +somewhat elaborate experiment--upstairs. If I go out at all" he +waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly "--I shall wait +till night-time to do so." And then, coming back to the matter in +hand, he added hastily, "Perhaps you could do my room when I go +upstairs, about five o'clock--if that time is convenient to you, +that is?" + +"Oh, yes, sir! That'll do nicely!" + +Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself +wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face--even in her +inmost heart--the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken +her. She only repeated to herself again and again, "I've got upset +--that's what I've done," and then she spoke aloud, "I must get +myself a dose at the chemist's next time I'm out. That's what I +must do." + +And just as she murmured the word "do," there came a loud double +knock on the front door. + +It was only the postman's knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar +visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was +nervous, that's what was the matter with her,--so she told herself +angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must +have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All +gentlefolk have. But when she picked the small envelope off the +hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husband's daughter. + +"Bunting!" she called out sharply. "Here's a letter for you." + +She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there +was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading +a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting +felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing +nothing--in fact, doing worse than nothing--wasting his time +reading all about those horrid crimes. + +She sighed--a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into +idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she +prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man +when they had first made acquaintance. . . + +She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, +that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland +Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of +port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a +good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking +fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had +appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as +butler! + +To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past +rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. + +Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed +the door softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various +little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to +cook. And all the time she was down there she fixed her mind +obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting. +She wondered what she'd better do to get him into good ways again. + +Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A +week ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if +nothing could save them from disaster. But everything was now +changed! + +Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor +of that registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed +hands. It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an +occasional job--for the matter of that he could now take up a +fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that +it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has acquired +those ways. + +When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of +what she had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid +it very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. + +"Ellen?" he cried eagerly, "here's news! Daisy's coming to-morrow! +There's scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she'd better +come away for a few days. So, you see, she'll be here for her +birthday. Eighteen, that's what she be on the nineteenth! It do +make me feel old--that it do!" + +Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. "I can't have the girl here just +now," she said shortly. "I've just as much to do as I can manage. +The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for." + +"Rubbish!" he said sharply. "I'll help you with the lodger. It's +your own fault you haven't had help with him before. Of course, +Daisy must come here. Whatever other place could the girl go to?" + +Bunting felt pugnacious--so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. +But as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction +vanished. Ellen's face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill +--ill and horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and +behave like this--just when they were beginning to get on nicely +again. + +"For the matter of that," he said suddenly, "Daisy'll be able to help +you with the work, Ellen, and she'll brisk us both up a bit." + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. +And then she said languidly, "You might as well show me the girl's +letter." + +He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. + +"DEAR FATHER (it ran)--I hope this finds you as well at it leaves +me. Mrs. Puddle's youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks +I had better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few +days. Please tell Ellen I won't give her no trouble. I'll start +at ten if I don't hear nothing.--Your loving daughter, + + +"Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here," Mrs. Bunting slowly. +"It'll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life." + +And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content +himself. + +****** + +Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. +Sleuth's landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She +remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room. + +He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things +about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. +No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the +various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first +two days he had been there, were carefully arranged in the chest +of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he +had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes +with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first +day that he never wished them to go down to be cleaned. + +A funny idea--a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after +midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were +glad to be at home, snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself +admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman. + +After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the +sitting-room and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept +quite as nice as she would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting +longed to give the drawing-room something of a good turn out; but +Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself +was in his bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. +Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he only used +it when making his mysterious experiments, and never during the +day-time. + +And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with +longing eyes--she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture +a slight shake. If only the doors would fly open, as the locked +doors of old cupboards sometimes do, even after they have been +securely fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more +comfortable somehow she would feel! + +But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. + +****** + +About eight o'clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just +for a few minutes' chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the +morning, but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting +listened in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself, while +he and Bunting talked. + +"Yes," he said, "I'm as right as a trivet now! I've had a good rest +--laid down all this afternoon. You see, the Yard thinks there's +going to be something on to-night. He's always done them in pairs." + +"So he has," exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "So he has! Now, I +never thought o' that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster'll be +on the job again to-night?" + +Chandler nodded. "Yes. And I think there's a very good chance of +his being caught too--" + +"I suppose there'll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?" + +"I should think there will be! How many of our men d'you think +there'll be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?" + +Bunting shook his head. "I don't know," he said helplessly. + +"I mean extra," suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice. + +"A thousand?" ventured Bunting. + +"Five thousand, Mr. Bunting." + +"Never!" exclaimed Bunting, amazed. + +And even Mrs. Bunting echoed "Never!" incredulously. + +"Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!" +Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. "Just +listen to this: + +"'The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to +the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any +surprise at the information that a popular attack has been organised +on the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even +talk of an indignation mass meeting.' + +"What d'you think of that? That's not a pleasant thing for a +gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?" + +"Well, it does seem queer that the police can't catch him, now +doesn't it?" said Bunting argumentatively. + +"I don't think it's queer at all," said young Chandler crossly. +"Now you just listen again! Here's a bit of the truth for once-- +in a newspaper." And slowly he read out: + +"'The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind +man's buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes +bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through +the slums of a great city.'" + +"Whatever does that mean?" said Bunting. "Your hands aren't tied, +and your eyes aren't bandaged, Joe?" + +"It's metaphorical-like that it's intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven't +got the same facilities--no, not a quarter of them--that the +French 'tecs have." + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: "What was that +word, Joe--'perpetrators'? I mean that first bit you read out." + +"Yes," he said, turning to her eagerly. + +"Then do they think there's more than one of them?" she said, and +a look of relief came over her thin face. + +"There's some of our chaps thinks it's a gang," said Chandler. +"They say it can't be the work of one man." + +"What do you think, Joe?" + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don't know what to think. I'm fair puzzled." + +He got up. "Don't you come to the door. I'll shut it all right. +So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps." As he had done the other +evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's visitor stopped at the door. "Any +news of Miss Daisy?" he asked casually. + +"Yes; she's coming to-morrow," said her father. "They've got scarlet +fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks she'd better clear out." + + +The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting +found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, +the half-hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old +church close by. + +And then, just as she was dozing off--it must have been about one +o'clock--she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been +expecting to hear, that of the lodger's stealthy footsteps coming +down the stairs just outside her room. + +He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. + +But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him +come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. + +Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder +still, it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going +out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been +pushed through the letter-box. + +But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into +her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning +up against the wall to steady herself, for she was trembling with +cold and fatigue, she opened the paper. + +Yes, there was the heading she sought: + +"The AVENGER Murders" + +But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed: + +"Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report +concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, +and, indeed, staggering not only London, but the whole civilised +world, and which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating +teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the last of these +dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator, +or perpetrators, has been obtained, though several arrests were made +in the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested +were able to prove a satisfactory alibi." + +And then, a little lower down: + +"The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that +even a stranger to London would know that something very unusual +was in the air. As for the place where the murder was committed +last night--" + +"Last night!" thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised +that "last night," in this connection, meant the night before last. + +She began the sentence again: + +"As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all +approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds +of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of +traces of the tragedy." + +Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its +original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the +mat where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going +back into bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. + +"Anything the matter?" Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. +"Anything the matter, Ellen?" + +She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange +gladness, "No, nothing, Bunting--nothing the matter! Go to sleep +again, my dear." + +They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting +rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's coming, and even Daisy's +stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl +about the house to help her a bit. + +About ten o'clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought +back with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy's dinner, and +three mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the +sauce. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. + +It brought Daisy--pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy--a +sight to gladden any father's heart. + +"Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad," she +cried out joyously. + +There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's Cross, as all +the world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, +but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that +he had done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all. + +While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, +walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was +awaiting her. + +As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, 'twas a mere +peck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, with startling suddenness, +loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they +sounded strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roar +of traffic in the Edgware Road. + +"What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "Why, whatever's +that?" + +The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying out that 'orrible +affair at King's Cross. He's done for two of 'em this time! That's +what I meant when I said I might 'a got a better fare. I wouldn't +say nothink before little missy there, but folk 'ave been coming +from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, +too--but there, there's nothing to see now!" + +"What? Another woman murdered last night?" + +Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand +constables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen? + +The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, I tell yer-- +within a few yards of one another. He 'ave--got a nerve--But, +of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the drink!" + +"Have they caught him?" asked Bunting perfunctorily. + +"Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave happened hours +and hours ago--they was both stone cold. One each end of a little +passage what ain't used no more. That's why they didn't find 'em +before." + +The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer--two news vendors +trying to outshout each other. + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled exultingly. +"The Avenger again!" + +And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all in his hand, +ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for +a halfpenny paper. + +He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with +young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He +hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it, +as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily +been out. + +As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy's voice-- +high, voluble, excited--giving her stepmother a long account of +the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's neighbours had +thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. + +But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there +came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's voice, and he heard +her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!" +and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window--do." + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross--a clue at last!" yelled +the newspaper-boys triumphantly. + +And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, +and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an +ecstasy of mirth. + +"Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?" + +Daisy looked quite scared. + +"She's in 'sterics--that's what it is," he said shortly. +"I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!" + +Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous--that's what she +was, to be so easily upset. + +The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either +that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical +effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all +over, but mentally composed. + +"I'll go up," she said a little chokingly. "As for you, child, +just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of pork +roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the +sauce." + +As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made +of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the +banister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself, +she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments +on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom. "I'm not well," +he called out querulously; "I think I've caught a chill. I should +be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put it +outside my door, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Very well, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer and +giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his +cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring. + +During their midday dinner the husband and wife had a little +discussion as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been settled +that a bed should be made up for her in the top back room, but +Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. "I think 'twould be +better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to +sleep upstairs." + +Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellen +was probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, +after all, they didn't know much about the lodger, though he seemed +a respectable gentleman enough. + +Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make +herself useful to her stepmother. "I'll wash up; don't you bother to +come downstairs," she said cheerfully. + +Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him a +furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about. + +"Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last. + +"Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But I've put it away. +I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're that nervous." + +Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as +usual--he evidently meant just what he said and no more. + +"I thought they was shouting something in the street--I mean just +before I was took bad." + +It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather +furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, +of hysterics--call it what you might--had been due to the shouting +outside. She was not the only woman in London who had got the +Avenger murders on her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lot +of women were afraid to go out alone. Was it possible that the +curious way she had been taken just now had had nothing to do with +the shouts and excitement outside? + +"Don't you know what it was they were calling out?" he asked slowly. + +Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a very +great deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did not know what +those dreadful cries had portended. But when it came to the point +she found she could not do so. + +"Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and there. There's +been another murder, hasn't there?" + +"Two other murders," he said soberly. + +"Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale--a sallow +greenish-white--that Bunting thought she was again going queer. + +"Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a care! I can't +think what's come over you about these murders. Turn your mind +away from them, do! We needn't talk about them--not so much, +that is--" + +"But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically. + +The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table, +the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the +door. + +Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and +disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure +looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully, +Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands--she +had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has never +done rough work--grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive +movement. + +Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," he said +to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! That would be +a to-do just now." + +"Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. "Can't you see +I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!" + +"There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. "There's +precious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what brought +Daisy told me--" + +"Well?" + +"What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, and they'd +both been drinking heavily, poor creatures." + +"Was it where the others was done?" she asked looking at her husband +fearfully. + +"No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. It was a good bit +farther West--in fact, not so very far from here. Near King's Cross +--that's how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to have +been done in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as he +thought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he added +hastily. "There, that's enough for the present! We shall soon be +hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure to +come in some time to-day." + +"Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" said Mrs. +Bunting slowly. + +She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more +upright. + +"No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful and no mistake +about it. But wait a minute--" he turned and took up the paper +which he had laid aside, on a chair. "Yes they says here that they +has a clue." + +"A clue, Bunting?" Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away +voice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the +table. + +But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paper +close up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable +satisfaction: + +"'It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last +believe they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the +arrest of the--'" and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed +round the table. + +His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the +floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay there +in what appeared to be a dead faint. And Bunting, scared out of +his wits, opened the door and screamed out, "Daisy! Daisy! Come +up, child. Ellen's took bad again." + +And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource +which even at this anxious moment roused her fond father's +admiration. + +"Get a wet sponge, Dad--quick!" she cried, "a sponge,--and, if +you've got such a thing, a drop o' brandy. I'll see after her!" +And then, after he had got the little medicine flask, "I can't think +what's wrong with Ellen," said Daisy wonderingly. "She seemed quite +all right when I first came in. She was listening, interested-like, +to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly--well, you saw how +she was took, father? 'Tain't like Ellen this, is it now?" + +"No," he whispered. "No, 'tain't. But you see, child, we've been +going through a pretty bad time--worse nor I should ever have let +you know of, my dear. Ellen's just feeling it now--that's what it +is. She didn't say nothing, for Ellen's a good plucked one, but +it's told on her--it's told on her!" + +And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and +instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was +all right. + +She hadn't really been quite "off." It would have been better for +her if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she +couldn't stand up--more, that she must fall down. Bunting's words +touched a most unwonted chord in the poor woman's heart, and the +eyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not thought her +husband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starving +and waiting. + +But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her +such betrayal betokened "foolishness," and so all she said was, +"There's no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. +I never was right off, Daisy." + +Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly +poured a little brandy. "I wouldn't touch such stuff--no, not if +I was dying!" she exclaimed. + +Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of +the table, on to her feet. "Go down again to the kitchen, child"; +but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice. + +"You haven't been eating properly, Ellen--that's what's the matter +with you," said Bunting suddenly. "Now I come to think of it, you +haven't eat half enough these last two days. I always did say--in +old days many a time I telled you--that a woman couldn't live on +air. But there, you never believed me!" + +Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, +pretty face. "I'd no idea you'd had such a bad time, father," she +said feelingly. "Why didn't you let me know about it? I might have +got something out of Old Aunt." + +"We didn't want anything of that sort," said her stepmother hastily. +"But of course--well, I expect I'm still feeling the worry now. I +don't seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, of--of--" +she restrained herself; another moment and the word "starving" would +have left her lips. + +"But everything's all right now," said Bunting eagerly, "all right, +thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is." + +"Yes," repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. "Yes, +we're all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it's all along of +Mr. Sleuth." + +She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. "I'm just a little +tottery still," she muttered. + +And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a +whisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, "Don't you +think Ellen ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her +something that would pull her round." + +"I won't see no doctor!" said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. "I +saw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten +months did my poor missis have. Just determined on having 'em she +was! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit +sooner." + +"She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen," began Bunting +aggressively. + +Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress +died. They might have been married some months before they were +married but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it. + +His wife smile wanly. "We won't have no words about that," she said, +and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. "Daisy? +If you won't go down to the kitchen again, then I must"--she turned +to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room. + +"I think the child grows prettier every minute," said Bunting fondly. + +"Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep," said his +wife. She was beginning to feel better. "But still, I do agree, +Bunting, that Daisy's well enough. And she seems more willing, too." + +"I say, we mustn't forget the lodger's dinner," Bunting spoke +uneasily. "It's a bit of fish to-day, isn't it? Hadn't I better +just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, as +you're not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?" + +"I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's luncheon," she said +quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger's +dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth +had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot +her lodger was a gentleman. + +"After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I can manage +all right. Don't you worry," she added after a long pause. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later +than usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs +with far heartier an appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice +slice of roast pork downstairs. + +"I hope you're feeling a little better, sir," Mrs. Bunting had forced +herself to say when she first took in his tray. + +And he had answered plaintively, querulously, "No, I can't say I +feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired--very tired. And as I +lay in bed I seemed to hear so many sounds--so much crying and +shouting. I trust the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy +thoroughfare, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, no, sir, I don't think that. We're generally reckoned very +quiet indeed, sir." + +She waited a moment--try as she would, she could not allude to what +those unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. "I expect you've +got a chill, sir," she said suddenly. "If I was you, I shouldn't +go out this afternoon; I'd just stay quietly indoors. There's a lot +of rough people about--" Perhaps there was an undercurrent of +warning, of painful pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated +in some way to the brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and +an uneasy, watchful look came into his luminous grey eyes. + +"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think I'll take your +advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss +to know what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of +Books." + +"Then you're not afraid about your eyes, sir?" said Mrs. Bunting +curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted +her to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about +him downstairs. It seemed to banish the terror which filled her +soul--aye, and her body, too--at other times. When she was with +him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so reasonable, so--so grateful. + +Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely +wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentric--so much +must be admitted. But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric +folk, eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long career +as useful maid. + +Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced +woman, she had never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on +certain things she had learnt as to the aberrations of which human +nature is capable--even well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human +nature--as exemplified in some of the households where she had +served. It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now became morbid +or--or hysterical. + +So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she +had talked during the first few days of Mr. Sleuth's stay in her +house, that she exclaimed, "Well, sir, I'll be up again to clear +away in about half an hour. And if you'll forgive me for saying so, +I hope you will stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather +--that's what it is! If there's any little thing you want, me or +Bunting can go out and get it." + +****** + +It must have been about four o'clock when there came a ring at the +front door. + +The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up +--she really was saving her stepmother a good bit of trouble--and +the girl was now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Aunt's +pernickety ways. + +"Whoever can that be?" said Bunting, looking up. "It's too early +for Joe Chandler, surely." + +"I'll go," said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her chair. +"I'll go! We don't want no strangers in here." + +And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, +"A clue? What clue?" + +But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from +her. "Why, Joe? We never thought 'twas you! But you're very +welcome, I'm sure. Come in." + +And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, +fair young face. + +"I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to know--" he began, +in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. +She didn't want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler +might be going to say. + +"Don't talk so loud," she said a little sharply. "The lodger is +not very well to-day. He's had a cold," she added hastily, "and +during the last two or three days he hasn't been able to go out." + +She wondered at her temerity, her--her hypocrisy, and that moment, +those few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Bunting's life. It was +the first time she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was +one of those women--there are many, many such--to whom there is +a whole world of difference between the suppression of the truth +and the utterance of an untruth. + +But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. "Has Miss Daisy arrived?" +he asked, in a lower voice. + +She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father +and daughter were sitting. + +"Well?" said Bunting, starting up. "Well, Joe? Now you can tell +us all about that mysterious clue. I suppose it'd be too good news +to expect you to tell us they've caught him?" + +"No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If they'd caught +him," said Joe ruefully, "well, I don't suppose I should be here, +Mr. Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. +And--well, they've found his weapon!" + +"No?" cried Bunting excitedly. "You don't say so! Whatever sort +of a thing is it? And are they sure 'tis his?" + +"Well, 'tain't sure, but it seems to be likely." + +Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. +But she was still standing with her back against the door, looking +at the group in front of her. None of them were thinking of her +--she thanked God for that! She could hear everything that was +said without joining in the talk and excitement. + +"Listen to this!" cried Joe Chandler exultantly. "'Tain't given +out yet--not for the public, that is--but we was all given it by +eight o'clock this morning. Quick work that, eh?" He read out: + + + "WANTED + + A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height + approximately 5 ft. 8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or + whiskers. Wearing a black diagonal coat, hard felt hat, high + white collar, and tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very + respectable appearance." + + +Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of +unutterable relief. + +"There's the chap!" said Joe Chandler triumphantly. "And now, Miss +Daisy"--he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little +tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice--"if you knows of any +nice, likely young fellow that answers to that description--well, +you've only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hundred +pounds." + +"Five hundred pounds!" cried Daisy and her father simultaneously. + +"Yes. That's what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private +bloke--nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred +from taking that reward, worse luck. And it's too bad, for we has +all the trouble, after all." + +"Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?" said Bunting. "I'd +like to con it over to myself." + +Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. + +A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. "Well, it's +clear enough, isn't it?" + +"Yes. And there's hundreds--nay, thousands--of young fellows +that might be a description of," said Chandler sarcastically. "As +a pal of mine said this morning, 'There isn't a chap will like to +carry a newspaper parcel after this.' And it won't do to have a +respectable appearance--eh?" + +Daisy's voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly +appreciated Mr. Chandler's witticism. + +"Why on earth didn't the people who saw him try and catch him?" +asked Bunting suddenly. + +And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, "Yes, Joe--that seems +odd, don't it?" + +Joe Chandler coughed. "Well, it's this way," he said. "No one +person did see all that. The man who's described here is just made +up from the description of two different folk who think they saw +him. You see, the murders must have taken place--well, now, let +me see--perhaps at two o'clock this last time. Two o'clock-- +that's the idea. Well, at such a time as that not many people are +about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one woman declares she +saw a young chap walking away from the spot where 'twas done; and +another one--but that was a good bit later--says The Avenger +passed by her. It's mostly her they're following in this 'ere +description. And then the boss who has charge of that sort of +thing looked up what other people had said--I mean when the other +crimes was committed. That's how he made up this 'Wanted.'" + +"Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?" said +Bunting slowly, disappointedly. + +"Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description +fits him all right," said Chandler; but he also spoke in a +hesitating voice. + +"You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?" observed Bunting +insinuatingly. + +He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on--in fact, +that she even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She +had come up close to them, and now looked quite her old self again. + +"Yes. They believe they've found the weapon what he does his awful +deeds with," said Chandler. "At any rate, within a hundred yards +of that little dark passage where they found the bodies--one at +each end, that was--there was discovered this morning a very +peculiar kind o' knife--'keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger'-- +that's the exact words the boss used when he was describing it to +a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that clue than of +the other--I mean than of the description people gave of the chap +who walked quickly by with a newspaper parcel. But now there's a +pretty job in front of us. Every shop where they sell or might a' +sold, such a thing as that knife, including every eating-house in +the East End, has got to be called at!" + +"Whatever for?" asked Daisy. + +"Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling +about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the +time. But, Mr. Bunting"--Chandler's voice changed; it became +businesslike, official--"they're not going to say anything about +that--not in newspapers--till to-morrow, so don't you go and +tell anybody. You see, we don't want to frighten the fellow off. +If he knew they'd got his knife--well, he might just make himself +scarce, and they don't want that! If it's discovered that any knife +of that kind was sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways +are known, then--then--" + +"What'll happen then?" said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer. + +"Well, then, nothing'll be put about it in the papers at all," said +Chandler deliberately. "The only objec' of letting the public know +about it would be if nothink was found--I mean if the search of +the shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try +and find out someone--some private person-like, who's watched that +knife in the criminal's possession. It's there the reward--the +five hundred pounds will come in." + +"Oh, I'd give anything to see that knife!" exclaimed Daisy, clasping +her hands together. + +"You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!" cried her stepmother passionately. + +They all looked round at her, surprised. + +"Come, come, Ellen!" said Bunting reprovingly. + +"Well, it is a horrible idea!" said his wife sullenly. "To go and +sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds." + +But Daisy was offended. "Of course I'd like to see it!" she cried +defiantly. "I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. +Chandler said that! I only said I'd like to see the knife." + +Chandler looked at her soothingly. "Well, the day may come when +you will see it," he said slowly. + +A great idea had come into his mind. + +"No! What makes you think that?" + +"If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our +Black Museum at the Yard, you'll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. +They keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this +weapon should lead to the conviction of The Avenger--well, then, +that knife 'ull be there, and you'll see it!" + +"The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your +place for?" asked Daisy wonderingly. "I thought there was only the +British Museum--" + +And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, +laughed aloud. + +"You are a goosey girl!" said her father fondly. "Why, there's a +lot of museums in London; the town's thick with 'em. Ask Ellen +there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when we was +courting--if the weather was bad." + +"But our museum's the one that would interest Miss Daisy," broke in +Chandler eagerly. "It's a regular Chamber of 'Orrors!" + +"Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before," said Bunting +excitedly. "D'you really mean that there's a museum where they +keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives +murders have been committed with?" + +"Knives?" cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of +attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even +Mrs. Bunting looked at him expectantly. "Much more than knives, Mr. +Bunting! Why, they've got there, in little bottles, the real poison +what people have been done away with." + +"And can you go there whenever you like?" asked Daisy wonderingly. +She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable +privileges are attached to the position of a detective member of +the London Police Force. + +"Well, I suppose I could--" Joe smiled. "Anyway I can certainly +get leave to take a friend there." He looked meaningly at Daisy, +and Daisy looked eagerly at him. + +But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? +Ellen was so prim, so--so irritatingly proper. But what was this +father was saying? "D'you really mean that, Joe?" + +"Yes, of course I do!" + +"Well, then, look here! If it isn't asking too much of a favour, I +should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don't +want to wait till The Avenger's caught"--Bunting smiled broadly. +"I'd be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum +o' yours. Ellen, there,"--he looked across at his wife--"don't +agree with me about such things. Yet I don't think I'm a +bloodthirsty man! But I'm just terribly interested in all that sort +of thing--always have been. I used to positively envy the butler +in that Balham Mystery!" + +Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man--it was a look +which contained and carried a great many things backwards and +forwards, such as--"Now, isn't it funny that your father should +want to go to such a place? But still, I can't help it if he does +want to go, so we must put up with his company, though it would +have been much nicer for us to go just by our two selves." And +then Daisy's look answered quite as plainly, though perhaps Joe +didn't read her glance quite as clearly as she had read his: "Yes, +it is tiresome. But father means well; and 'twill be very pleasant +going there, even if he does come too." + +"Well, what d'you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? I'd +call for you here about--shall we say half-past two?--and just +take you and Miss Daisy down to the Yard. 'Twouldn't take very +long; we could go all the way by bus, right down to Westminster +Bridge." He looked round at his hostess: "Wouldn't you join us, +Mrs. Bunting? 'Tis truly a wonderful interesting place." + +But his hostess shook her head decidedly. "'Twould turn me sick," +she exclaimed, "to see the bottle of poison what had done away with +the life of some poor creature! + +"And as for knives--!" a look of real horror, of startled fear, +crept over her pale face. + +"There, there!" said Bunting hastily. "Live and let live--that's +what I always say. Ellen ain't on in this turn. She can just +stay at home and mind the cat--I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!" + +"I won't have Mr. Sleuth laughed at," said Mrs. Bunting darkly. +"But there! I'm sure it's very kind of you, Joe, to think of giving +Bunting and Daisy such a rare treat"--she spoke sarcastically, but +none of the three who heard her understood that. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the +stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart +of that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, +Daisy Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of +Romance. Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up +to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a +new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, +quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this +was the first time a lift had come her way. + +With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler +marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. + +Daisy clung to her father's arm, a little bewildered, a little +oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was +stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful place where she +found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of great rooms full +of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling--or so she supposed +--the mysteries of crime. + +They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped +short. "Look in there," he said, in a low voice, addressing the +father rather than the daughter, "that's the Finger-Print Room. +We've records here of over two hundred thousand men's and women's +finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we've got +the print of a man's five finger-tips, well, he's done for--if he +ever does anything else, that is. Once we've got that bit of him +registered he can't never escape us--no, not if he tries ever so. +But though there's nigh on a quarter of a million records in there, +yet it don't take--well, not half an hour, for them to tell +whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful +thought, ain't it?" + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a +troubled look came over his stolid face. "Wonderful, but also a +very fearful thought for the poor wretches as has got their +finger-prints in, Joe." + +Joe laughed. "Agreed!" he said. "And the cleverer ones knows that +only too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was +here safe, managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just +so as to make a blurred impression--you takes my meaning? But +there, at the end of six weeks the skin grew all right again, and +in exactly the same little creases as before!" + +"Poor devil!" said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came +over Daisy's bright eager face. + +They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they +came to a half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than +that of the Finger-Print Identification Room. + +"If you'll glance in there," said Joe briefly, "you'll see how we +finds out all about any man whose finger-tips has given him away, so +to speak. It's here we keeps an account of what he's done, his +previous convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where I told +you, and his record in there--just connected by a number." + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was +longing to get on--to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe +and her father were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the +matter of that not worth taking the trouble to understand. However, +she had not long to wait. + +A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on +very friendly terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, +unlocking a common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of +three through into the Black Museum. + +For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment +and surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they +called the Science Room in the public library of the town where she +lived with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up with +plain glass cases fixed at a height from the floor which enabled +their contents to be looked at closely. + +She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The +exhibits shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, +the sort of things one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in +an untidy house--old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what +looked like a child's broken lantern, even a box of pills. . . + +As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking +objects; bits of old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and +leather, and so on. + +It was really rather disappointing. + +Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf +just below the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the +great room look so light and shadowless, was a row of life-size +white plaster heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. +There were about a dozen of these, not more--and they had such odd, +staring, helpless, real-looking faces. + +"Whatever's those?" asked Bunting in a low voice. + +Daisy clung a thought closer to her father's arm. Even she guessed +that these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of +those men and women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains +that the murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death. + +"All hanged!" said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. "Casts +taken after death." + +Bunting smiled nervously. "They don't look dead somehow. They +looks more as if they were listening," he said. + +"That's the fault of Jack Ketch," said the man facetiously. "It's +his idea--that of knotting his patient's necktie under the left +ear! That's what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom he has +to act valet on just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a +bit to one side. You look here--?" + +Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed +with his finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each +neck; running from this indentation was a curious little furrow, +well ridged above, showing how tightly Jack Ketch's necktie had been +drawn when its wearer was hurried through the gates of eternity. + +"They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or--or hurt," said +Bunting wonderingly. + +He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring +faces. + +But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, +"Well, a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his +plans brought to naught--and knowing he's only got a second to live +--now wouldn't he?" + +"Yes, I suppose he would," said Bunting slowly. + +Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere +of the place was beginning to tell on her. She now began to +understand that the shabby little objects lying there in the glass +case close to her were each and all links in the chain of evidence +which, in almost every case, had brought some guilty man or woman +to the gallows. + +"We had a yellow gentleman here the other day," observed the guardian +suddenly; "one of those Brahmins--so they calls themselves. Well, +you'd a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He +declared--what was the word he used?"--he turned to Chandler. + +"He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, +mind you--queer to say, he left them out--exuded evil, that was +the word he used! Exuded--squeezed out it means. He said that +being here made him feel very bad. And twasn't all nonsense either. +He turned quite green under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him +out quick. He didn't feel better till he'd got right to the other +end of the passage!" + +"There now! Who'd ever think of that?" said Bunting. "I should say +that man 'ud got something on his conscience, wouldn't you?" + +"Well, I needn't stay now," said Joe's good-natured friend. "You +show your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place nearly as +well as I do, don't you?" + +He smiled at Joe's visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed +that he could not tear himself away after all. + +"Look here," he said to Bunting. "In this here little case are the +tools of Charles Peace. I expect you've heard of him." + +"I should think I have!" cried Bunting eagerly. + +"Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of +all. Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he +would have been, had he been put in the way of it. Here's his +ladder; you see it folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little +bundle--just like a bundle of old sticks any man might have been +seen carrying about London in those days without attracting any +attention. Why, it probably helped him to look like an honest +working man time and time again, for on being arrested he declared +most solemnly he'd always carried that ladder openly under his arm." + +"The daring of that!" cried Bunting. + +"Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could reach from the +ground to the second storey of any old house. And, oh! how clever +he was! Just open one section, and you see the other sections open +automatically; so Peace could stand on the ground and force the +thing quietly up to any window he wished to reach. Then he'd go +away again, having done his job, with a mere bundle of old wood +under his arm! My word, he was artful! I wonder if you've heard +the tale of how Peace once lost a finger. Well, he guessed the +constables were instructed to look out for a man missing a finger; +so what did he do?" + +"Put on a false finger," suggested Bunting. + +"No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do without a hand +altogether. Here's his false stump: you see, it's made of wood +--wood and black felt? Well, that just held his hand nicely. +Why, we considers that one of the most ingenious contrivances in +the whole museum." + +Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. With Chandler +in delighted attendance, she had moved away to the farther end of +the great room, and now she was bending over yet another glass case. +"Whatever are those little bottles for?" she asked wonderingly. + +There were five small phials, filled with varying quantities of +cloudy liquids. + +"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what they are. There's +enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to do for you and me +--aye, and for your father as well, I should say." + +"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said Daisy, smiling. +Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little +bottles only brought a pleasant thrill. + +"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was. +Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was +really going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband. +She'd got a bit tired of him, I suspect." + +"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with," +said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they +began to laugh aloud in unison. + +"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?" asked Chandler, +becoming suddenly serious. + +"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. "That was the +wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother. +They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she won't let me go +to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father take me there +last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow +I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!" + +"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of relics of Mrs. +Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that's at Madame +Tussaud's--at least so they claim, I can't say. Now here's something +just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that man's jacket +there?" + +"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed, +frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had +been taken queer. + +"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and by mistake he +went and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one +of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't seem much of a +clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you +that that other bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged +the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all three buttons +was different!" + +Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which +had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked, pointing to a +piece of dirty-looking stuff. + +"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a horrible thing +--that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried with a woman-- +buried in the ground, I mean--after her husband had cut her up and +tried, to burn her. 'Twas that bit o' shirt that brought him to the +gallows." + +"I considers your museum's a very horrid place!" said Daisy +pettishly, turning away. + +She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly +lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room. + +But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types +of infernal machines. "Beautiful little works of art some of them +are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree. + +"Come along--do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've seen about +enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it 'ud give me +the horrors. I don't want to have no nightmares to-night. It's +dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the world. +Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without +knowing it, mightn't we?" + +"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I don't suppose +you'll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone +who's committed a murder--not one in a million does that. Why, +even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!" + +But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every +moment of the time. Just now he was studying intently the various +photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially +was he pleased to see those connected with a famous and still +mysterious case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, +and in which the servant of the man who died had played a +considerable part--not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery. + +"I suppose a good many murderers get off?" he said musingly. + +And Joe Chandler's friend nodded. "I should think they did!" he +exclaimed. "There's no such thing as justice here in England. +'Tis odds on the murderer every time. 'Tisn't one in ten that +come to the end he should do--to the gallows, that is." + +"And what d'you think about what's going on now--I mean about +those Avenger murders?" + +Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already +moving towards the door. + +"I don't believe he'll ever be caught," said the other +confidentially. "In some ways 'tis a lot more of a job to catch a +madman than 'tis to run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of +course--leastways to my thinking--The Avenger is a madman--one +of the cunning, quiet sort. Have you heard about the letter?" his +voice dropped lower. + + "No," said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. "What letter d'you +mean?" + +"Well, there's a letter--it'll be in this museum some day--which +came just before that last double event. 'Twas signed 'The Avenger,' +in just the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always +leaves behind him. Mind you, it don't follow that it actually was The +Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, +and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it." + +"And where was it posted?" asked Bunting. "That might be a bit of a +clue, you know." + +"Oh, no," said the other. "They always goes a very long way to +post anything--criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But +this particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office." + +"What? Close to us?" said Bunting. "Goodness! dreadful!" + +"Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don't suppose +The Avenger's in any way peculiar-looking--in fact we know he ain't." + +"Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?" asked +Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Our description was made up from what she said," answered the other +cautiously. "But, there, you can't tell! In a case like that it's +groping--groping in the dark all the time--and it's just a lucky +accident if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it's upsetting +us all very much here. You can't wonder at that!" + +"No, indeed," said Bunting quickly. "I give you my word, I've hardly +thought of anything else for the last month." + +Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage +she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was +saying. + +He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother +lived, at Richmond--that it was a nice little house, close to the +park. He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there +one afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and +how nice it would be. + +"I don't see why Ellen shouldn't let me," the girl said rebelliously. +"But she's that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen--a regular +old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I'm staying with them, +father don't like for me to do anything that Ellen don't approve of. +But she's got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her--?" +She looked at him, and he nodded sagely. + +"Don't you be afraid," he said confidently. "I'll get round Mrs. +Bunting. But, Miss Daisy"--he grew very red--"I'd just like to +ask you a question--no offence meant--" + +"Yes?" said Daisy a little breathlessly. "There's father close to +us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?" + +"Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you've never +walked out with any young fellow?" + +Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her +cheek. "No," she said sadly. "No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not." +In a burst of candour she added, "You see, I never had the chance!" + +And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. + + + +CHAPTER X + +By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found +herself for close on an hour quite alone in the house during her +husband's and Daisy's jaunt with young Chandler. + +Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on this +particular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was +falling, he suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, +and his landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. + +As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the +drawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two +rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, +that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room she +wanted to do--as to engage in a vague search for--she hardly knew +for what. + +During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always +had a deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who +read their employers' private letters, and who furtively peeped +into desks and cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of +discovering family skeletons. + +But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to +do herself what she had once so scorned others for doing. + +Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He +was a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, +under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had early +undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of +washing he required done, with her own and Bunting's. Luckily he +wore soft shirts. + +At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with +this tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at +it herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting's +shirts. Everything else she managed to do herself. + +From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the +dressing-table. + +Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he +generally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned +looking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulled +out the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there; +she only glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver. +The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes +he required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost, +making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely +comforted Mrs. Bunting. + +Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a +little way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap +of paper. And at last, when more or less giving up the search, as +she came and went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting door +wide open, her mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as +to the lodger's past life. + +Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible +sort of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct +as have other people of his class. He was queer about the drink--one +might say almost crazy on the subject--but there, as to that, he +wasn't the only one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a +lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the +question of drink and drunkards--She looked round the neat +drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place +where anything could be kept concealed--that place was the +substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea +suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought of before. + +After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly +bring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the +corner where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her +not very great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece +of furniture. + +As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,--something rolling +about on the second shelf, something which had not been there before +Mr. Sleuth's arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier +backwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice--satisfied, yet strangely +troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the +disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by +its owner. + +Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Bunting's mind. +She hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside +the cupboard. A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier +must become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some +dark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the bottom of the little +cupboard door. + +She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red, +on her finger. + +Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. In +fact the colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over. + +It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset--that was all! How +could she have thought it was anything else? + +It was the more silly of her--so she told herself in scornful +condemnation--because she knew that the lodger used red ink. +Certain pages of Cruden's Concordance were covered with notes written +in Mr. Sleuth's peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some places +you couldn't see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarks +and notes of interrogation. + +Mr. Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in the +chiffonnier--that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done; +and it was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to know +things she would be none the better, none the happier, for knowing, +that this accident had taken place. + +She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallen +on the green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily told +herself, foolishly upset she went once more into the back room. + +It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She would +have expected him to have made that one of his first purchases--the +more so that paper is so very cheap, especially that rather +dirty-looking grey Silurian paper. Mrs. Bunting had once lived with +a lady who always used two kinds of notepaper, white for her friends +and equals, grey for those whom she called "common people." She, +Ellen Green, as she then was, had always resented the fact. 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. "Taking advantage of your being out I went up to +dust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the +chiffonnier it tilted. I'm afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that +was inside may have got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, +sir. But I hope there's no harm done. I wiped it up as well as +I could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked." + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. +But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now +than she had felt before he came in. Then she had been so +frightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to the +pavement, for company. + +"Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there." + +She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger's brow +cleared. + +"I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went on, "for I have +seen you marking that book of yours--I mean the book you read +together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you +another bottle, sir?" + +"No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will at once proceed +upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you I +shall ring." + +He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room bell +did ring. + +At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier was +wide open, and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle of +red ink which had turned over and now lay in a red pool of its own +making on the lower shelf. + +"I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps I +was ill-advised to keep my ink in there." + +"Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a drop or two fell +out on to the carpet, and they don't show, as you see, sir, for it's +a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well." + +Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long pause, "I think +not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the ink +remaining in the bottle will do quite well, especially if I add a +little water, or better still, a little tea, to what already +remains in the bottle. I only require it to mark up passages which +happen to be of peculiar interest in my Concordance--a work, Mrs. +Bunting, which I should have taken great pleasure in compiling +myself had not this--ah--this gentleman called Cruden, been before." + +****** + +Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter in +her manner than usual that evening. She listened to all they had +to say about their interesting visit to the Black Museum, and did +not snub either of them--no, not even when Bunting told of the +dreadful, haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged. + +But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked her +a question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she had +not heard the last few words he had been saying. + +"A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. But she shook her +head. + +Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came back +dressed up in a blue-and-white check silk gown. + +"My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy. I've never seen +you wearing that before." + +"And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed Mrs. Bunting +sarcastically. And then, "I suppose this dressing up means that +you're expecting someone. I should have thought both of you must +have seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that +young chap does his work--that I do! He never seems too busy to +come and waste an hour or two here." + +But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. And +even Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlike +herself. She went about her cooking and the various little things +she had to do even more silently than was her wont. + +Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was the +storm of dread, of sombre anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense, +which shook her soul, and which so far affected her poor, ailing +body that often she felt as if she could not force herself to +accomplish her simple round of daily work. + +After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a penny +evening paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather rueful +smile, that he had read so much of that nasty little print this +last week or two that his eyes hurt him. + +"Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy eagerly, and he +handed her the paper. + +Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock +echoed through the house. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no +longer "Chandler," as he had mostly used to do. + +Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. +She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her. + +To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel +which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty +horde with right on their side. And she was always expecting that +first single spy who would herald the battalion against whom her +only weapon would be her woman's wit and cunning. + +But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her +face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look +it assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and +stepdaughter. + +"Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door open behind +her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had +bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold to-night." + +A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news. + +Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? +Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the +sooner where he was now. + +Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the +double murder which had been committed early in the morning of +the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the thousands of +men belonging to the Metropolitan Police--to say nothing of the +smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force-- +were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that +there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with +horror, breeds contempt. + +But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something +happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest +this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the +more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering +severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the +huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent +speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary. + +But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little +house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle +of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a +moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an +unsatisfactory, job. He secretly agreed with one of his pals who +had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last double +crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a needle in a rick o' hay +than this--bloke!" + +And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now--after +nine long, empty days had gone by? + +Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. +Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. +Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the +father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented +domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight. + +Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her +stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left +side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable +arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude--as +it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought +a pang to Mrs. Bunting--which showed that age was beginning to +creep over the listener. + +One of Daisy's duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of +reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her +accomplishment. + +Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been asking, +"Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had answered quickly, +"Aye, do, my dear." + +He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the +door, he had only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming +so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves. + +Daisy read out: + +"The Avenger: A--" + +And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. +Bravely, however, she went on. "A the-o-ry." + +"Go in--do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. "Why should +we stay out here in the cold? It's ridiculous." + +"I don't want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered Chandler back, +rather hoarsely. + +"Well, you'll hear it all the better in the room. Don't think +she'll stop because of you, bless you! There's nothing shy about +our Daisy!" + +The young man resented the tart, short tone. "Poor little girl!" +he said to himself tenderly. "That's what it is having a stepmother, +instead of a proper mother." But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then +he was pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright +blush came over her pretty face. + +"Joe begs you won't stop yet awhile. Go on with your reading," +commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. "Now, Joe, you can go and sit over +there, close to Daisy, and then you won't miss a word." + +There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed +that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went +and sat on a chair just behind Daisy. From there he could note with +reverent delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards from +the nape of her slender neck. + +"The AVENGER: A THE-O-RY" + +began Daisy again, clearing her throat. + +"DEAR Sir--I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think +there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable +that The Avenger--to give him the name by which he apparently +wishes to be known--comprises in his own person the peculiarities +of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson's now famous hero. + +"The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, +pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of +London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the +husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and +is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his +widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he +has become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, +occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy +nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out +of the house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes +his way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area. +Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like +gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home +again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once +more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, +esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and +acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene +of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal +lunatic. + +"I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that +I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to +the part of London where these murders have been actually committed. +I am quite sure from all that has come out--and we must remember +that full information is never given to the newspapers--The Avenger +should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London +--Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly--" + +Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the +word "Gab-o-ri-you," said she. + +"What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly. + +And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French chap what wrote +detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of them are, too!" + +"Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, +I take it?" said Bunting. + +"Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's written that silly +letter just signed that name for fun." + +"It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. "I +wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish." + +"Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman!" cried Daisy, in +an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how-to-do!" + +"There may be something in the notion," said her father thoughtfully. +"After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute he must +be somewhere a-hiding of himself." + +"Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting scornfully. + +She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. 'Twould soon be time +for the lodger's supper. + +She hurried on: "But what I do say is that--that--he has nothing +to do with the West End. Why, they say it's a sailor from the Docks +--that's a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I'm fair +sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. +The Avenger this--The Avenger that--" + +"I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night," said Bunting +cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything new?" + +"I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in excitedly. +She read out: + + +"BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED" + + +"Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her +tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!" + +Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. "Why, 'twould be +a very good idea, if 'twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. +But, there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers' shops, +to say nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o' that sort?" + +But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking ear there +seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her +fresh young voice. + +"Hark to this," she said: + +"A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn +was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious +instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and +hanged." + +"La, now! Who'd ever have thought of such a thing?" Bunting +exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do have some useful +hints in sometimes, Joe." + +But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds ain't no use," he +said; "no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the +suggestions that the last few days have brought in--well, all I +can say is our work would be cut out for us--not but what it's +cut out for us now, if it comes to that!" He sighed ruefully. He +was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this +pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on +for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would presently have +to do, into the cold and foggy night! + +Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There +was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, +even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where +he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to +taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than that one of +his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the young fellow +had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had +spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent +speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan +Police, but also against the Home Secretary. + +But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the +possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading +just yet. + +"Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another letter, father!" + + +"PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES. + + +"DEAR Sir--During the last day or two several of the more +Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, +whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. +It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however +nomad he may be in his habits--" + +"Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy interrupted herself, and +looked round at her little audience. + +"I've always declared the fellow had all his senses about him," +observed Bunting confidently. + +Daisy went on, quite satisfied: + +"--however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat +where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person +who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information +in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory +after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My +suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. +The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. +Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly +difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for +English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence." + +"There's something worth listening to in that letter," said Joe, +leaning forward. + +Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as +she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he +was saying. + +"Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively. + +"Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in +a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone--a woman his +mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. +But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!" + +"I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a reward," said +Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. + +"Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler confidently. "You'd +only be doing what it's the plain duty of everyone--everyone, that +is, who's a good citizen. And you'd be getting something for doing +it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty." + +"A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common +informer," went on Bunting obstinately. "And no man 'ud care to be +called that! It's different for you, Joe," he added hastily. "It's +your job to catch those who've done anything wrong. And a man'd be +a fool who'd take refuge--like with you. He'd be walking into the +lion's mouth--" Bunting laughed. + +And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: "If I'd done anything I +wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," she said. + +And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you did you needn't +be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!" + +And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, +sitting with bowed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience +and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain. + +"Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting quickly. + +"Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like," answered the poor +woman heavily. "It's over now. Don't mind me." + +"But I don't believe--no, that I don't--that there's anybody in +the world who knows who The Avenger is," went on Chandler quickly. +"It stands to reason that anybody'd give him up--in their own +interest, if not in anyone else's. Who'd shelter such a creature? +Why, 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house along with one!" + +"Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for the wicked things +he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at Chandler +with eager, anxious eyes. + +"I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough to hang!" said +Chandler deliberately. "After all the trouble he's been giving us, too!" + +"Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said Bunting. + +"Not if he's not responsible," said his wife sharply. "I never +heard of anything so cruel--that I never did! If the man's a +madman, he ought to be in an asylum--that's where he ought to be." + +"Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. +"Contrary isn't the word for her! But there, I've noticed the last +few days that she seemed to be taking that monster's part. That's +what comes of being a born total abstainer." + +Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What nonsense you do talk!" +she said angrily. "Not but what it's a good thing if these murders +have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. England's drink +is England's shame--I'll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, +get up, do! Put down that paper. We've heard quite enough. You can +be laying the cloth while I goes down the kitchen." + +"Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's supper," called out +Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring--" he turned to Chandler. +"For one thing, he's often out about this time." + +"Not often--just now and again, when he wants to buy something," +snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I hadn't forgot his supper. He +never do want it before eight o'clock." + +"Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's eager voice +broke in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was +now laying the cloth. + +"Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You +have your work cut out looking after things down here--that's where +I wants you to help me." + +Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be doing nothing +while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, looking across at Mrs. +Bunting, "I'd forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?" + +"Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman," said Bunting. +"He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth." + +His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy laughed. +"You'll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I've never seen this +wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she does! If I +was father I'd be jealous!" + +Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too funny. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can't always do +just what one wants to do--not in this world, at any rate!" + +Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, +though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She +was standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she +spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in +her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which +they were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other +would have to bow. + +There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, +"I don't see why I should go if I don't want to!" she cried. +"You'll allow I've been useful to you, Ellen? 'Tisn't even as if +you was quite well." + +"I am quite well--perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and +she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her +stepdaughter. + +"'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and father." There +were tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at +his wife. + +An invitation had come to Daisy--an invitation from her own dead +mother's sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave +Square. "The family" had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and +Aunt Margaret--Daisy was her godchild--had begged that her niece +might come and spend two or three days with her. + +But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was +like in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt +Margaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modern +employer is always sighing. While "the family" were away it was +her joy--she regarded it as a privilege--to wash sixty-seven pieces +of very valuable china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room; +she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. +These were the two duties with which she intended her young niece +to assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened at the prospect. + +But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an +hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret +was not one to be trifled with. + +Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the +very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go--that there +was no doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But +discuss it they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. +But that, as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set +on her own view. + +"What the child says is true," he observed. "It isn't as if you +was quite well. You've been took bad twice in the last few days +--you can't deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn't I just take a bus +and go over and see Margaret? I'd tell her just how it is. She'd +understand, bless you!" + +"I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried Mrs. Bunting, +speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. +"Haven't I a right to be ill, haven't I a right to be took bad, +aye, and to feel all right again--same as other people?" + +Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh, Ellen!" she cried; +"do say that you can't spare me! I don't want to go across to that +horrid old dungeon of a place." + +"Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm fair tired of +you both! There'll come a day, Daisy, when you'll know, like me, +that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and when +your Aunt Margaret's left her savings to somebody else just because +you wouldn't spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you'll +know what it's like to go without--you'll know what a fool you +were, and that nothing can't alter it any more!" + +And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it +snatched from her. + +"Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does matter--a +terrible deal--though I never thought to hear Ellen say 'twas the +only thing that mattered. But 'twould be foolish--very, very +foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It'll only be +two days after all--two days isn't a very long time." + +But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She had already +rushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her +childish tears of disappointment--the childish tears which came +because she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman's natural +instinct for building her own human nest. + +Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange +young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police. + +"Who'd ever have thought she'd have minded as much as that!" +Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart +was misgiving him. + +"It's plain enough why she's become so fond of us all of a sudden," +said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her +uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, "as plain as +the nose on your face, my man." + +"What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit slow, Ellen, but +I really don't know what you'd be at?" + +"Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe +Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only +foolishness then, but I've come round to your view--that's all." + +Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of +coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome +Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested +in the Avenger murders that he hadn't thought of Joe in any other +connection--not this time, at any rate. + +"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an unwonted tone of +excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting's voice. + +His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly +smile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I've never been one +to prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don't mind +telling you, Bunting--Daisy'll have plenty o' time to get tired +of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!" + +"Well, she might do worse," said Bunting ruminatingly. "He's as +steady as God makes them, and he's already earning thirty-two +shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt'd like the notion? +I don't see her parting with Daisy before she must." + +"I wouldn't let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing +as that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not for millions of gold!" +And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a +very different tune now to what she'd sung a few minutes ago, when +she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square. + +"If she still seems upset while she's having her dinner," said his +wife suddenly, "well, you just wait till I've gone out for something, +and then you just say to her, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' +--just that, and nothing more! She'll take it from you. And I +shouldn't be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot." + +"For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn't +go over and see her there," said Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. "Plenty of +reason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to +know any of her secrets. I've only seen that woman once, but I know +exactly the sort Margaret is. She's just waiting for Old Aunt to +drop off and then she'll want to have Daisy herself--to wait on +her, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young +fellow what stood in her way." + +She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day clock which +had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. +It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and +had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth's +arrival. + +"I've time to go out with that telegram," she said briskly--somehow +she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days-- +"and then it'll be done. It's no good having more words about it, +and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait till the +child comes upstairs again." + +She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather +wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as "the child" +--in fact, he could only remember her having done so once before, +and that was a long time ago. They had been talking over their +future life together, and she had said, very solemnly, "Bunting, +I promise I will do my duty--as much as lies in my power, that +is--by the child." + +But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. +As not infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to +do, that particular duty had been taken over by someone else who +had no mind to let it go. + +"What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked Bunting, rather +nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them +that Ellen had offered to go out in the morning. + +She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, +she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so +--strange, and, to herself, very comfortable and pleasant. + +"Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door and say I'll be +back in a few minutes--that I had to go out with a message. He's +quite a reasonable gentleman." She went into the back room to put +on her bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold--getting colder +every minute. + +As she stood, buttoning her gloves--she wouldn't have gone out +untidy for the world--Bunting suddenly came across to her. "Give +us a kiss, old girl," he said. And his wife turned up her face. + +"One 'ud think it was catching!" she said, but there was a lilt in +her voice. + +"So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that old cook get +married just after us? She'd never 'a thought of it if it hadn't +been for you!" + +But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. +Sleuth revenged himself for his landlady's temporary forgetfulness. + +During the last two days the lodger had been queer, odder than usual, +unlike himself, or, rather, very much as he had been some ten days +ago, just before that double murder had taken place. + +The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadful +place to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs. +Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead, restlessly +walking up and down his sitting-room. And later, when she took up +his supper, she had listened a moment outside the door, while he +read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in--terrible texts +telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge. + +Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with the +curious personality of her lodger, that she did not look where she +was going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up against her. + +She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young person +muttered a word of apology;--then she again fell into deep thought. + +It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the +problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She, +Ellen, was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after +all it wasn't wonderful that she had been snappy. This last night +she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake listening +--and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake listening for a +sound that never comes. + +The house had remained so still you could have heard a pin drop. Mr. +Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. +Had he stirred his landlady was bound to have heard him, for his bed +was, as we know, just above hers. No, during those long hours of +darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had fallen on +Mrs. Bunting's ears. + +And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined +effort to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts. + +It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe +had said only last evening, it was full time that he should again +turn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. +Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre +a bright blinding light--but the shadow had no form or definite +substance. Sometimes he looked like one thing, sometimes like +another . . . + +Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the street +where there was a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to the +left she stopped short for a minute. + +There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebuke +and even self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women, +should have longed to hear that another murder had been committed +last night! + +Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all through +breakfast hoping to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes, +and more or less during the long discussion which had followed on +the receipt of Margaret's letter she had been hoping--hoping +against hope--that those dreadful triumphant shouts of the +newspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone Road. +And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when he +had expressed, not disappointment exactly--but, well, surprise, +that nothing had happened last night. + +Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think how +afraid she had been of that young man! She was no longer afraid of +him, or hardly at all. He was dotty--that's what was the matter +with him, dotty with love for rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy. +Anything might now go on, right under Joe Chandler's very nose--but, +bless you, he'd never see it! Last summer, when this affair, this +nonsense of young Chandler and Daisy had begun, she had had very +little patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way Joe +had gone on then, the tiresome way he would be always dropping in, +had been one reason (though not the most important reason of all) +why she had felt so terribly put about at the idea of the girl +coming again. But now? Well, now she had become quite tolerant, +quite kindly--at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was concerned. + +She wondered why. + +Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for a +couple of days. In fact 'twould be a very good thing, for then he'd +think of Daisy--think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absence +does make the heart grow fonder--at first, at any rate. Mrs. +Bunting was well aware of that. During the long course of hers +and Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated for about three +months, and it was that three months which had made up her mind for +her. She had got so used to Bunting that she couldn't do without +him, and she had felt--oddest fact of all--acutely, miserably +jealous. But she hadn't let him know that--no fear! + +Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job--that would never do. But +what a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn't like some of +those detective chaps that are written about in stories--the sort +of chaps that know everything, see everything, guess everything +--even where there isn't anything to see, or know, or guess! + +Why, to take only one little fact--Joe Chandler had never shown +the slightest curiosity about their lodger. . . . + +Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurried +quickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her. + +She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman +without a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed to +manage other people's affairs, had even written out the words: "Will +be with you to tea.--DAISY." + +It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anything +horrible was going to happen in the next two or three days--it was +just as well Daisy shouldn't be at home. Not that there was any real +danger that anything would happen,--Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. + +By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentally +counting up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine, +or was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by +now, if--as that writer in the newspaper had suggested--he was a +quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, whatever vengeance +he had to wreak, must be satisfied? + +She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for the lodger to ring +before she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr. +Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed into +the house. Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. There +came the sound of voices--of voices she thought she did not know-- +in the sitting-room. + +She opened the door, and then drew a long breath. It was only Joe +Chandler--Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stopped +rather guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heard +Chandler utter the words: "That don't mean nothing! I'll just run +out and send another saying you won't come, Miss Daisy." + +And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting's face. There +had fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shouts +which betokened that something had happened last night--something +which made it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying +down the Marylebone Road. + +"Well?" she said a little breathlessly. "Well, Joe? I suppose +you've brought us news? I suppose there's been another?" + +He looked at her, surprised. "No, that there hasn't, Mrs. Bunting +--not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you're thinking of those +newspaper chaps? They've got to cry out something," he grinned. +"You wouldn't 'a thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They're just +shouting out that there's been an arrest; but we don't take no +stock of that. It's a Scotchman what gave himself up last night +at Dorking. He'd been drinking, and was a-pitying of himself. +Why, since this business began, there's been about twenty arrests, +but they've all come to nothing." + +"Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed," said Bunting +jokingly. "Come to think of it, it's high time The Avenger was at +work again." He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned to +young Chandler: "Well, you'll be glad when its all over, my lad." + +"Glad in a way," said Chandler unwillingly. "But one 'ud have liked +to have caught him. One doesn't like to know such a creature's at +large, now, does one?" + +Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. "I must just go +and see about Mr. Sleuth's breakfast," she said in a weary, +dispirited voice, and left them there. + +She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plot +which had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance of +success; Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out another +telegram contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy's stepmother +shrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself wouldn't care to +do such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere +in her pretty little head. If it ever became her fate to live as +a married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the right +side of Aunt Margaret. + +And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother's heart became +very soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact, +there was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth's two eggs. Feeling +suddenly more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took +the tray upstairs. + +"As it was rather late, I didn't wait for you to ring, sir," she +said. + +And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was +studying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book. +"Quite right, Mrs. Bunting--quite right! I have been pondering +over the command, 'Work while it is yet light.'" + +"Yes, sir?" she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over her +heart. "Yes, sir?" + +"'The spirit is willing, but the flesh--the flesh is weak,'" said +Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy sigh. + +"You studies too hard, and too long--that's what's ailing you, sir," +said Mr. Sleuth's landlady suddenly. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had +been settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler +was going to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He +could carry Daisy's modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead +of walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station +to Victoria--that would land them very near Belgrave Square. + +But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn't had a walk, she +declared, for a long, long time--and then she blushed rosy red, +and even her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was very +nice looking, not at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to +go about the London streets by herself. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, +watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. + +A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had +come a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining, rather +lamely, that it was the fog which had brought him so soon. + +"If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, 'twouldn't have been +possible to walk a yard," he explained, and they had accepted, +silently, his explanation. + +"I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that?" Bunting looked +deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once +that he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was +like an old hen with her last chicken. + +"She's safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn't have +a smarter young fellow to look after her." + +"It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner," said Bunting. "It's +always worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I'd 'a taken +her by the Underground Railway to Victoria--that 'ud been the best +way, considering the weather 'tis." + +"They don't think anything of the weather, bless you!" said his +wife. "They'll walk and walk as long as there's a glimmer left for +'em to steer by. Daisy's just been pining to have a walk with that +young chap. I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they both +were when you was so set on going along with them to that horrid +place." + +"D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked upset. "I understood +Joe to say he liked my company." + +"Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect he liked it just +about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go +out with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how +the woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her." + +"But I'm Daisy's father; and an old friend of Chandler," said Bunting +remonstratingly. "I'm quite different from that cook. She was +nothing to us, and we was nothing to her." + +"She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt," observed +his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little +foolishly. + +By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and +a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. +Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. +The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and +she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very +unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You might +just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, only +that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. "No, that I won't! +He's a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes, +and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even your +father's hardly seen him." + +But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr. +Sleuth. + +There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her +stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence young +Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken +to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to +her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe +Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be human nature +--at any rate, not girlish human nature--not to do so, even if +Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret. + +Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, +would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a +good thing. + +When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. +Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 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. . . . + +Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than +usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it +later than it was. + +When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, and just one +piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don't +feel like having anything else this afternoon." + +"It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice +than usual. "No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir. And then it +isn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it?" + +"No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting." + +She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, +as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp +dismay. + +Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long +Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, +ready for him to put on. + +"You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly. +"Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!" + +Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a +scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between +the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way--to erect +between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living +barrier. + +"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and he +looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, +slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed +for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right +hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been +on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him. + +"It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered, +"but--but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do +not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I--I +cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are +watched--spied upon." + +She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, sir," she +said, with considerable dignity. "I've done my best to satisfy +you--" + +"You have--you have!" he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone. +"But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing +what I wish to do--indeed, what I have to do. For years I have +been misunderstood--persecuted"--he waited a moment, then in +a hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not tell me that +you are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid I'll ever be +that, sir. I only spoke as I did because--well, sir, because I +thought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out this +afternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so near +Christmas." + +He walked across to the window and looked out. "The fog is clearing +somewhat; Mrs. Bunting," but there was no relief in his voice, rather +was there disappointment and dread. + +Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. +The fog was lifting--rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in +which local fogs sometimes do lift in London. + +He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversation has made me +forget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you +would just leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for +me this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for +after my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through +a very difficult experiment." + +"Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. + +But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it +had drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing +Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing +--a thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. She +pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass let +into the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" she +moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" + +But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming +intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery +never occurred to Mrs. Bunting. + +In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that +a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The +timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human +being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not +revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost +be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayer +has been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for revenge. So +far, perhaps because she is subject rather than citizen, her duty +as a component part of civilised society weighs but lightly on +woman's shoulders. + +And then--and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become +attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his +sad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals, and when +this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased--pleased and vaguely +touched. In between those--those dreadful events outside, which +filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, +she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. + +Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over +the strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have +lived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She did not +even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters; friends she +knew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he was, he had +evidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind +of life, till--till now. + +What had made him alter all of a sudden--if, that is, he had +altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully +with herself; and, what was more, and very terribly, to the point, +having altered, why should he not in time go back to what he +evidently had been--that is, a blameless, quiet gentleman? + +If only he would! If only he would! + +As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these +thoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed through +her brain. + +She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day--that +there had never been, in the history of the world, so strange a +murderer as The Avenger had proved himself to be. + +She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated, +on Joe's words, as he had told them of other famous series of +murders which had taken place in the past, not only in England but +abroad--especially abroad. + +One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, +respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order +to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale +of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, +living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers +who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any +valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or +murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in +almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. + +At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she +went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. + +"The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. "I hope +that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it." + +But the other shook his head silently. "No such luck!" he said +briefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I +expect 'twill soon be just as heavy here as 'twas half an hour ago!" + +She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. +"Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she observed. + +"There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking +of asking if you wouldn't like to go along there with me." + +"No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at home." + +She was listening--listening for the sounds which would betoken +that the lodger was coming downstairs. + +At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled +shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact +when the front door shut to. + +"That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on his wife, +startled. "Why, the poor gentleman'll come to harm--that he will! +One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn't +taken any of his money out with him." + +"'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog," said Mrs. +Bunting sombrely. + +Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true words. And then +she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken +what she said. + +But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. "We +don't get the good old fogs we used to get--not what people used +to call 'London particulars.' I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. +Crowley--I've often told you about her, Ellen?" + +Mrs. Bunting nodded. + +Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of those he had +liked best--a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her +servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat +they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated +her kind thought. + +"Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic +way, "that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so +long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked +the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. +Fog never kept her from going out--no, that it didn't. She wasn't +a bit afraid. But--" he turned round and looked at his wife-- +"I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a +timid kind of gentleman--" + +He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him. + +"I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a low voice, "but +he is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes going out when +there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don't +suppose he'll be out long." + +She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon +--that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. + +Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She +got up, and went over to the farthest window. + +The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on +the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and +shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards +the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops. + +At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to +the cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one +out. + +"I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I've +looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, +but now there's nothing in 'em." + +His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days +had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had +very little to say about them that they hadn't said in different +language a dozen times before. + +She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. + +Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so +engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not +had much time for that sort of work. + +It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or--or +the lodger, in it. + +At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric +slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. +Sleuth's return home. + +And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful +wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she +knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any +kind of--well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he +had lived during the last few weeks. + +No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way +as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, +until, perhaps--God, what a horrible thought--a picture published +in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting's +knowledge. + +But if that happened--if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, +she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also +would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the +astounding revelation. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't a night +you would wish a dog to be out in." + +Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and +look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the +evening paper he held in his hand. + +He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his +nice arm-chair. He looked very well--well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting +stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of +resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry +way, very fond of Bunting. + +"You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for +himself all right." + +Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. "I +can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather," he said +impatiently. + +"Well, it's none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?" + +"No, that's true enough. Still, 'twould be a very bad thing for us +if anything happened to him. This lodger's the first bit of luck +we've had for a terrible long time, Ellen." + +Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She +remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious +to be worth answering. Also she was listening, following in +imagination her lodger's quick, singularly quiet progress-- +"stealthy" she called it to herself--through the fog-filled, +lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What +was that Bunting was saying? + +"It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather--no, that +it ain't, not unless they have something to do that won't wait till +to-morrow." The speaker was looking straight into his wife's narrow, +colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove +himself right. "I've a good mind to speak to him about it, that +I have! He ought to be told that it isn't safe--not for the sort +of man he is--to be wandering about the streets at night. I read +you out the accidents in Lloyd's--shocking, they were, and all +brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster 'ull soon +be at his work again--" + +"Monster?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. + +She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead. She was +very curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, +or straight upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always +called it. + +But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up +trying to listen to what was going on above. + +"It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that +in the fog, eh, Ellen?" He spoke as if the notion had a certain +pleasant thrill in it after all. + +"What stuff you do talk!" said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then she +got up. Her husband's remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn't they +talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time +together? + +Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she moved quietly about +the room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and to-night she +was going to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That +fortunate man, as she was fond of telling him, with mingled contempt +and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, and yet he was rather +fanciful, as gentlemen's servants who have lived in good places +often are. + +Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. +Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, and she would never +have allowed an unrefined word--such a word as "stomach," for +instance, to say nothing of an even plainer term--to pass her +lips, except, of course, to a doctor in a sick-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen; +instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading +into her bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back +into the darkness, and stood motionless, listening. + +At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her +listening ears the sound of someone moving softly about in the +room just overhead, that is, in Mr. Sleuth's bedroom. But, try as +she might, it was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was +doing. + +At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little +landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, +that Mr. Sleuth would pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless +room above. He hadn't spent any time up there for quite a long +while--in fact, not for nearly ten days. 'Twas odd he chose to-night, +when it was so foggy, to carry out an experiment. + +She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired-- +strangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical +exertion. + +Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck, +and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that. + +As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first +time, what the lodger's departure would mean. It would almost +certainly mean ruin; just as his staying meant all sorts of good +things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth +stayed on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, it +meant respectability, and, above all, security. + +Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He never received a +letter, and yet he must have some kind of income--so much was +clear. She supposed he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out +of a bank as he required it. + +Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr. +Sleuth. + +The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that +there would come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel +satiated; when he would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. + +To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so +pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady +--indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish +to leave such nice lodgings. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook +off her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the +handle of the door giving into the passage she turned it, and then, +with light, firm steps, she went down into the kitchen. + +When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by +her care, if not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very +clean place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still +white walls the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron +and bright steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one +pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in +the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that +kind of business. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for +what she consumed after she had consumed it. + +Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she +turned up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle. + +Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the +stove, and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, +to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting +gentleman than the lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, +so--so peculiar. + +She thought of the bag--that bag which had rumbled about so +queerly in the chiffonnier. Something seemed to tell her that +tonight the lodger had taken that bag out with him. + +And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently +from her mind, and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. +Sleuth's income, and of how little trouble he gave. Of course, +the lodger was eccentric, otherwise he wouldn't be their lodger +at all--he would be living in quite a different sort of way with +some of his relations, or with a friend in his own class. + +While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, +Mrs. Bunting went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting +it up into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing +everything, as was always her way, with a certain delicate and +cleanly precision. + +And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to +be poured the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled +her, made her feel uncomfortable. + +Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. + +She looked up and listened. + +Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy +night--going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second +time? But no; the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar +footsteps, did not continue down the passage leading to the front +door. + +Instead--Why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen +so intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the +toasting-fork grew quite black. With a start she became aware +that this was so, and she frowned, vexed with herself. That came +of not attending to one's work. + +Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. +He was coming down into the kitchen. + +Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the +kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting's heart began to beat as if in +response. She put out the flame of the gas-ring, unheedful of the +fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. + +Then she turned and faced the door. + +There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door +opened, and revealed, as she had at once known and feared it would +do, the lodger. + +Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid +dressing-gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though +she knew that he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In +his hand was a lighted candle. + +When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in +it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. + +"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn't ring, sir?" + +Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had +no business to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to +let him know that such was her view. + +"No, I--I didn't ring," he stammered awkwardly. "The truth is, I +didn't know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. +My gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot +arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had a +gas-stove. I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to-night for +an important experiment I wish to make." + +Mrs. Bunting's heart was beating quickly--quickly. She felt +horribly troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn't Mr. Sleuth's +experiment wait till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but +there was that in his face that made her at once afraid and pitiful. +It was a wild, eager, imploring look. + +"Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here." + +"It seems most pleasantly warm," he observed, his voice full of +relief, "warm and cosy, after my cold room upstairs." + +Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even +that cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and +more cosy than this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. + +"I'll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it's in +perfect order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house +was to have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might +have set the house on fire." Mrs. Bunting's housewifely instincts +were roused. "For the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in +your bedroom this cold night." + +"By no means--I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire +there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told +you as much." + +Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his +candle still alight, just inside the kitchen door. + +"I shan't be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You +could come down then. I'll have everything quite tidy for you. Is +there anything I can do to help you?" + +"I do not require the use of your kitchen yet--thank you all the +same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later--altogether later-- +after you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much +obliged if you would see that the gas people come to-morrow and +put my stove in order. It might be done while I am out. That the +shilling-in-the-slot machine should go wrong is very unpleasant. +It has upset me greatly." + +"Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter +of that, I could ask him to go up now." + +"No, no, I don't want anything of that sort done to-night. Besides, +he couldn't put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, +and I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite +simple. The machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish +plan, so I always felt it to be." + +Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to +speak, but Mrs. Bunting sympathised with him in this matter. She +had always suspected that those slot machines were as dishonest as +if they were human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up +the shillings! She had had one once, so she knew. + +And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward +and stared at the stove. "Then you haven't got a slot machine?" he +said wonderingly. "I'm very glad of that, for I expect my experiment +will take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you something for +the use of the stove, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't think of charging you anything for that. +We don't use our stove very much, you know, sir. I'm never in the +kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather." + +Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually +in Mr. Sleuth's presence her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps +because his manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. +But still there came over her an eerie feeling, as, with him +preceding her, they made a slow progress to the ground floor. + +Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady good-night, +and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments. + +Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove; +but she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she was +cooking the cheese, she tried to concentrate her mind on what she +was doing, and on the whole she succeeded. But another part of her +mind seemed to be working independently, asking her insistent +questions. + +The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she +caught herself listening--which was absurd, for, of course, she +could not hope to hear what Mr. Sleuth was doing two, if not three, +flights upstairs. She wondered in what the lodger's experiments +consisted. It was odd that she had never been able to discover what +it was he really did with that big gas-stove. All she knew was +that he used a very high degree of heat. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting made +up her mind to keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour +of the night the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry +through his experiment, and, above all, she was anxious to know +how long he would stay there. + +But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she +fell asleep. + +The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs. Bunting +awoke. She felt put out, sharply annoyed with herself. How could +she have dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down +and up again hours ago! + +Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid +odour in the room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass +her and the snoring man by her side, almost as a vapour might have +done. + +Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the +cold, she quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and +crawled along to the bottom of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady did a very curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail +and put her face close to the hinge of the door giving into the +hall. Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor was +coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage. + +As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to +give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard +herself saying, "Bunting, get up! There's something strange and +dreadful going on downstairs which we ought to know about." + +But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening with painful +intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she +would do nothing of the sort. + +What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess--a certain +amount of smell--in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not--was he +not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, +where could they ever hope to get another like him? + +Three o'clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps +creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight +up to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he +went to the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he +came past her door, and she thought--but could not be sure--that +he sat down on the stairs. + +At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage +again. Very softly he closed the front door. By then she had +divined why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted +to get the strong, acrid smell of burning--was it of burning wool? +--out of the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the +lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get +rid of the horrible odour. + +Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. + +At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and +then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse +voices seemed to be shouting in her ear: "The Avenger close here! +The Avenger close here!" "'Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!" +"The Avenger at his work again!" + +And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered--angered and +impatient. She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this +horrid nightmare! It was because of Bunting--Bunting, who could +think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders, in +which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest. + +Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking +to her about it: + +"Ellen"--so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear--"Ellen, my dear, +I'm just going to get up to get a paper. It's after seven o'clock." + +The shouting--nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet +smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead +with both hands, she sat up and listened. + +It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse-- +reality. + +Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and +let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have +been easier to bear than this awakening. + +She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the +paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then +he came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the +gas-ring in the sitting-room. + +Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had +promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet +broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, +no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge +that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale blue eyes. +This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job. + +When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his +wife lying with her face to the wall. + +"Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, +nay happy, excitement in his voice. + +She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she asked. "Well? +Why don't you tell me about it?" + +"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I thought, Ellen, +you never heard nothing." + +"How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. +Why don't you tell me?" + +"I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly. + +"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the +rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don't +tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?" + +"Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you. The +Avenger's moving West--that's what he's doing. Last time 'twas +King's Cross--now 'tis the Edgware Road. I said he'd come our way, +and he has come our way!" + +"You just go and get me that paper," she commanded. "I wants to +see for myself." + +Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her +silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. + +"Why, whatever's this?" she asked. "This ain't our paper!" + +"'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly. "It's a special early +edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger. Here's the bit +about it"--he showed her the exact spot. But she would have found +it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring +over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear +characters:-- + +"Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger +has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, +and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an +interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were +concentrating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, +he moved swiftly and silently Westward. And, choosing a time when +the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another +human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery. + +"Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had +lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of +happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that +cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing +his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest accident +that the body was discovered as soon as it was--that is, just +after midnight. + +"Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that +the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at +first thought--we were going to say, hoped--that this murder had +nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying +the whole of the civilised world. But no--pinned on the edge of the +dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of +grey paper--the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of +man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his +audacity and daring--so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent +wickedness." + +All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful +intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to +burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his +Ellen's unsympathetic ears. + +At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. + +"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?" +she said irritably. "Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go +away--do!" + +And Bunting went off into the next room. + +After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried +to think of nothing. Nay, more--so strong, so determined was her +will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She +felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does +a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness. + +Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of +her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if +those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; +she wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her +brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret +was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as +that. + +Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes--to-morrow, not +to-day. Well, that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things +Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl +had an excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise, +funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," lent herself to +the cruel gift. + +And then Mrs. Bunting's mind--her poor, weak, tired mind--wandered +off to young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you came to +think of it--which she, Ellen Bunting, didn't often do. There was +Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty +young women, too,--quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times more +artful--and yet there! He passed them all by, had done so ever +since last summer, though you might be sure that they, artful minxes, +by no manner of means passed him by,--without giving them a thought! +As Daisy wasn't here, he would probably keep away to-day. There +was comfort in that thought, too. + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful +turgid flood. If Joe did come in, she must nerve herself to hear +all that--that talk there'd be about The Avenger between him and +Bunting. + +Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she +had just recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, +very, very tired in body and soul. + +She stood for a moment listening--listening, and shivering, for +it was very cold. Considering how early it still was, there +seemed a lot of coming and going in the Marylebone Road. She could +hear the unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and the tightly +fastened windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular +crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene +of The Avenger's last extraordinary crime. + +She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling +from the letter-box on to the floor of the hall, and a moment later +came the sound of Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. +She visualised him coming back, and sitting down with a sigh of +satisfaction by the newly-lit fire. + +Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant +tramping and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume +and in sound as the moments slipped by. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen everything looked just +as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she +had expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed +room was full of fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were +bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had +been widely opened to the air. She had left them shut. + +Making a "spill" out of a twist of newspaper--she had been taught +the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses--she stooped and +flung open the oven-door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had +expected, a fierce heat had been generated there since she had last +used the oven, and through to the stone floor below had fallen a +mass of black, gluey soot. + +Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous +day for her own and Bunting's breakfast upstairs, and broiled them +over the gas-ring in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in +surprised silence. She had never done such a thing before. + +"I couldn't stay down there," she said; "it was so cold and foggy. +I thought I'd make breakfast up here, just for to-day." + +"Yes," he said kindly; "that's quite right, Ellen. I think you've +done quite right, my dear." + +But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the +nice breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea. + +"I'm afraid you're ill, Ellen?" Bunting asked solicitously. + +"No," she said shortly; "I'm not ill at all. Don't be silly! The +thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me, +and put me off my food. Just hark to them now!" + +Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet +and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd; nay, what a mob, must be +hastening busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing +to be seen! + +Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. "I don't want +any of those ghouls in here!" she exclaimed angrily. And then, +"What a lot of idle people there are in the world!" she said. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the +window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; +then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down. + +But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up +he would rise from his chair, and go to the window again. + +"I wish you'd stay still," his wife said at last. And then, a few +minutes later, "Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and go +out?" she exclaimed. + +And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat +and coat and go out. + +As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it +was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, +extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn't +reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had +been that very morning--angry with him because he had gone out +to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had +come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her +to hear about it! + +Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the +kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, +a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned and +did what she had never in her life done before, and what she had +never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. + +But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from +everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She +felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which +mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns. + +Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? +Daisy, at any rate, was company--kind, young, unsuspecting company. +With Daisy she could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort +to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say +nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of +guilt, of shame. She was the man's wedded wife--in his stolid way +he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something +he certainly had a right to know. + +Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful +suspicion--nay, of her almost certainty. + +At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went +upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little +better. + +She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved +by his absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet +she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house. + +And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind +into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what +was going on upstairs. + +What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only +natural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last +night, or rather this morning. + +****** + +Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did +not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal +which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she +went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food. + +Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and +just outside the sitting-room--for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had +got up, that he was there already, waiting for her--she rested the +tray on the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments she +heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice +with which she had become so familiar: + +"'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in +secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, +and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'" + +There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of +her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. +Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer voice: + +"'She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men +have been slain by her.'" And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone +came the words: "'I applied my heart to know, and to search, and +to seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the +wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.'" + +And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of +spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time +in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and +strangeness, of human life. + +Poor Mr. Sleuth--poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An +overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the +loathing, she had been feeling for her lodger. + +She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. + +"Come in, Mrs. Bunting." Mr. Sleuth's voice sounded feebler, more +toneless than usual. + +She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was +not sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round table +on which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of +his bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it +were placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But as his +landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and began +staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying +crowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road. + +"There seem a great many people out today," he observed, without +looking round. + +"Yes, sir, there do." + +Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and +putting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized +with a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there. + +At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to +look at him. How tired, how worn, he looked, and--how strange! + +Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands +together with a nervous gesture--it was a gesture he only made when +something had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at +him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he +had first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained a +large gas-stove and a convenient sink. + +What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a +play she had once seen--a play to which a young man had taken her +when she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled +and fascinated her. "Out, out, damned spot!" that was what the tall, +fierce, beautiful lady who had played the part of a queen had said, +twisting her hands together just as the lodger was doing now. + +"It's a fine day," said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and unfolding his +napkin. "The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with +me, Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining, +as it is now, at any rate, trying to shine." He looked at her +inquiringly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. +However, that did not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. + +He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, +taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced +any such feeling for many years past. + +He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. "I +don't feel as if I could eat very much to-day," he said plaintively. +And then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. + +Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat +Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the day before. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?" + +And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. + +"Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly +allowed me to make of your kitchen last night?" he said quietly. +"I tried to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but-- +well, the truth is I was carrying out a very elaborate experiment." + +Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took +the coin. The fingers which for a moment brushed lightly against +her palm were icy cold--cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently +not well. + +As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball +hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's landlady, and +threw blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece of +gold she was holding in her hand. + +****** + +The day went by, as other days had gone by in that quiet household, +but, of course, there was far greater animation outside the little +house than was usually the case. + +Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some +days, the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that part +of the town. + +When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while he +told her of the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. And +then, after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot a +strange look at him. + +"I suppose you went to see the place?" she said. + +And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. + +"Well?" + +"Well, there wasn't anything much to see--not now. But, oh, Ellen, +the daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry +out--which they don't believe she had--it's impossible someone +wouldn't 'a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like +that--in the afternoon, like--he never will be caught. He must +have just got mixed up with all the other people within ten seconds +of what he'd done!" + +During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly--in fact, he +must have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all the +supposed and suggested clues, there was nothing--nothing at all new +to read, less, in fact than ever before. + +The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting +began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less--less +terrified than she had felt through the morning. + +And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the +quietude of the day. + +They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the +papers he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, +thundering, double knock at the door. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. "Why, whoever can that be?" she +said. + +But as Bunting got up she added quickly, "You just sit down again. +I'll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I'll soon send +them to the right-about!" + +And then she left the room, but not before there had come another +loud double knock. + +Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the +person who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark +man, with fierce, black moustaches. And somehow--she could not +have told you why--he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting's mind. + +This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. +For, "I'm here to execute a warrant!" he exclaimed in a theatrical, +hollow tone. + +With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms +as if to bar the way; she turned deadly white--but then, in an +instant the supposed stranger's laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, +familiar sound! + +"There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I'd take you in as well +as all that!" + +It was Joe Chandler--Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he +sometimes, not very often, did dress up in the course of his work. + +Mrs. Bunting began laughing--laughing helplessly, hysterically, +just as she had done on the morning of Daisy's arrival, when the +newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road. + +"What's all this about?" Bunting came out + +Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I didn't mean to +upset her like this," he said, looking foolish; "'twas just my silly +nonsense, Mr. Bunting." And together they helped her into the +sitting-room. + +But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she +threw her black apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically. + +"I made sure she'd know who I was when I spoke," went on the young +fellow apologetically. "But, there now, I have upset her. I am +sorry!" + +"It don't matter!" she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, +but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and +laughed by turns. "Don't matter one little bit, Joe! 'Twas stupid +of me to be so taken aback. But, there, that murder that's happened +close by, it's just upset me--upset me altogether to-day." + +"Enough to upset anyone--that was," acknowledged the young man +ruefully. "I've only come in for a minute, like. I haven't no +right to come when I'm on duty like this--" + +Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were +still on the table. + +"You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup," said Bunting +hospitably; "and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We're +right in the middle of everything now, ain't we?" He spoke with +evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. + +Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He +waited a moment, and then: "Well I have got one piece of news--not +that I suppose it'll interest you very much." + +They both looked at him--Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her +breast still heaved from time to time. + +"Our Boss has resigned!" said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. + +"No! Not the Commissioner o' Police?" exclaimed Bunting. + +"Yes, he has. He just can't bear what's said about us any longer +--and I don't wonder! He done his best, and so's we all. The +public have just gone daft--in the West End, that is, to-day. As +for the papers, well, they're something cruel--that's what they +are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You'd never believe the +things they asks us to do--and quite serious-like." + +"What d'you mean?" questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to +know. + +"Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-house +investigation--all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to +let the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, +just to see if The Avenger isn't concealed there. Dotty, I calls +it! Why, 'twould take us months and months just to do that one +job in a town like London." + +"I'd like to see them dare come into my house!" said Mrs. Bunting +angrily. + +"It's all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to +work a different way this time," said Chandler slowly. + +Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was +eagerly listening. "How d'you mean?" he asked. "I don't take +your meaning, Joe." + +"Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was always saying +how extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar +time to do his deeds--I mean, the time when no one's about the +streets. Now, doesn't it stand to reason that the fellow, reading +all that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, 'I'll go on +another tack this time'? Just listen to this!" He pulled a strip +of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket: + + +"'AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE AVENGER + + +"'Will the murderer be caught? Yes,' replied Sir John, 'he will +certainly be caught--probably when he commits his next crime. A +whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his +track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community +against him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered that +he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes. + +"'Londoners are now in such a state of nerves--if I may use the +expression, in such a state of funk--that every passer-by, however +innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his +avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and +three in the morning.' + +"I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!" concluded Joe Chandler +wrathfully. + +Just then the lodger's bell rang. + +"Let me go up, my dear," said Bunting. + +His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. + +"No, no," she said hastily. "You stop down here, and talk to Joe. +I'll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a +bit earlier than usual to-day." + +Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton +wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, +and then went in. + +"You did ring, sir?" she said, in her quiet, respectful way. + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up. + +She thought--but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have +been just her idea, and nothing else--that for the first time the +lodger looked frightened--frightened and cowed. + +"I heard a noise downstairs," he said fretfully, "and I wanted to +know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I +first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me." + +"It was just a friend of ours, sir. I'm sorry you were disturbed. +Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting'll be +pleased to do it if you don't like to hear the sound of the knocks." + +"Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such trouble as that." Mr. Sleuth +looked quite relieved. "Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. +Bunting? He made a great deal of noise." + +"Just a young fellow," she said apologetically. "The son of one of +Bunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did +give such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak to +him about it." + +"Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of +the kind. It was just a passing annoyance--nothing more!" + +She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of +the hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam +every hour or two throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no +allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at +his reading. + +"I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little earlier to-night, +sir?" + +"Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting--just when it's convenient. I +do not wish to put you out in any way." + +She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door. + +As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed +--Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the +lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her +kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came +to her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow. + +Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly +giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought +her, she got up and dressed. + +She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase +required a thorough "doing down," and she did not even wait till +they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It +made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading +his morning paper--the paper which was again of such absorbing +interest--he called out, "There's no need for so much hurry, Ellen. +Daisy'll be back to-day. Why don't you wait till she's come home to +help you?" + +But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, +his wife's voice came back: "Girls ain't no good at this sort of +work. Don't you worry about me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing an +extra bit of cleaning to-day. I don't like to feel as anyone could +come in and see my place dirty." + +"No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck +him. "Ain't you afraid of waking the lodger?" he called out. + +"Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night," she +answered quickly. "As it is, I study him over-much; it's a long, +long time since I've done this staircase down." + +All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left +the sitting-room door wide open. + +That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn't like to get +up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn't +read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had +never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he +looked up and frowned rather crossly. + +There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellen +was standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing. + +"Come in," he said, "do! Ain't you finished yet?" + +"I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don't tell me nothing. +I'd like to know if there's anything--I mean anything new--in the +paper this morning." + +She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her +unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting +suddenly uneasy. "Come in--do!" he repeated sharply. "You've +done quite enough--and before breakfast, too. 'Tain't necessary. +Come in and shut that door." + +He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him. + +She came in, and did what she had never done before--brought the +broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. + +Then she sat down. + +"I think I'll make breakfast up here," she said. "I--I feel cold, +Bunting." And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of +perspiration were glistening on her forehead. + +He got up. "All right. I'll go down and bring the eggs up. Don't +you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if +you like." + +"No," she said obstinately. "I'd rather do my own work. You just +bring them up here--that'll be all right. To-morrow morning we'll +have Daisy to help see to things." + +"Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair," he suggested +kindly. "You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see'd +such a woman!" + +And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room +with languid steps. + +He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. + +She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took +two steps towards her. + +"I'll show you the most interesting bit" he said eagerly. "It's +the piece headed, 'Our Special Investigator.' You see, they've +started a special investigator of their own, and he's got hold of +a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man +who writes all that--I mean the Special Investigator--was a +famous 'tec in his time, and he's just come back out of his +retirement o' purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You +read what he says--I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he ends by +getting that reward! One can see he just loves the work of +tracking people down." + +"There's nothing to be proud of in such a job," said his wife +listlessly. + +"He'll have something to be proud of if he catches The Avenger!" +cried Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put off +by Ellen's contradictory remarks. "You just notice that bit about +the rubber soles. Now, no one's thought o' that. I'll just tell +Chandler--he don't seem to me to be half awake, that young man +don't." + +"He's quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! +How about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast +even if you don't--" + +Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly +described to himself as "Ellen's snarling voice." + +He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There +was something queer about her, and he couldn't make it out. He +didn't mind it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was +used to that. 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. In his +time he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he +thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first +drawn him to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap as +cordially as he had done when they first came to London. + +But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort +of talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed +reproachfully: "To hear you two, one would think there was no nice, +respectable, quiet people left in the world!" + +But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be +to hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her +own view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had had +her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman +who thought for herself--a clever woman, not an everyday woman by +any manner of means. + +While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, +Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give +Ellen a nice little surprise--to cook an omelette as a French chef +had once taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn't know how +she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but +never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn't +been eating her food properly of late. + +And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be +admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even +noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading +with intense, painful care the column that the great daily paper +they took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective. + +According to this Special Investigator's own account he had +discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the +police and of the official detectives. For instance, owing, he +admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where +the two last murders had been committed very soon after the double +crime had been discovered--in fact within half an hour, and he +had found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavement +imprints of the murderer's right foot. + +The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. +At the same time, he also admitted--for the Special Investigator +was very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the +enterprising paper which had engaged him to probe the awful +mystery--that there were thousands of rubber soles being worn in +London. . . . + +And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, and +there came a wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It was +quite true--that about rubber soles; there were thousands of +rubber soles being worn just now. She felt grateful to the Special +Investigator for having stated the fact so clearly. + +The column ended up with the words: + +"And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten +days ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public +inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery +of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible +to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general +public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same people +have been examined and cross-examined in private by the police, +their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly +confused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubt +that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually +saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double +crime--this being so, to-day's investigation may be of the highest +value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account of +the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements +made during its course." + +Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had +gone on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he +said rather crossly, "Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The +omelette I've cooked for you will be just like leather if you don't +eat it." + +But once his wife had eaten her breakfast--and, to Bunting's +mortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched +--she took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, +until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to +The Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and then +uttered an exclamation under her breath. + +What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for--what at last she had found +--was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that +day. The hour named was a rather odd time--two o'clock in the +afternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting's point of view, it was most +convenient. + +By two o'clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had +his lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have +had their dinner, and--and Daisy wasn't coming home till tea-time. + +She got up out of her husband's chair. "I think you're right," she +said, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about me seeing a doctor, +Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon." + +"Wouldn't you like me to go with you?" he asked. + +"No, that I wouldn't. In fact I wouldn't go at all you was to go +with me." + +"All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my dear; you know +best." + +"I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned." + +Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. "'Twas I said, +long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; 'twas you said you +wouldn't!" he exclaimed pugnaciously. + +"Well, I've never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, +I'm going." + +"Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with a look of real +solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. + +Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there opposite him. Her +shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a +little. She had never looked so bad--not even when they had been +half starving, and dreadfully, dreadfully worked. + +"Yes," she said briefly, "I've a pain in my head, at the back of +my neck. It doesn't often leave me; it gets worse when anything +upsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler." + +"He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!" said Bunting +crossly. "I'd a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, +Ellen, I wonder he took you in--he didn't me!" + +"Well, you had no chance he should--you knew who it was," she said +slowly. + +And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had +already spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and saw +their cleverly disguised visitor. + +"Those big black moustaches," he went on complainingly, "and that +black wig--why, 'twas too ridic'lous--that's what I call it!" + +"Not to anyone who didn't know Joe," she said sharply. + +"Well, I don't know. He didn't look like a real man--nohow. If +he's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever see him looking like +that!" and Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. + +He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last +two days, and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, +unnatural life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe was +earning good money. They wouldn't have long to wait, these two +young people, as a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, +Bunting, and Daisy's mother had had to do, for ever so long before +they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn't +be spliced quite soon--if so the fancy took them. And Bunting +had very little doubt that so the fancy would take Joe, at any rate. + +But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn't be eighteen till the +week after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that +time Old Aunt might be dead, and Daisy might have come into quite +a tidy little bit of money. + +"What are you smiling at?" said his wife sharply. + +And he shook himself. "I--smiling? At nothing that I knows of." +Then he waited a moment. "Well, if you will know, Ellen, I was +just thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is +gone on her, ain't he?" + +"Gone?" And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly +laugh. "Gone, Bunting?" she repeated. "Why, he's out o' sight +--right, out of sight!" + +Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, +twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:-- +"I suppose he'll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or--or +d'you think he'll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?" + +"Inquest? What inquest?" He looked at her puzzled. + +"Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King's +Cross." + +"Oh, no; he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o' +that, I know he's going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night +--just when you went up to the lodger." + +"That's just as well." Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable +satisfaction. "Otherwise I suppose you'd ha' had to go. I wouldn't +like the house left--not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be +upset if there came a ring at the door." + +"Oh, I won't leave the house, don't you be afraid, Ellen--not while +you're out." + +"Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting." + +"No fear. Of course, you'll be a long time if it's your idea to see +that doctor at Ealing?" + +He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow +nodding didn't seem as bad as speaking a lie. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, +when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is +entirely novel. + +Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a +witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was +sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. + +In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for +a fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of +those sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the +serenity, the apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household. + +The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned +herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause +for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles +to the strange lady's maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, +and it was during the conversation the two women had had together +that the girl had threatened to take her own life. + +As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going +out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful +affair, and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. + +She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, +unfortunate creature had been held. + +The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give +evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful +animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women +as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl's fate had +aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those +who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid. + +Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to +Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in +the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with +chairs, but with cake and wine. + +She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had +felt as if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place, +rather than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the +sad business. + +But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had +been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on +the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the +exact words the unhappy girl had used. + +One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by +an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, +low-ceilinged room. "Ought not Miss Ellen Green," so the man had +asked, "to have told someone of the girl's threat? If she had done +so, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself +into the lake?" And she, the witness, had answered, with some +asperity--for by that time the coroner's kind manner had put her +at her ease--that she had not attached any importance to what the +girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman +could be so silly as to drown herself for love! + +****** + +Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was +going to be present this afternoon would be like that country +inquest of long ago. + +It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well +how little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, +had got the whole truth out--the story, that is, of how that +horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first +minute she had set eyes on him, had taken up with another young +woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited +by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the +dead girl's letters had been read out--piteous, queerly expressed +letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And +the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered +the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a +passage for him to slink out of the crowded room. + +Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting +that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and +somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it. + +She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed +to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess +where she was thinking of going. + +And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head +--no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, +never suspect her of telling him a lie. + +Stop--had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after +the inquest was finished--if there was time, that is. She wondered +uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, +as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely +be very formal--formal and therefore short. + +She herself had one quite definite object--that of hearing the +evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving +the spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowing +blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager +curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter +would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of +people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day +before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a +living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and +where he spent his time between his awful crimes. + +As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her +husband. + +"Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the doctor. You +looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along with +you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Not +by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know." + +"There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first +minute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully +and sadly. + +And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone and clean +forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait +till to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?" + +"I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone +else's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting +really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, "I'll +be all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!" + +As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl +she had put over her long jacket more closely round her. + +She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. +And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden +with poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft. +Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer--as if she +would give the world to tell someone--anyone--what it was that she +suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth. + +But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it +was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the +last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house +unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come +into contact with the lodger. + +When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There +were two ways of getting to St. Pancras--she could go by bus, or +she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before +turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the +early afternoon papers lying on the ground. + +Two words, + + THE AVENGER, + +stared up at her in varying type. + +Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, +Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined +to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes +were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the +close print in the paper Bunting took in. + +Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. + +And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. + +The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be +empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they +were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question +she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. + +"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquests +are held"--she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then +concluded--"in the neighbourhood of King's Cross?" + +The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at +all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest--there are many +such--just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a +widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain +Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face. + +"I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said good-naturedly. +"So you can come along of me. You see there's that big Avenger +inquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to make other +arrangements for--hum, hum--ordinary cases." And as she looked +at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd of people at +The Avenger inquest--a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to +say nothing of the public." + +"That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could +scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, +yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was +going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder +inquest! + +During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened +by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the +stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have +regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a +simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet--and yet that was +just what she was about to do herself. + +"I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she murmured. It was +a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. + +"Ah!" he said reflectively. "A--a relative connected with one of +the two victims' husbands, I presume?" + +And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. + +"Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and then he turned and +looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. + +"Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker's voice. + +And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't seen her for +quite a long time, I suppose?" + +"Never had, seen her. I'm from the country." Something impelled +Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, +"At least, I was." + +"Will he be there?" + +She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was +alluding. + +"I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. "I felt sorry +for the last poor chap--I mean the husband of the last one--he +seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a good wife and a +good mother till she took to the drink." + +"It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting. + +"Aye." He waited a moment. "D'you know anyone about the court?" he +asked. + +She shook her head. + +"Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o' me. You'd never +get in by yourself." + +They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one's charge, of +having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even +now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial +about the whole business. + +"If he knew--if he only knew what I know!" she kept saying over +and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly +form of the police inspector. + +"'Tisn't far--not three minutes," he said suddenly. "Am I walking +too quick for you, ma'am?"' + +"No, not at all. I'm a quick walker." + +And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, +a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking +little door sunk into a high wall. + +"Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. "Make way there! +Make way!" he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the +serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight +of his uniform. + +"Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd never have got +through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner of +means." + +The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves +on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few +men were out there, smoking. + +Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of +the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his watch. +"There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he said. +"There's the mortuary"--he pointed with his thumb to a low room +built out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in and +see them?" he whispered. + +"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked +down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a +nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued +with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it +her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to +one of The Avenger's victims. + +They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men +talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones. + +"I think you'd better sit down here," he said considerately, and, +leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed +walls--"unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is." + +But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an effort, "Oughtn't +I to go into the court now, if it's likely to be so full?" + +"Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get a proper place. +I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come back in good time +and look after you." + +She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while +they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, +and looked about her. + +Many of the gentlemen--they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats +--standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She picked +out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated +face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely +advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair--the +preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had +great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to +himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a +dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, +and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody. + +How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, +from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious +beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid +place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all +thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality +--that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose +to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away +from them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly +trained minds--aye, and bodies, too--at bay. + +Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her +presence among them. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long +time--it was really about a quarter of an hour--when her official +friend came back. + +"Better come along now," he whispered; "it'll begin soon." + +She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, +and so into the Coroner's Court. + +The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a +chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a +gallery evidently set aside for the general public, for it was now +crammed to its utmost capacity. + +Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces. Had +it not been for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now +following, it was there that she would have had to try and make her +way. And she would have failed. Those people had rushed in the +moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their way in a way +she could never have pushed or fought. + +There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking +women, belonging to every class, but made one by their love of +sensation and their power of forcing their way in where they wanted +to be. But the women were few; the great majority of those standing +there were men--men who were also representative of every class of +Londoner. + +The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three +steps below the surrounding gallery. Just now it was comparatively +clear of people, save for the benches on which sat the men who were +to compose the jury. Some way from these men, huddled together in +a kind of big pew, stood seven people--three women and four men. + +"D'you see the witnesses?" whispered the inspector, pointing these +out to her. He supposed her to know one of them with familiar +knowledge, but, if that were so, she made no sign. + +Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little +platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting +guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would sit. And to +the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also raised +considerably above the jury. + +Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than +the scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that +bright April day, in the village inn. There the coroner had sat on +the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped +forward one by one, and taken their place before him. + +Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely +die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that +curious box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat +the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart. + +But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman +witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the +centre of attention and attraction to the general public. It was +plain each was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress +in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the attention of all +London--it might almost be said of the whole world. + +Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was +which. Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who +had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten +seconds of the double crime being committed? The woman who, aroused +by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed to her window and +seen the murderer's shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog? + +Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most +circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it +was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed. + +Those two women now before her had been interrogated and +cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by +representatives of every newspaper in London. It was from what they +had both said--unluckily their accounts materially differed--that +that official description of The Avenger had been worked up--that +which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow +of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel. + +As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon +companion of the dead. + +Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze +on another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed +through the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the +coroner's high dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, +was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her +place, there had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now +every seat at the table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking +men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, +before him. + +"Them's the reporters," whispered her friend. "They don't like +coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last to go. +At an ordinary inquest there are only two--maybe three--attending, +but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well applied for a +pass to that reporters' table." + +He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. "Now let +me see what I can do for you--" + +Then he beckoned to the coroner's officer: "Perhaps you could put +this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a +relation of the deceased, but doesn't want to be--" He whispered +a word or two, and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at +Mrs. Bunting with interest. "I'll put her just here," he muttered. +"There's no one coming there to-day. You see, there are only seven +witnesses--sometimes we have a lot more than that." + +And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite to where the +seven witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set faces, ready +--aye, more than ready--to play their part. + +For a moment every eye in the court was focused on Mrs. Bunting, but +soon those who had stared so hungrily, so intently, at her, realised +that she had nothing to do with the case. She was evidently there +as a spectator, and, more fortunate than most, she had a "friend at +court," and so was able to sit comfortably, instead of having to +stand in the crowd. + +But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon some of the +important-looking gentlemen she had seen downstairs came into the +court, and were ushered over to her seat while two or three among +them, including the famous writer whose face was so familiar that +it almost seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly acquaintance, +were accommodated at the reporters' table. + +"Gentlemen, the Coroner." + +The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat down again; +over the spectators there fell a sudden silence. + +And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the +first time, that informal little country inquest of long ago. + +First came the "Oyez! Oyez!" the old Norman-French summons to all +whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death +--sudden, unexplained, terrible--of a fellow-being. + +The jury--there were fourteen of them--all stood up again. They +raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words +of their oath. + +Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences 'twixt the coroner +and his officer. + +Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies--he +quickly corrected himself--the body, for, technically speaking, the +inquest just about to be held only concerned one body. + +And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could +be heard through the court, the coroner--a clever-looking gentleman, +though not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to +occupy so important a position on so important a day--gave a little +history, as it were, of the terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes. + +He spoke very clearly, warming to his work as he went on. + +He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of +The Avenger's former victims. "I only went through professional +curiosity," he threw in by way of parenthesis, "little thinking, +gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would +ever be held in my court." + +On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and +though that little was known to every one of his listeners. + +Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her +whisper to another: "Drawing it out all he can; that's what he's +doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!" And then the other +whispered back, so low that she could only just catch the words, +"Aye, aye. But he's a good chap--I knew his father; we were at +school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know--he does +to-day, at any rate." + +****** + +She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which +would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm +them. But the word, the sentence, was never uttered. + +And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did +throw out a hint which might mean anything--or nothing. + +"I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence to-day as +will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has +committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes." + +Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner's firm, +determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any +new evidence--evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was +ignorant? And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart +gave a sudden leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the +witness-box--a policeman who had not been sitting with the other +witnesses. + +But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply +the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like +tones he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, +foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it +slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place +--no, he was making a mistake--that was the place where the other +body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had got rather +mixed up between the two bodies--that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy +Hurtle. + +And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: "For the purpose +of this inquiry," he said, "we must, I think, for a moment consider +the two murders together." + +After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he +proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of +The Avenger's acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood +of sick fear and--and, yes, remorse. + +Up to now she had given very little thought--if, indeed, any thought +--to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had +filled her thoughts,--he and those who were trying to track him down. +But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here to-day. She +wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman's +words had conjured up out of her mind--out of her memory. + +And then there came an eager stir of excitement and of attention +throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of +the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to +his place. + +Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, +remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that +poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman +had looked so cheerful, so--so well pleased with herself till a +minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round +her as a hunted animal might have done. + +But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his +manner, just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen +Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl. + +After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words +of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. +At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed +to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, +as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, +stifled screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively +jumped out of bed and rushed to her window. + +The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. "Let me +see! Here is the plan. Yes--I think I understand that the house +in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes +were committed?" + +And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face +the alley, but the window of the witness's bedroom faced the alley. + +"A distinction without a difference," said the coroner testily. +"And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when +you looked out." + +There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman +broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. +"I saw 'im!" she cried. "I shall never forget it--no, not till my +dying day!" And she looked round defiantly. + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had +had with a person who slept under this woman's room. That person +had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that +night--that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept +lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, +she would have heard if there had been either the scream described +by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed. + +"We quite understand that you think you saw the"--the coroner +hesitated--"the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible +crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. +In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you +say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your +window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like." + +The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured +handkerchief she held in her hand. + +"Let us begin at the beginning," said the coroner patiently. "What +sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from +the passage?" + +"It was just a black 'at" said the witness at last, in a husky, +rather anxious tone. + +"Yes--just a black hat. And a coat--were you able to see what +sort of a coat he was wearing?" + +"'E 'adn't got no coat" she said decidedly. "No coat at all! I +remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was +so cold--everybody as can wears some sort o' coat this weather!" + +A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and +apparently not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here +jumped up and put out his hand. + +"Yes?" the coroner turned to him. + +"I just want to say that this 'ere witness--if her name is Lizzie +Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat--a big, heavy +coat. I've got it here, in this bit of paper." + +"I never said so!" cried the woman passionately. "I was made to +say all those things by the young man what came to me from the +Evening Sun. Just put in what 'e liked in 'is paper, 'e did--not +what I said at all!" + +At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. + +"In future," said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who +had now sat down again, "you must ask any question you wish to ask +through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my +examination of the witness." + +But this interruption, this--this accusation, had utterly upset +the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man +she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall--no, +he was short. He was thin--no, he was a stoutish young man. And +as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an +acrimonious discussion. + +Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had +seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back +--so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that +she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard +who had taken down her first account--in fact, to him she had +declared confidently that the man had carried nothing--nothing at +all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down. + +One fact--if fact it could be called--the coroner did elicit. +Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed +her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. + +"He looked up at you?" repeated the coroner. "You said nothing of +that in your examination." + +"I said nothink because I was scared--nigh scared to death!" + +"If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was +dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?" + +But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his +desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman's story. + +"Dark!" she answered dramatically. "Dark, almost black! If you can +take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look." + +And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the +coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. + +Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. + +This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. +Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse +situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the +crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some +food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, +breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been +drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and +because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. + +Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much +from what this witness had said that the official description of The +Avenger had been composed--that description which had brought such +comfort to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul. + +This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the +newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and +positive. + +"It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with string." + +She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man +to carry such a parcel--that was what had made her notice it. But +when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night +--so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, +though every step was familiar. + +When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears +told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna +Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had +nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that +she admitted reluctantly that "Anny" would have been such a nice, +respectable young woman if it hadn't been for the drink. + +Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that +of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very +respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. +He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn't seen his +wife for two years; he hadn't had news of her for six months. Before +she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and--and yes, +mother. + +Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or +imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered +woman was in the box. He had had later news of his unfortunate +daughter than her husband had had, but of course he could throw no +light at all on her murder or murderer. + +A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the +public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He +had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it +looking cast down, uneasy. + +And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly +unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made +the utmost much to Mrs. Bunting's indignation. But neither coroner +nor jury--and they, after all, were the people who mattered-- +thought a great deal of it. + +There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had +been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, "They are +now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He's been in every big murder case for +the last thirty years. He's sure to have something interesting to +say. It was really to hear him I came." + +But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with +which he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a +stir among the general public, or, rather, among those spectators +who stood near the low wooden door which separated the official +part of the court from the gallery. + +The coroner's officer, with an apologetic air, approached the +coroner, and handed him up an envelope. And again in an instant, +there fell absolute silence on the court. + +Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced +down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up. + +"Mr.--" then he glanced down again. "Mr.--ah--Mr.--is it Cannot?" +he said doubtfully, "may come forward." + +There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned. + +A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, +with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from +the place where he had been standing among the general public, to +the witness-box. + +"This is somewhat out of order, Mr.--er--Cannot," said the +coroner severely. "You should have sent me this note before the +proceedings began. This gentleman," he said, addressing the jury, +"informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to +reveal in connection with our investigation." + +"I have remained silent--I have locked what I knew within my own +breast"--began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, "because I am so +afraid of the Press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, +that my house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. . . . +I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things--the +state of things I imagine--might cause her death--indeed, I hope +she will never read a report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she +has an excellent trained nurse--" + +"You will now take the oath," said the coroner sharply. He already +regretted having allowed this absurd person to have his say. + +Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum which had been +lacking in most of those who had preceded him. + +"I will address myself to the jury," he began. + +"You will do nothing of the sort," broke in the coroner. "Now, +please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who +is the--the--" + +"The Avenger," put in Mr. Cannot promptly. + +"The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met +him on the very night he committed the murder we are now +investigating?" + +"I do so declare," said Mr. Cannot confidently. "Though in the best +of health myself,"--he beamed round the court, a now amused, +attentive court--"it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to +have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private +affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out +at so undue an hour as one o'clock in the morning--" + +Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into +broad smiles. + +"Yes," went on the witness solemnly, "I was with a sick friend--in +fact, I may say a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. +I will not reveal my exact dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my +notepaper. It is not necessary to reveal it, but you will understand +me when I say that in order to come home I had to pass through a +portion of the Regent's Park; and it was there--to be exact, about +the middle of Prince's Terrace--when a very peculiar-looking +individual stopped and accosted me." + +Mrs. Bunting's hand shot up to her breast. A feeling of deadly fear +took possession of her. + +"I mustn't faint," she said to herself hurriedly. "I mustn't faint! +Whatever's the matter with me?" She took out her bottle of +smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff. + +"He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. Coroner, with a +very odd-looking face. I should say an educated man--in common +parlance, a gentleman. What drew my special attention to him was +that he was talking aloud to himself--in fact, he seemed to be +repeating poetry. I give you my word, I had no thought of The +Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, I thought this +gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a man who'd got away from his +keeper. The Regent's Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you, is a +most quiet and soothing neighbourhood--" + +And then a member of the general public gave a loud guffaw. + +"I appeal to you; sir," the old gentleman suddenly cried out "to +protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come here with +any other object than that of doing my duty as a citizen!" + +"I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant," said the +coroner stiffly. "Time is going on, and I have another important +witness to call--a medical witness. Kindly tell me, as shortly as +possible, what made you suppose that this stranger could possibly +be--" with an effort he brought out for the first time since the +proceedings began, the words, "The Avenger?" + +"I am coming to that!" said Mr. Cannot hastily. "I am coming to +that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It was a foggy +night, but not as foggy as it became later. And just when we were +passing one another, I and this man, who was talking aloud to +himself--he, instead of going on, stopped and turned towards +me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the more so that +there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as +soothingly as possible, 'A very foggy night, sir.' And he said, +'Yes--yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of +dark and salutary deeds.' A very strange phrase, sir, that--'dark +and salutary deeds.'" He looked at the coroner expectantly-- + +"Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person +go off in the direction of--of King's Cross, for instance?" + +"No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. "No, I must honestly +say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then +he crossed the road and was lost in the fog." + +"That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. "I thank +you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently +consider important information." + +Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some +of those present tittered rather foolishly. + +As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked +up at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a +murmur of talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard +quite distinctly what it was that he said: + +"One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The +man carried a bag--a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left +hand. It was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled +knife." + +Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She remembered suddenly +that she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag. +And then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a +single reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put down that last +remark of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one of them had heard it. + +Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And +then silence did fall on the court. + +"One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May I ask to be +accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see +there is some room left on the witnesses' bench." And, without +waiting for permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was +bending over her. + +"Perhaps you'd like to come along now," he said urgently.--"I +don't suppose you want to hear the medical evidence. It's always +painful for a female to hear that. And there'll be an awful rush +when the inquest's over. I could get you away quietly now." + +She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed +him obediently. + +Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty, +room downstairs. + +"I'll let you out the back way," he said. "I expect you're tired, +ma'am, and will like to get home to a cup o' tea." + +"I don't know how to thank you!" There were tears in her eyes. +She was trembling with excitement and emotion. "You have been good +to me." + +"Oh, that's nothing," he said a little awkwardly. "I expect you +went though a pretty bad time, didn't you?" + +"Will they be having that old gentleman again?" she spoke in a +whisper, and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look. + +"Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We're troubled with a lot of +those sort of people, you know, ma'am, and they often do have funny +names, too. You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City, +or what not; then they retires when they gets about sixty, and +they're fit to hang themselves with dulness. Why, there's hundreds +of lunies of the sort to be met in London. You can't go about at +night and not meet 'em. Plenty of 'em!" + +"Then you don't think there was anything in what he said?" she +ventured. + +"In what that old gent said? Goodness--no!" he laughed +good-naturedly. "But I'll tell you what I do think. If it wasn't +for the time that had gone by, I should believe that the second +witness had seen that crafty devil--" he lowered his voice. "But, +there, Dr. Gaunt declares most positively--so did two other medical +gentlemen--that the poor creatures had been dead hours when they +was found. Medical gentlemen are always very positive about their +evidence. They have to be--otherwise who'd believe 'em? If we'd +time I could tell you of a case in which--well, 'twas all because +of Dr. Gaunt that the murderer escaped. We all knew perfectly well +the man we caught did it, but he was able to prove an alibi as to +the time Dr. Gaunt said the poor soul was killed." + + + +CHAPTER XX + +It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, +but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go +to Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think of +nothing. + +Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she +began listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt +that it would do her more good to stay out in the air than take the +train. Also she would thus put off the moment--the moment to which +she looked forward with dread and dislike--when she would have to +invent a circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor, +and what the doctor had said to her. + +Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest +in other people's ailments, the more interest that he was himself so +remarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn't +tell him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that the +doctor had told her. + +As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, +and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest +edition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. "Avenger +Inquest?" they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" At +one place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the +pavement by stones, she stopped and looked down. "Opening of the +Avenger Inquest. What is he really like? Full description." On yet +another ran the ironic query: "Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?" + +And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. +Bunting turned sick--so sick and faint that she did what she had +never done before in her life--she pushed her way into a +public-house, and, putting two pennies down on the counter, asked +for, and received, a glass of cold water. + +As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind +dwelling persistently--not on the inquest at which she had been +present, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims. + +Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the +mortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, though +cold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this time +yesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul-- +alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers had +already interviewed, particularly merry and bright. + +Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of +The Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered +wearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear +which encompassed her night and day. + +As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. +The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others +exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front +yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, +keep any secret closely hidden. + +For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from her +mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were +concentrated on Bunting--Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what +had happened during her absence--whether the lodger had rung his +bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with +him? + +She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a +pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must +have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, +for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door. + +"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in, +Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now--and you +out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all +right?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety. + +And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No," +she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and +waited, but he never came in at all. 'Twas my own fault," she added +quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though +she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, +she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her +years ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night," she +said. "Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance +of finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to go out +to people at all times of day." + +"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said. + +And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the +doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, +would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained +she'd known him a long time. + +She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired +voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'd +be very grateful for a cup now--if you'd just make it for me over +the ring." + +"'Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in and sit down, +my dear. Don't trouble to take your things off now--wait till +you've had tea." + +And she obeyed him. "Where's Daisy?" she asked suddenly. "I thought +the girl would be back by the time I got home." + +"She ain't coming home to-day"--there was an odd, sly, smiling look +on Bunting's face. + +"Did she send a telegram?" asked Mrs. Bunting. + +"No. Young Chandler's just come in and told me. He's been over +there and,--would you believe it, Ellen?--he's managed to make +friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain't it? He +went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, +and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money +to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this +evening--she and Daisy--to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o' +such a thing?" + +"Very nice for them, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bunting absently. But +she was pleased--pleased to have her mind taken off herself. "Then +when is that girl coming home?" she asked patiently. + +"Well, it appears that Chandler's got to-morrow morning off too-- +this evening and to-morrow morning. He'll be on duty all night, +but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early +dinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?" + +"Yes. That'll be all right," she said. "I don't grudge the girl +her bit of pleasure. One's only young once. By the way, did the +lodger ring while I was out?" + +Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to +see the kettle boil. "No," he said. "Come to think of it, it's +rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. +Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all +about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened +while you was out, Ellen." + +"Something else happened?" she said in a startled voice. Getting +up from her chair she came towards her husband: "What happened? +Who came?" + +"Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a +young lady's birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter +--one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing--fell out +just at the last minute and so they had to send for me." + +His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his +old friend's business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very +badly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for +ever so long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this new +man had never employed him--no, not once. + +"I hope you didn't make yourself too cheap?" said his wife jealously. + +"No, that I didn't! I hum'd and haw'd a lot; and I could see the +fellow was quite worried--in fact, at the end he offered me +half-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!" + +Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long +time. + +"You won't mind being alone, here? I don't count the lodger--he's +no good--" Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted +to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so +unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that +she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been +so in the days when he got more jobs. + +She stared at him, a little suspiciously. "I be afraid?" she echoed. +"Certainly not. Why should I be? I've never been afraid before. +What d'you exactly mean by that, Bunting?" + +"Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone +on this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young +fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door." + +"I shouldn't have been frightened if he'd just been an ordinary +stranger," she said shortly. "He said something silly to me--just +in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I +feel better now." + +As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise +outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers. + +"I'll just run out," said Bunting apologetically, "and see what +happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue +about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it-- +when he wasn't talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He's +on to-night, luckily not till twelve o'clock; plenty of time to +escort the two of 'em back after the play. Besides, he said +he'll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto' +goes on too long for him to take 'em home." + +"On to-night?" repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever for?" + +"Well, you see, The Avenger's always done 'em in couples, so to +speak. They've got an idea that he'll have a try again to-night. +However, even so, Joe's only on from midnight till five o'clock. +Then he'll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, +Fine thing to be young, ain't it, Ellen?" + +"I can't believe that he'd go out on such a night as this!" + +"What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken +so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. + +"What do I mean?" she repeated--and a great fear clutched at her +heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. + +"Why, by saying he won't go out. Of course, he has to go out. +Besides, he'll have been to the play as it is. 'Twould be a pretty +thing if the police didn't go out, just because it was cold!" + +"I--I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bunting. She looked +at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter +those true words. + +"He don't take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting sombrely. +"I take it the man's dead to all human feeling--saving, of +course, revenge." + +"So that's your idea about him, is it?" She looked across at her +husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between +them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. +"D'you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young +man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?" + +"Let me see," he said slowly. "I thought that 'twas from the bedroom +window a woman saw him?" + +"No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband's +breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most +respectable-looking woman of the two," said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. + +And then, seeing her husband's look of utter, blank astonishment, +she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly +mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. +"There, now," she said; "here I am gossiping all about nothing when +I ought to be seeing about the lodger's supper. It was someone in +the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The +Avenger." + +Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the +gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to +buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous +discussion. + +As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, +Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite +unnaturally cold even for the time of year. + +She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed +by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that +stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going +to be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and +she didn't like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suit +her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, +in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to +cheer her up after he had gone. + +Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little +sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, +at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little +ease, listening--listening. . . . + +She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth's +supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so +as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so. + +Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she +listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good +fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! +But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was +moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his +wont at this time of the evening. + +She knocked, and then waited a moment. + +There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in +the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard--or so Mr. Sleuth's landlady +could have sworn. + +There was a pause--she knocked again. + +"Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and +carried in the tray. + +"You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?" +he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice. + +"I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I lost count of +the time. I thought you'd like your breakfast early, as you had +dinner rather sooner than usual." + +"Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." He looked at +her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible +questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes. + +"Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look well, Mrs. +Bunting." + +"No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went over to see a doctor +this afternoon, to Ealing, sir." + +"I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting"--the lodger's voice had +become softer, kinder in quality. + +"It always does me good to see the doctor," said Mrs. Bunting +evasively. + +And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth's face. "Doctors are a +maligned body of men," he said. "I'm glad to hear you speak well of +them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable +to err, but I assure you they do their best." + +"That I'm sure they do, sir"--she spoke heartily, sincerely. +Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously. + +And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger's one hot dish +upon it, she went towards the door. "Wouldn't you like me to bring +up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it's bitterly cold--getting +colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in--" she +looked at him deprecatingly. + +And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. +Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full +height. + +"What d'you mean?" he stammered. "Why did you say that, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an +awful questioning look over his face. + +"I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He's got a job to-night. He's +going to act as waiter at a young lady's birthday party. I was +thinking it's a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, +too"--she brought out her words jerkily. + +Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. "Ah!" +he said. "Dear me--I'm sorry to hear that! I hope your husband +will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting." + +And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. + +****** + +Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy +washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. + +Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. + +"Time for you to dress," she cried out cheerfully, "and I've got a +little bit of fire for you to dress by." + +As he exclaimed at her extravagance, "Well, 'twill be pleasant for +me, too; keep me company-like while you're out; and make the room +nice and warm when you come in. You'll be fair perished, even +walking that short way," she said. + +And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs +and cleared away Mr. Sleuth's supper. + +The lodger said no word while she was so engaged--no word at all. + +He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him +to do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees. + +Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, a +great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting's +heart. He was such a--a--she searched for a word in her mind, but +could only find the word "gentle"--he was such a nice, gentle +gentleman, was Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving his +money about, as he had done the first day or two, and with some +concern his landlady had seen that the store had diminished a good +deal. A very simple calculation had made her realise that almost the +whole of that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, had +passed through her hands. + +Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his +landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. +And Mrs. Bunting's conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly +ever used that room upstairs--that room for which he had paid extra +so generously. If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty +man in Baker Street,--and now that the ice had been broken between +them it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a very +well-trained, experienced waiter--then she thought she would tell +Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was +now doing. + +She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. + +"Good-night, sir," she said at last. + +Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. + +"I hope you'll sleep well, sir." + +"Yes, I'm sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a +little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been +studying all day I require a little exercise." + +"Oh, I wouldn't go out to-night," she said deprecatingly. "'Tisn't +fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold." + +"And yet--and yet"--he looked at her attentively--"there will +probably be many people out in the streets to-night." + +"A many more than usual, I fear, sir." + +"Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a strange thing, +Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse +themselves should carry their revels far into the night?" + +"Oh, I wasn't thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking"--she +hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the +words, "of the police." + +"The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or +three times with a nervous gesture. "But what is man--what is man's +puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over +whose feet God has set a guard?" + +Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up +his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then +she had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, +that--was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? + +"Very true, sir," she said respectfully. "But Providence means us +to take care o' ourselves too." And then she closed the door behind +her and went downstairs. + +But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She +came into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think +the next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger's meal on +her table. 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. It even +occurred to her to do the one thing that might have quieted her +excited brain--to get a book, one of those detective stories of +which Bunting had a slender store in the next room, and then, +lighting the gas, to sit up and read. + +No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read in +bed, and she was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything that +she had been told was wrong. . . . + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +It was a very cold night--so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was the +atmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors. + +Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved a +really pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his way +this evening, all the more welcome because it was quite unexpected! +The young lady at whose birthday party he had been present in +capacity of waiter had come into a fortune that day, and she had had +the gracious, the surprising thought of presenting each of the hired +waiters with a sovereign! + +This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had gone +to Bunting's heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservative +principles; only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet, +old-fashioned, respectable, gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom +those nasty Radicals know nothing and care less! + +But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been. +Slackening his footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern of +how queer his wife had seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous, +so "jumpy," that he didn't know what to make of her sometimes. She +had never been really good-tempered--your capable, self-respecting +woman seldom is--but she had never been like what she was now. And +she didn't get better as the days went on; in fact she got worse. +Of late she had been quite hysterical, and for no reason at all! +Take that little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. Ellen knew +quite well he often had to go about in some kind of disguise, and yet +how she had gone on, quite foolish-like--not at all as one would +have expected her to do. + +There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in more +senses than one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had taken +to talking in her sleep. "No, no, no!" she had cried out, only the +night before. "It isn't true--I won't have it said--it's a lie!" +And there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her usually +quiet, mincing voice. + +****** + +Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves. + +He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walking +more quickly. + +As he tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sight +of his lodger walking along the opposite side of the solitary street +--one of those short streets leading off the broad road which +encircles Regent's Park. + +Well! This was a funny time o' night to be taking a stroll for +pleasure, like! + +Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth's tall, thin figure +was rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. His +left arm was thrust into his long Inverness cape, and so was quite +hidden, but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger +were carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung down straight. + +Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talked +aloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who live +much alone. It was clear that he had not yet become aware of the +proximity of his landlord. + +Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger was +certainly a most eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not, +that that odd, luny-like gentleman should have made all the +difference to his, Bunting's, and Mrs. Bunting's happiness and +comfort in life? + +Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for +the first time, of this perfect lodger's one fault--his odd dislike +to meat, and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food. + +But there, you can't have everything! The more so that the lodger +was not one of those crazy vegetarians who won't eat eggs and cheese. +No, he was reasonable in this, as in everything else connected with +his dealings with the Buntings. + +As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife. +Indeed, he had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr. +Sleuth had been with them, and when his landlord had had occasion +to wait on him the lodger had remained silent. Indeed, their +gentleman had made it very clear that he did not like either the +husband or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitely +asked to do so. + +Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genial +conversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increased +his general comfortable sense of satisfaction. + +So it was that the butler, still an active man for his years, +crossed over the road, and, stepping briskly forward, began trying +to overtake Mr. Sleuth. But the more he hurried along, the more the +other hastened, and that without ever turning round to see whose +steps he could hear echoing behind him on the now freezing pavement. + +Mr. Sleuth's own footsteps were quite inaudible--an odd circumstance, +when you came to think of it--as Bunting did think of it later, +lying awake by Mrs. Bunting's side in the pitch darkness. What it +meant of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes. +Now Bunting had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down to +him to clean. He had always supposed the lodger had only one pair of +outdoor boots. + +The two men--the pursued and the pursuer--at last turned into the +Marylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home. +Plucking up courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly +on the still air: + +"Mr. Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!" + +The lodger stopped and turned round. + +He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physical +condition, that the sweat was pouring down his face. + +"Ah! So it's you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and +I hurried on. I wish I'd known that it was you; there are so many +queer characters about at night in London." + +"Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have business +out of doors would be out such a night as this. It is cold, sir!" + +And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there suddenly crept +the query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth's own business out could be +on this bitter night. + +"Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words +came out sharp and quick through his thin lips. "I can't say that +I find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air always +becomes milder." + +"Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind. Why, it +freezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, there's nothing like +walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, +sir." + +Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange +way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, +on the wall side, to his landlord. + +"I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over Primrose Hill to +see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, +and then, coming back, I lost my way." + +Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the +shabby, paved court in front of the house--that gate which now was +never locked. + +Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged +path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, stepping +aside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front +door for him. + +As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left hand +brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was +wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth against +which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from +stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet--wet and +gluey. + +Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other +that he placed the key in the lock of the door. + +The two men passed into the hall together. + +The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up +road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the +lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of +mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful +immediate danger. + +A stuffless voice--the voice of his first wife, the long-dead +girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays--uttered into +his ear the words, "Take care!" + +And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, +though not loud. + +"I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, +foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but I +brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some +thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose +Hill." + +"No, sir, no. I didn't notice nothing. 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. Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and +dipped a hand into the water-jug. + +"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came a +voice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily. + +"I'm just washing my hands." + +"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such +a thing--putting your hand into the water in which I was going to +wash my face to-morrow morning!" + +"I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away. +You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?" + +She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting +lay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more +uncomfortable than he was already. + +At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence +by telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, +but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if +it had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside. + +Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook +the bed. + +"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning in +the hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly. + +He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as +she had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money--or, +rather, Mr. Sleuth's good money. Since he had come to be their lodger +they had not had to touch their rent money. + +Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and +so to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and +wife lay awake till dawn. + +The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he felt +curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes. + +Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven +o'clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the +blind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the +way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, +curiously still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage. +As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already +lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being pushed +through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful +sleep. + +He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, +shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper +wide open on the table, and bent over it. + +As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression +of intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he +had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet +was not there. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit +the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea. + +While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: + +"Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" Quickly he hurried in +response to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my dear? I +won't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly, rather +foolishly. + +She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face. + +"What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously. + +"I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. "But you was +so cross last night that I simply didn't dare tell you about it." + +"Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice. + +"I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her +birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice bit of money, and +she gave each of us waiters a sovereign." + +Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her +eyes. + +"What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly. "You didn't +say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about +it yesterday." + +"Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner." + +"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?" +said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting's +round face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing +if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit--especially now that +they were doing so well! + +"Daisy'll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly. +"It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all +she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, 'twould +be cruel--cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and +that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that +even you would see the justice o' that!" + +But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. + +Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling +now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, +his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill--ill and wizened. +He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything. +She had never been one to grouse about herself. + +"The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed +genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn't +the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now +was it? And yet he must 'a been out a long time if what he said +was true." + +"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the +crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day-- +that they do! But go along now; I want to get up." + +He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire +and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. + +Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with +a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible +thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his +head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No +doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled--that was what had happened; +though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against +a dead animal. + +Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for one to be +always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It +made one go dotty--that's what it did. + +And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a +loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before +he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, +Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and +shawl. + +"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't you +trouble." + +He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. + +She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the +telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said. +"If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she tore +the envelope open--"Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's +only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this +morning. Then you'll have to go." + +She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said. +"There it is, Bunting. You just read it." + +"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.-- +Chandler." + +"I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. +"I thought Joe's hours was as regular as clockwork--that nothing +could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose +it'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock? It may have +left off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again just +now. I'm pretty tired this morning." + +"You start about twelve," said his wife quickly. + +"That'll give plenty of time." + +The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a +letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a +little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at +any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting +often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there +came no sounds at all from overhead. + +Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more +cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a +pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, +before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +"Daisy will be surprised to see you--not to say disappointed!" she +observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at +the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made +him stay on a little longer. "There's no such great hurry as that," +she said good-temperedly. "It'll do quite well if you're there by +half-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't help +with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard." + +But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and +his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, +less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming +and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously +along through the slush. + +Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a +knock at the door--a now very familiar ring and knock. "Joe thinks +Daisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to herself. + +Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's voice. "Don't +be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not exactly scared, +she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to +represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, +with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his +seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. + +"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. "But I thought +I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got +my telegram all right? I couldn't send no other kind of message." + +"She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone long after her." +Then, struck by a look in his eyes, "Joe, what's the matter?" she +asked quickly. + +There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, +while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very +pale. + +"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no business to say +anything about it--but I will tell you!" + +He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind +him. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered. "But this time +no one is to know anything about it--not for the present, I mean," +he corrected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got a clue-- +and a good clue, too, this time." + +"But where--and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting. + +"Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the +present"--he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. "The +poor soul was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by +chance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his +way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd be able to get an +ambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I +'spect he'll get promotion for that!" + +"What about the clue?" asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. "You said +there was a clue?" + +"Well, I don't rightly understand about the clue myself. All I +knows is it's got something to do with a public-house, 'The Hammer +and Tongs,' which isn't far off there. They feels sure The Avenger +was in the bar just on closing-time." + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural +the police should suspect a public-house loafer. "Then that's why you +wasn't able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?" + +He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll all be in the last +editions of the evening newspapers--it can't be kep' out. There'd be +too much of a row if 'twas!" + +"Are you going off to that public-house now?" she asked. + +"Yes, I am. I've got a awk'ard job--to try and worm something out +of the barmaid." + +"Something out of the barmaid?" repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. +"Why, whatever for?" + +He came and stood close to her. "They think 'twas a gentleman," he +whispered. + +"A gentleman?" + +Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. "Whatever +makes them think such a silly thing as that?" + +"Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with a +leather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass of +milk. And what d'you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! +He wouldn't take no change--just made the girl a present of it! +That's why the young woman what served him seems quite unwilling to +give him away. She won't tell now what he was like. She doesn't +know what he's wanted for, and we don't want her to know just yet. +That's one reason why nothing's being said public about it. But +there! I really must be going now. My time'll be up at three +o'clock. I thought of coming in on the way back, and asking you for +a cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," but there was no +welcome in her tired voice. + +She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to her +kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Bunting +and Daisy might be home, and they'd want something, too. Margaret +always had breakfast even when "the family" were away, unnaturally +early. + +As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of all +thought. But it is very difficult to do that when one is in a state +of torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler what +they supposed that man who had gone into the public-house was really +like. It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that inquisitive +young chap had never met face to face. + +At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang--a quiet little tinkle. But when +she went up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room. + +Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the cloth +on the table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps coming +down the stairs, and her quick ears detected the slight whirring +sound which showed that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had +already lit the stove; that meant that he would carry out some +elaborate experiment this afternoon. + +"Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very quiet and +still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known +it quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A +very pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in +the Marylebone Road." + +"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day--too quiet to my +thinking. 'Tain't natural-like." + +The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air. + +"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, +hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window +and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?" + +And his landlady obeyed him. + +"It's only Bunting, sir--Bunting and his daughter." + +"Oh! Is that all?" + +Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She +had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that +first day when she had been showing him her rooms. + +Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if +aware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face +up towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at the +lodger, whose face she could only dimly discern. + +"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. +And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. +Bunting very much aback. + +"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little read +nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, +for youth, for innocence." + +"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfast +will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now." + +He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child +rebuked might have done. + +And then his landlady left him. + +"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right. +And Daisy's a lucky girl--that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her +five shillings." + +But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought +to do. + +"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little +disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was +that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time +went on and he didn't come." + +"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly. + +"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and +fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?" + +"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along, +child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself +useful." + +And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her +stepmother didn't want her to hear. + +"I've something to tell you, Bunting." + +"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?" + +"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want +anyone to know about it--not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over +and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again." + +Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the +mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much +concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it. + +There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a +great effort to appear unconcerned. + +"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?" + +She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!" +she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror +in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum." + +And he acquiesced. + +"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away +the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried +upstairs. + +Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. +"I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? +I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I +saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, +but I should like to do so now." + +She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly, +"the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun." + +Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed. +"You can tell him that I don't want it back again." + +On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third +of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in +rather large characters: + +"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic +reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which +was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his +double murder ten days ago." + +She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. + +"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffled +voice from the upper landing. + +She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper back +again, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out of +the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, +listening and waiting--Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; +Daisy for the knock which would herald Joe Chandler. + +And about four there came the now familiar sound. + +Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the +front door she whispered, "We haven't said anything to Daisy yet. +Young girls can't keep secrets." + +Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked the low character +he had assumed to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, +and tired out. + +Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of +welcome, when she saw how cleverly he was disguised. + +"I never!" she exclaimed. "What a difference it do make, to be +sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. Chandler." + +And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much +that he quite cheered up. Bunting had been very dull and quiet +all that afternoon. + +"It won't take me ten minutes to make myself respectable again," +said the young man rather ruefully. + +His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came +to the conclusion that he had been unsuccessful--that he had failed, +that is, in getting any information worth having. And though, in a +sense, they all had a pleasant tea together, there was an air of +constraint, even of discomfort, over the little party. + +Bunting felt it hard that he couldn't ask the questions that were +trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during +the last month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, +but now it seemed almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of +half suspense. There was one important fact he longed to know, +and at last came his opportunity of doing so, for Joe Chandler rose +to leave, and this time it was Bunting who followed him out into +the hall. + +"Where did it happen?" he whispered. "Just tell me that, Joe?" + +"Primrose Hill," said the other briefly. "You'll know all about it +in a minute or two, for it'll be all in the last editions of the +evening papers. That's what's been arranged." + +"No arrest I suppose?" + +Chandler shook his head despondently. "No," he said, "I'm inclined +to think the Yard was on a wrong tack altogether this time. But one +can only do one's best. I don't know if Mrs. Bunting told you I'd +got to question a barmaid about a man who was in her place just +before closing-time. Well, she's said all she knew, and it's as +clear as daylight to me that the eccentric old gent she talks about +was only a harmless luny. He gave her a sovereign just because she +told him she was a teetotaller!" He laughed ruefully. + +Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. "Well, that's a queer +thing for a barmaid to be!" he exclaimed. "She's niece to the people +what keeps the public," explained Chandler; and then he went out of +the front door with a cheerful "So long!" + +When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy had disappeared. +She had gone downstairs with the tray. "Where's my girl?" he said +irritably. + +"She's just taken the tray downstairs." + +He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called out sharply, +"Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down there?" + +"Yes, father," came her eager, happy voice. + +"Better come up out of that cold kitchen." + +He turned and came back to his wife. "Ellen, is the lodger in? I +haven't heard him moving about. Now mind what I says, please! I +don't want Daisy to be mixed up with him." + +"Mr. Sleuth don't seem very well to-day," answered Mrs. Bunting +quietly. "'Tain't likely I should let Daisy have anything to do +with him. Why, she's never even seen him. 'Tain't likely I should +allow her to begin waiting on him now." + +But though she was surprised and a little irritated by the tone in +which Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of the truth illumined her mind. +So accustomed had she become to bearing alone the burden of her awful +secret, that it would have required far more than a cross word or +two, far more than the fact that Bunting looked ill and tired, for +her to have come to suspect that her secret was now shared by another, +and that other her husband. + +Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trembled at the +thought of her house being invaded by the police, but that was only +because she had always credited the police with supernatural powers +of detection. That they should come to know the awful fact she kept +hidden in her breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a +natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly suspect it appeared +beyond the range of possibility. + +And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering +over the fire--saying nothing, doing nothing. + +"Why, father, ain't you well?" the girl asked more than once. + +And, looking up, he would answer, "Yes, I'm well enough, my girl, +but I feels cold. It's awful cold. I never did feel anything like +the cold we've got just now." + + * * * + +At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside. + +"The Avenger again!" "Another horrible crime!" "Extra speshul +edition!"--such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through +the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room. + +Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy's cheeks grew +pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled. + +"Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D'you hear that?" she exclaimed +childishly, and even clapped her hands. "I do wish Mr. Chandler +had been here. He would 'a been startled!" + +"Don't, Daisy!" and Bunting frowned. + +Then, getting up, he stretched himself. "It's fair getting on my +mind," he said, "these horrible things happening. I'd like to get +right away from London, just as far as I could--that I would!" + +"Up to John-o'-Groat's?" said Daisy, laughing. And then, "Why, +father, ain't you going out to get a paper?" + +"Yes, I suppose I must." + +Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, +he put on his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, +and walked down the flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped +out on the pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys +now stood. + +The boy nearest to him only had the Sun--a late edition of the paper +he had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a +ha'penny rag of which he already knew the main contents. But there +was nothing else to do. + +Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was +bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked +down at the big headlines. For Bunting had been very unfair to the +enterprise of the editor of his favourite evening paper. This +special edition was full of new matter--new matter concerning +The Avenger. + +First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement +that The Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had +chosen quite a new locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising +ground known to Londoners as Primrose Hill. + +"The police," so Bunting read, "are very reserved as to the +circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger's +latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess +several really important clues, and that one of them is concerned +with the half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to reproduce +an outline to-day. (See over page.)" + +And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline +he had already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting +to be a facsimile of the imprint left by The Avenger's rubber sole. + +He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the +space which should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, +sinking feeling of terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had +been tracked by the marks their boots or shoes had made at or near +the scenes of their misdoings. + +Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial +kind was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already +visualised early this very afternoon the little row with which he +dealt each morning--first came his wife's strong, serviceable +boots, then his own two pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and +next to his own Mr. Sleuth's strong, hardly worn, and expensive +buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high-heeled pair +of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for +her trip to London, had ended the row. The girl had worn these +thin shoes persistently, in defiance of Ellen's reproof and advice, +and he, Bunting, had only once had to clean her more sensible +country pair, and that only because the others had become wet though +the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to Scotland Yard. + +Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going +in again, of hearing his wife's sarcastic comments, of parrying +Daisy's eager questions, had become intolerable. So he walked +slowly, trying to put off the evil moment when he would have to tell +them what was in his paper. + +The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite +the house. It was rather to the right of it. And when, having +crossed over the roadway, he walked along the pavement towards his +own gate, he heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side +of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard from the pavement. + +Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward +to drive out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had +trouble, before the cold weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter +there. But to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick +with suspense and fear. + +Was it possible that their place was being watched--already? He +thought it only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited +the police with almost supernatural powers, especially since he +had paid that visit to Scotland Yard. + +But to Bunting's amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who +suddenly loomed up in the dim light. + +Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form +had been quite concealed till he stepped forward from behind the +low wall on to the flagged path leading to the front door. + +The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked +along, the new boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of +hard nail-studded heels rang out on the flat-stones of the narrow +path. + +Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was +his lodger had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. +Sleuth had evidently been out to buy himself another pair of new +boots, and then he had gone inside the gate and had put them on, +placing his old footgear in the paper in which the new pair had +been wrapped. + +The ex-butler waited--waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. +Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had +time to get well away, upstairs. + +Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in +the door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and +coat up in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out +to him. Then he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, +he said sullenly: "There it is! You can see it all for yourself-- +not that there's very much to see," and groped his way to the fire. + +His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. "Whatever have you done to +yourself?" she exclaimed. "You're ill--that's what it is, Bunting. +You got a chill last night!" + +"I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered. "'Twasn't last night, +though; 'twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. +Margaret keeps that housekeeper's room o' hers like a hothouse-- +that's what she does. 'Twas going out from there into the biting +wind, that's what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in +such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, +can stand the life--being out in all weathers like he is." + +Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what +was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. + +"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm," +said his wife testily. "But if you felt so bad, whatever was you +out so long for, Bunting? I thought you'd gone away somewhere! +D'you mean you only went to get the paper?" + +"I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp," he +muttered apologetically. + +"That was a silly thing to do!" + +"Perhaps it was," he admitted meekly. + +Daisy had taken up the paper. "Well, they don't say much," she +said disappointedly. "Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. +Chandler 'll be in soon again. If so, he'll tell us more about it." + +"A young girl like you oughtn't to want to know anything about +murders," said her stepmother severely. "Joe won't think any the +better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I +was you, Daisy, I shouldn't say nothing about it if he does come in +--which I fair tell you I hope he won't. I've seen enough of that +young chap to-day." + +"He didn't come in for long--not to-day," said Daisy, her lip +trembling. + +"I can tell you one thing that'll surprise you, my dear"--Mrs. +Bunting looked significantly at her stepdaughter. She also wanted +to get away from that dread news--which yet was no news. + +"Yes?" said Daisy, rather defiantly. "What is it, Ellen?" + +"Maybe you'll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning. +He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that +you shouldn't be told anything about it." + +"Never!" cried Daisy, much mortified. + +"Yes," went on her stepmother ruthlessly. "You just ask your father +over there if it isn't true." + +"'Tain't a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings," +said Bunting heavily. + +"If I was Joe," went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage, +"I shouldn't want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in +to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that +poor young chap is set upon--mostly, I admit, by your father," she +looked at her husband severely. "But you does your share, too, +Daisy! You asks him this, you asks him that--he's fair puzzled +sometimes. It don't do to be so inquisitive." + +****** + +And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting's part +when young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was +said of the new Avenger murder. + +Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though Daisy said a +word, it was but a word. And Joe Chandler thought he had never +spent a pleasanter evening in his life--for it was he and Daisy +who talked all the time, their elders remaining for the most part +silent. + +Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Margaret. She +described the long, dull hours and the queer jobs her aunt set her +to do--the washing up of all the fine drawing-room china in a big +basin lined with flannel, and how terrified she (Daisy) had been +lest there should come even one teeny little chip to any of it. +Then she went on to relate some of the funny things Aunt Margaret +had told her about "the family." + +There came a really comic tale, which hugely interested and delighted +Chandler. This was of how Aunt Margaret's lady had been taken in by +an impostor--an impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping +out of her carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the doorstep. +Aunt Margaret's lady, being a soft one, had insisted on the man +coming into the hall, where he had been given all kinds of +restoratives. When the man had at last gone off, it was found that +he had "wolfed" young master's best walking-stick, one with a fine +tortoise-shell top to it. Thus had Aunt Margaret proved to her lady +that the man had been shamming, and her lady had been very angry-- +near had a fit herself! + +"There's a lot of that about," said Chandler, laughing. +"Incorrigible rogues and vagabonds--that's what those sort of people +are!" + +And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an exceptionally +clever swindler whom he himself had brought to book. He was very +proud of that job, it had formed a white stone in his career as a +detective. And even Mrs. Bunting was quite interested to hear about +it. + +Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth's bell rang. For +awhile no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife. + +"Did you hear that?" he said. "I think, Ellen, that was the lodger's +bell." + +She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. + +"I rang," said Mr. Sleuth weakly, "to tell you I don't require any +supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump +of sugar in it. That is all I require--nothing more. I feel very +very far from well"--and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on +his face. "And then I thought your husband would like his paper +back again, Mrs. Bunting." + +Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze +of which she was quite unconscious, answered, "Oh, no, sir! +Bunting don't require that paper now. He read it all through." +Something impelled her to add, ruthlessly, "He's got another paper +by now, sir. You may have heard them come shouting outside. Would +you like me to bring you up that other paper, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. "No," he said querulously. "I much +regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it +disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it-- +there never is in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers +years ago, and I much regret that I broke though my rule to-day." + +As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more +conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in +his landlady's presence. He went over to the fireplace and +deliberately turned his back on her. + +She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of +sugar he had asked for. + +Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the +Book. + +When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting +merrily. She did not notice that the merriment was confined to the +two young people. + +"Well?" said Daisy pertly. "How about the lodger, Ellen? Is he +all right?" + +"Yes," she said stiffly. "Of course he is!" + +"He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself--awful +lonely-like, I call it," said the girl. + +But her, stepmother remained silent. + +"Whatever does he do with himself all day?" persisted Daisy. + +"Just now he's reading the Bible," Mrs. Bunting answered, shortly +and dryly. + +"Well, I never! That's a funny thing for a gentleman to do!" + +And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed--a long hearty peal +of amusement. + +"There's nothing to laugh at," said Mrs. Bunting sharply. "I should +feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected with the +Bible." + +And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time +that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he +answered very humbly, "I beg pardon. I know I oughtn't to have +laughed at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy +said it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a +queer card, Mrs. Bunting." + +"He's no queerer than many people I could mention," she said quickly; +and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed +of aching fear and suspense. + +The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he +should pursue, and, according to his mood and to the state of his +mind at any particular moment, he would waver between various +widely-differing lines of action. + +He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the +most awful thing about it all was that he wasn't sure. If only he +could have been sure, he might have made up his mind exactly what +it was he ought to do. + +But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was +vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting's point of view, +almost any alternative would have been preferable to that which to +some, nay, perhaps to most, householders would have seemed the only +thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners of Bunting's +class have an uneasy fear of the law. To his mind it would be ruin +for him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly in such a terrible +affair. No one concerned in the business would give them and their +future a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, and, +above all, it would make it quite impossible for them ever to get +again into a good joint situation. It was that for which Bunting, +in his secret soul, now longed with all his heart. + +No, some other way than going to the police must be found--and he +racked his slow brain to find it. + +The worst of it was that every hour that went by made his future +course more difficult and more delicate, and increased the awful +weight on his conscience. + +If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite sure! And +then he would tell himself that, after all, he had very little to +go upon; only suspicion--suspicion, and a secret, horrible +certainty that his suspicion was justified. + +And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution which he knew +to be indefensible from every point of view; he began to hope, that +is, in the depths of his heart, that the lodger would again go out +one evening on his horrible business and be caught--red-handed. + +But far from going out on any business, horrible or other, Mr. +Sleuth now never went out at all. He kept upstairs, and often spent +quite a considerable part of his day in bed. He still felt, so he +assured Mrs. Bunting, very far from well. He had never thrown off +the chill he had caught on that bitter night he and his landlord +had met on their several ways home. + +Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication to Daisy's +father. The detective spent every waking hour that he was not on +duty with the Buntings; and Bunting, who at one time had liked him +so well and so cordially, now became mortally afraid of him. + +But though the young man talked of little else than The Avenger, +and though on one evening he described at immense length the +eccentric-looking gent who had given the barmaid a sovereign, +picturing Mr. Sleuth with such awful accuracy that both Bunting and +Mrs. Bunting secretly and separately turned sick when they listened +to him, he never showed the slightest interest in their lodger. + +At last there came a morning when Bunting and Chandler held a strange +conversation about The Avenger. The young fellow had come in earlier +than usual, and just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were +starting out to do some shopping. The girl would fain have stopped +behind, but her stepmother had given her a very peculiar, disagreeable +look, daring her, so to speak, to be so forward, and Daisy had gone +on with a flushed, angry look on her pretty face. + +And then, as young Chandler stepped through into the sitting-room, +it suddenly struck Bunting that the young man looked unlike himself +--indeed, to the ex-butler's apprehension there was something almost +threatening in Chandler's attitude. + +"I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting," he began abruptly, falteringly. +"And I'm glad to have the chance now that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Daisy +are out." + +Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words--the accusation of +having sheltered a murderer, the monster whom all the world was +seeking, under his roof. And then he remembered a phrase, a +horrible legal phrase--"Accessory after the fact." Yes, he had +been that, there wasn't any doubt about it! + +"Yes?" he said. "What is it, Joe?" and then the unfortunate man +sat down in his chair. "Yes?" he said again uncertainly; for young +Chandler had now advanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting +fixedly--the other thought threateningly. "Well, out with it, +Joe! Don't keep me in suspense." + +And then a slight smile broke over the young man's face. "I don't +think what I've got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bunting." + +And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything--yes +or no, as the case might be. + +The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long +time to the elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe +Chandler brought out the words, "Well, I suppose you know what it +is I want to talk about. I'm sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look +or two she's lately cast on me. It's your daughter--it's Miss +Daisy." + +And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, 'twixt a sob and a laugh. +"My girl?" he cried. "Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to +talk about? Why, you fair frightened me--that you did!" + +And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as +he stared across it at his daughter's lover, that lover who was +also the embodiment of that now awful thing to him, the law. He +smiled, rather foolishly, at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp +wave of irritation, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. +Daisy's father was an old stupid--that's what he was. + +And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. "As +far as I'm concerned," he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even +a little dignity, "you have my blessing, Joe. You're a very likely +young chap, and I had a true respect for your father." + +"Yes," said Chandler, "that's very kind of you, Mr. Bunting. But +how about her--her herself?" + +Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn't +given herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing. + +"I can't answer for Daisy," he said heavily. "You'll have to ask +her yourself--that's not a job any other man can do for you, my lad." + +"I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by our two selves," +said Chandler, with some heat. "You don't seem to understand, Mr. +Bunting, that I never do see Miss Daisy alone," he repeated. "I +hear now that she's going away Monday, and I've only once had the +chance of a walk with her. Mrs. Bunting's very particular, not to +say pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bunting--" + +"That's a fault on the right side, that is--with a young girl," +said Bunting thoughtfully. + +And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as regarded other young +chaps Mrs. Bunting could not be too particular. + +"She's been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has," went on Bunting, +with some pride. "That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of her +sight." + +"I was coming to the old aunt," said Chandler heavily. "Mrs. +Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that +old woman the whole of her natural life--now is that right? That's +what I wants to ask you, Mr. Bunting,--is that right?" + +"I'll say a word to Ellen, don't you fear," said Bunting abstractedly. + +His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap, +to his now constant anxious preoccupation. "You come along +to-morrow," he said, "and I'll see you gets your walk with Daisy. +It's only right you and she should have a chance of seeing one +another without old folk being by; else how's the girl to tell +whether she likes you or not! For the matter of that, you hardly +knows her, Joe--" He looked at the young man consideringly. + +Chandler shook his head impatiently. "I knows her quite as well as +I wants to know her," he said. "I made up my mind the very first +time I see'd her, Mr. Bunting." + +"No! Did you really?" said Bunting. "Well, come to think of it, +I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. +But I hope you'll never want no second, Chandler." + +"God forbid!" said the young man under his breath. And then he +asked, rather longingly, "D'you think they'll be out long now, Mr. +Bunting?" + +And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. "Sit down, sit +down; do!" he said hastily. "I don't believe they'll be very long. +They've only got a little bit of shopping to do." + +And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, "And +how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you're +all just waiting for the next time?" + +"Aye--that's about the figure of it." Chandler's voice had also +changed; it was now sombre, menacing. "We're fair tired of it-- +beginning to wonder when it'll end, that we are!" + +"Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master's +like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that. + +"Yes," said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion--a savage, +fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that description that +was circulated put us wrong. I don't believe it was the man that +knocked up against that woman in the fog--no, not one bit I don't. +But I wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it's +a sailor--the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight +or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, +again, I says to myself that it's a butcher, a man from the Central +Market. Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat." + +"Then it don't seem to you possible--?" (Bunting got up and walked +over to the window.) "You don't take any stock, I suppose, in that +idea some of the papers put out, that the man is"--then he +hesitated and brought out, with a gasp--"a gentleman?" + +Chandler looked at him, surprised. "No," he said deliberately. +"I've made up my mind that's quite a wrong tack, though I knows that +some of our fellows--big pots, too--are quite sure that the fellow +what gave the girl the sovereign is the man we're looking for. You +see, Mr. Bunting, if that's the fact--well, it stands to reason the +fellow's an escaped lunatic; and if he's an escaped lunatic he's got +a keeper, and they'd be raising a hue and cry after him; now, +wouldn't they?" + +"You don't think," went on Bunting, lowering his voice, "that he +could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?" + +"D'you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some +West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that +'ud be have come to pass." He smiled as if the notion was a funny +one. + +"Yes, something o' that sort," muttered Bunting. + +"Well, if your idea's correct, Mr. Bunting--" + +"I never said 'twas my idea," said Bunting, all in a hurry. + +"Well, if that idea's correct then, 'twill make our task more +difficult than ever. Why, 'twould be looking for a needle in a +field of hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! I don't think it's +anything quite so unlikely as that--not myself I don't." He +hesitated. "There's some of us"--he lowered his voice--"that +hopes he'll betake himself off--The Avenger, I mean--to another +big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There'd be plenty of +work for him to do there," and Chandler chuckled at his own grim +joke. + +And then, to both men's secret relief, for Bunting was now +mortally afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and +his doings, they heard Mrs. Bunting's key in the lock. + +Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young +Chandler was still there. She had feared that when they got home +he would be gone, the more so that Ellen, just as if she was doing +it on purpose, had lingered aggravatingly long over each small +purchase. + +"Here's Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk," +blurted out Bunting. + +"My mother says as how she'd like you to come to tea, over at +Richmond," said Chandler awkwardly, "I just come in to see whether +we could fix it up, Miss Daisy." And Daisy looked imploringly at +her stepmother. + +"D'you mean now--this minute?" asked Mrs. Bunting tartly. + +"No, o' course not"--Bunting broke in hastily. "How you do go on, +Ellen!" + +"What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?" +asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically. + +Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day +--in fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to +see Daisy at all. But he had talked her round. + +"How about Saturday?" suggested Bunting. "That's Daisy's birthday. +'Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she's +going back to Old Aunt on Monday." + +"I can't go Saturday," said Chandler disconsolately. "I'm on duty +Saturday." + +"Well, then, let it be Sunday," said Bunting firmly. And his wife +looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her +presence. + +"What do you say, Miss Daisy?" said Chandler. + +"Sunday would be very nice," said Daisy demurely. And then, as the +young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy +ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute. + +Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing +of Mrs. Bunting's whispered remark: "When I was a young woman folk +didn't gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to +go to church together, decent-like--" + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Daisy's eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave +her what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth +birthday--a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which +Bunting had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy-- +it seemed a long, long time ago now. + +Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but +she was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to +trouble much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generally +had the good sense not to interfere between her husband and his +child. + +In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy +himself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the +last four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed on +his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite +pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden +fruit. + +His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his +nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. +But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him +feel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found himself +starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke +to him suddenly. + +Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting +didn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only +one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly +slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going +out. + +In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above +all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his +acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that +they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his +mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the +knowledge--no, not knowledge, rather the--the suspicion--that +dwelt within him. + +But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing +for human companionship--companionship, that is, other than that +of his wife and of his daughter. + +This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, +populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgware Road. There were more +people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the +neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The +ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generally +bought his tobacco. + +Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two +fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief and surprise +the man made no allusion to the subject of which all the +neighbourhood must still be talking. + +And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and +before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, +Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that +Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shop +just opposite. + +Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across +the road. + +"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and left my little +girl alone in the house with the lodger?" + +Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I thought you was +indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come out +for, without first making sure I'd stay in?" + +Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in +exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew. + +They turned and scurried down the crowded street. "Don't run," he +said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. +People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run." + +He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear +and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. + +At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in +front of his wife. + +After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know how he was +feeling. + +He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment +with his latchkey. + +Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice, +"Daisy, my dear! where are you?" + +"Here I am, father. What is it?" + +"She's all right." Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She's +all right, Ellen." + +He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. "It +did give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly, "Don't frighten +the girl, Ellen." + +Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring +herself in the glass. + +"Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round, "I've seen the +lodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, though, to be sure, he does +look a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn't like to go up; and so +he came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nice +little chat--that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and he +asked me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him this +afternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of course, +I could see he was 'centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily. +'And who be you?' he says, threatening-like. And I says to him, +'I'm Mr. Bunting's daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunate +girl'--that's what he says, Ellen--'to 'ave such a nice +stepmother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look such +a good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit of the Prayer +Book. 'Keep innocency,' he says, wagging his head at me. Lor'! +It made me feel as if I was with Old Aunt again." + +"I won't have you going out with the lodger--that's flat." + +Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his forehead +with one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the +little packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had +forgotten to pay. + +Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat +on my birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn't a very good day-- +at least, so I'd heard--for Madame Tussaud's. Then he said we +could go early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners." +She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He particularly +said you was to come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, +Ellen; if I was father, I'd feel quite jealous!" + +Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door. + +Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it +possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door +open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had +crept in behind them? + +Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it +was only Mr. Sleuth--Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall +hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but +he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape. + +"I heard you come in"--he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, +whistling, hesitating voice--"and so I've come down to ask you if +you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's now. I have +never seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the place +all my life." + +As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden +doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to +Mr. Sleuth's landlord. + +Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered +gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting +had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be! + +He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, +staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and +cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy +was already putting on her hat and coat. + +"Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed +to his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. "Well?" + +"Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said dully. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Madame Tussaud's had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. +In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there +part of their afternoon-out. + +The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of +the waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for +"self and lady." But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been +inside the place since she had come to live almost next door, as it +were, to the big building. + +They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after +the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the +first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of +those curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so strangely death +in life, seemed to surprise and affright him. + +Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger's hesitation and unease. + +"Oh, Ellen," she cried, "do let us begin by going into the Chamber +of Horrors! I've never been in there. Old Aunt made father promise +he wouldn't take me the only time I've ever been here. But now that +I'm eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never +know." + +Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over +his worn, gaunt face. + +"Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that's a +good idea, Miss Bunting. I've always wanted to see the Chamber of +Horrors." + +They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were +then kept, and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where +waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. + +Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband's +old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting +the public to the Chamber of Horrors. + +"Well, you are a stranger," the man observed genially. "I do believe +that this is the very first time I've seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, +since you was married!" + +"Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my husband's daughter, +Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this"--she +hesitated a moment--"is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth." + +But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her +stepmother's side, joined him. + +Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. +Bunting put down three sixpences. + +"Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can't go into the Chamber of +Horrors just yet. But you won't have to wait more than four or +five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It's this way, you see; our boss is +in there, showing a party round." He lowered his voice. "It's +Sir John Burney--I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?" + +"No," she answered indifferently, "I don't know that I ever heard +of him." + +She felt slightly--oh, very sightly--uneasy about Daisy. She +would have liked her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and +sound, but Mr. Sleuth was now taking the girl down to the other +end of the room. + +"Well, I hope you never will know him--not in any personal sense, +Mrs. Bunting." The man chuckled. "He's the Commissioner of Police +--the new one--that's what Sir John Burney is. One of the +gentlemen he's showing round our place is the Paris Police boss-- +whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John's. The +Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there are several +other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, Mrs. Bunting; that's +our experience here. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors'-- +that's what they say the minute they gets into this here building!" + +Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred to Mr. Hopkins +that she was very wan and tired; she used to look better in the old +days, when she was still in service, before Bunting married her. + +"Yes," she said; "that's just what my stepdaughter said just now. +'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors'--that's exactly what she +did say when we got upstairs." + +****** + +A group of people, all talking and laughing together; were advancing, +from within the wooden barrier, toward the turnstile. + +Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them +was the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be +brought into personal contact; she thought she could pick him out +among the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome gentleman, with +a military appearance. + +Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. +"Monsieur Barberoux is quite right," he was saying in a loud, +cheerful voice, "our English law is too kind to the criminal, +especially to the murderer. If we conducted our trials in the +French fashion, the place we have just left would be very much +fuller than it is to-day. A man of whose guilt we are absolutely +assured is oftener than not acquitted, and then the public taunt +us with 'another undiscovered crime!'" + +"D'you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? +Take the man who has been committing all these awful murders this +last month? I suppose there's no doubt he'll be hanged--if he's +ever caught, that is!" + +Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could hear every word +that was said. + +The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. "Well, no." +He spoke very deliberately. "I doubt if that particular murderer +ever will be hanged." + +"You mean that you'll never catch him?" the girl spoke with a touch +of airy impertinence in her clear voice. + +"I think we shall end by catching him--because"--he waited a moment, +then added in a lower voice--"now don't give me away to a newspaper +fellow, Miss Rose--because now I think we do know who the murderer +in question is--" + +Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and +incredulity. + +"Then why don't you catch him?" cried the girl indignantly. + +"I didn't say we knew where he was; I only said we knew who he was, +or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that I personally have a very +strong suspicion of his identity." + +Sir John's French colleague looked up quickly. "De Leipsic and +Liverpool man?" he said interrogatively. + +The other nodded. "Yes, I suppose you've had the case turned up?" + +Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject +from his own mind, and from that of his auditors, he went on: + +"Four murders of the kind were committed eight years ago--two in +Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, in Liverpool,--and there were +certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear +they were committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, +fortunately for us, red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of +his last victim, for in Liverpool the murder was committed in a +house. I myself saw the unhappy man--I say unhappy, for there is +no doubt at all that he was mad"--he hesitated, and added in a +lower tone--"suffering from an acute form of religious mania. +I myself saw him, as I say, at some length. But now comes the really +interesting point. I have just been informed that a month ago this +criminal lunatic, as we must of course regard him, made his escape +from the asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole +thing with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and we should +probably have caught him long ago, were it not that he managed, when +on his way out of the place, to annex a considerable sum of money +in gold, with which the wages of the asylum staff were about to be +paid. It is owing to that fact that his escape was, very wrongly, +concealed--" + +He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, and a moment +later the party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, +Sir John Burney leading the way. + +Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt--so she +expressed it to her husband later--as if she had been turned to +stone. + +Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the time nor the power +to warn her lodger of his danger, for Daisy and her companion were +now coming down the room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of +Police. In another moment Mrs. Bunting's lodger and Sir John Burney +were face to face. + +Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible change over +his pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and +terror. + +But, to Mrs. Bunting's relief--yes, to her inexpressible relief +--Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. They passed Mr. Sleuth +and the girl by his side, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that +there was anyone else in the room but themselves. + +"Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting," said the turnstile-keeper; "you and your +friends will have the place all to yourselves for a bit." From an +official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that +gallantly addressed pretty Daisy Bunting: "It seems strange that a +young lady like you should want to go in and see all those 'orrible +frights," he said jestingly. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?" + +The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth's lips. + +His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. + +"A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting." The lodger's face was still +distorted with fear and passion. "Do not think to escape the +consequences of your hideous treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, +and you betrayed me! Put I am protected by a higher power, for +I still have much to do." Then, his voice sinking to a whisper, he +hissed out "Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a +two-edged sword. Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps +take hold on hell." + +Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, dreadful words, +he was looking round, glancing this way and that, seeking a way of +escape. + +At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed above a +curtain. "Emergency Exit" was written there. Mrs. Bunting thought +he was going to make a dash for the place; but Mr. Sleuth did +something very different. Leaving his landlady's side, he walked +over to the turnstile, he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and +then touched the man on the arm. "I feel ill," he said, speaking +very rapidly; "very ill indeed! It is the atmosphere of this place. +I want you to let me out by the quickest way. It would be a pity +for me to faint here--especially with ladies about." + +His left hand shot out and placed what he had been fumbling for in +his pocket on the other's bare palm. "I see there's an emergency +exit over there. Would it be possible for me to get out that way?" + +"Well, yes, sir; I think so." + +The man hesitated; he felt a slight, a very sight, feeling of +misgiving. He looked at Daisy, flushed and smiling, happy and +unconcerned, and then at Mrs. Bunting. She was very pale; but +surely her lodger's sudden seizure was enough to make her feel +worried. Hopkins felt the half-sovereign pleasantly tickling his +palm. The Paris Prefect of Police had given him only half-a-crown +--mean, shabby foreigner! + +"Yes, sir; I can let you out that way," he said at last, "and p'raps +when you're standing out in the air, on the iron balcony, you'll feel +better. But then, you know, sir, you'll have to come round to the +front if you wants to come in again, for those emergency doors only +open outward." + +"Yes, yes," said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. "I quite understand! If I +feel better I'll come in by the front way, and pay another shilling +--that's only fair." + +"You needn't do that if you'll just explain what happened here." + +The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put his shoulder +against the door. It burst open, and the light, for a moment, +blinded Mr. Sleuth. + +He passed his hand over his eyes. "Thank you," he muttered, "thank +you. I shall get all right out there." + +An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, of which the +door opened into a side street. + +Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did feel very ill-- +ill and dazed. How pleasant it would be to take a flying leap over +the balcony railing and find rest, eternal rest, below. + +But no--he thrust the thought, the temptation, from him. Again a +convulsive look of rage came over his face. He had remembered his +landlady. How could the woman whom he had treated so generously have +betrayed him to his arch-enemy?--to the official, that is, who had +entered into a conspiracy years ago to have him confined--him, an +absolutely sane man with a great avenging work to do in the world-- +in a lunatic asylum. + +He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, falling-to behind +him, blotted out the tall, thin figure from the little group of +people who had watched him disappear. + +Even Daisy felt a little scared. "He did look bad, didn't he, now?" +she turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. + +"Yes, that he did, poor gentleman--your lodger, too?" he looked +sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. + +She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Yes," she repeated dully, +"my lodger." + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her pretty stepdaughter +to step through into the Chamber of Horrors. "I think we ought to +go straight home," said Mr. Sleuth's landlady decidedly. And Daisy +meekly assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a little scared by +the lodger's sudden disappearance. Perhaps this unwonted feeling of +hers was induced by the look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on +her stepmother's face. + +Slowly they made their way out of the building, and when they got +home it was Daisy who described the strange way Mr. Sleuth had been +taken. + +"I don't suppose he'll be long before he comes home," said Bunting +heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive look at his wife. She +looked as if stricken in a vital part; he saw from her face that +there was something wrong--very wrong indeed. + +The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill at ease. Daisy +knew there was no chance that young Chandler would come in to-day. + +About six o'clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She lit the gas in +Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room and looked about her with a fearful glance. +Somehow everything seemed to speak to her of the lodger, there lay +her Bible and his Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly +as he had left them, when he had come downstairs and suggested that +ill-starred expedition to his landlord's daughter. She took a few +steps forward, listening the while anxiously for the familiar sound +of the click in the door which would tell her that the lodger had +come back, and then she went over to the window and looked out. + +What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, homeless, +friendless, and, as she suspected with a pang, with but very little +money on him! + +Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger's bedroom and opened the +drawer of the looking-glass. + +Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he +had taken his money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he +had enough on his person to secure a good night's lodging, and then +suddenly she remembered that which brought relief to her mind. The +lodger had given something to that Hopkins fellow--either a sovereign +or half a sovereign, she wasn't sure which. + +The memory of Mr. Sleuth's cruel words to her, of his threat, did +not disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake--all a mistake. +Far from betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him--kept his awful +secret as she could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly +suspected, the horrible fact with which Sir John Burney's words had +made her acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no +temporary aberration, but that he was, and had been for years, a +madman, a homicidal maniac. + +In her ears there still rang the Frenchman's half careless yet +confident question, "De Leipsic and Liverpool man?" + +Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room, +and taking a black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the +leaves of the Bible. Then she opened the Book, and looked at the +page the pin had marked:-- + +"My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . . +There is none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my +curtains." + +At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and +as she opened the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her +stepmother. + +"I'll go down and start getting the lodger's supper ready for you," +said the girl good-naturedly. "He's certain to come in when he gets +hungry. But he did look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad-- +that he did!" + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy +to go down. + +"Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she said sombrely, and +then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which +came over her husband's face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, +of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, +"That's to say, I don't suppose he will." + +And Bunting's face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, +the look it had worn the last few days, returned. + +"What makes you think he mayn't come back?" he muttered. + +"Too long to tell you now," she said. "Wait till the child's gone +to bed." + +And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. + +And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where +she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her +husband to follow her upstairs. + +Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the +door. And about this they had a few sharp whispered words. + +"You're never going to shut him out?" she expostulated angrily, +beneath her breath. + +"I'm not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps +walking in any minute." + +"Mr. Sleuth won't hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt +me," and she gave a half sob. + +Bunting stared at her. "What do you mean?" he said roughly. +"Come upstairs and tell me what you mean." + +And then, in what had been the lodger's sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting +told her husband exactly what it was that had happened. + +He listened in heavy silence. + +"So you see," she said at last, "you see, Bunting, that 'twas me +that was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for +his actions. I never thought he was, for my part." + +And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. "Depends on what you call +responsible--" he began argumentatively. + +But she would have none of that. "I heard the gentleman say myself +that he was a lunatic," she said fiercely. And then, dropping her +voice, "A religious maniac--that's what he called him." + +"Well, he never seemed so to me," said Bunting stoutly. "He simply +seemed to me 'centric--that's all he did. Not a bit madder than +many I could tell you of." He was walking round the room restlessly, +but he stopped short at last. "And what d'you think we ought to do +now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. "I don't think we ought +to do nothing," she said. "Why should we?" + +And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion +that irritated her. + +"If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he +would get it! And his money, too? I hate to feel it's in there." + +"Don't you make any mistake--he'll come back for that," said Bunting, +with decision. + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. "Now," she said, +"you go off up to bed. It's no use us sitting up any longer." + +And Bunting acquiesced. + +She ran down and got him a bedroom candle--there was no gas in the +little back bedroom upstairs. And then she watched him go slowly up. + +Suddenly he turned and came down again. "Ellen," he said, in an +urgent whisper, "if I was you I'd take the chain off the door, and +I'd lock myself in--that's what I'm going to do. Then he can sneak +in and take his dirty money away." + +Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. Slowly she went +downstairs, and there she carried out half of Bunting's advice. +She took, that is, the chain off the front door. But she did not +go to bed, neither did she lock herself in. She sat up all night, +waiting. At half-past seven she made herself a cup of tea, and +then she went into her bedroom. + +Daisy opened her eyes. + +"Why, Ellen," she said, "I suppose I was that tired, and slept so +sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up--funny, +wasn't it?" + +"Young people don't sleep as light as do old folks," Mrs. Bunting +said sententiously. + +"Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he's upstairs now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head. "It looks as if 'twould be a fine +day for you down at Richmond," she observed in a kindly tone. + +And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. + +****** + +That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler +that their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting +had thought carefully over what they would say, and so well did +they carry out their programme, or, what is more likely, so full +was young Chandler of the long happy day he and Daisy had spent +together, that he took their news very calmly. + +"Gone away, has he?" he observed casually. "Well, I hope he paid +up all right?" + +"Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Bunting hastily. "No trouble of that sort." + +And Bunting said shamefacedly, "Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an +honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such +a poor, gentle chap--not the sort o' man one likes to think of as +wandering about by himself." + +"You always said he was 'centric," said Joe thoughtfully. + +"Yes, he was that," said Bunting slowly. "Regular right-down queer. +Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch," and, as he tapped his +head significantly, both young people burst out laughing. + +"Would you like a description of him circulated?" asked Joe +good-naturedly. + +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another. + +"No, I don't think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. 'Twould upset +him awfully, you see." + +And Joe acquiesced. "You'd be surprised at the number o' people +who disappears and are never heard of again," he said cheerfully. +And then he got up, very reluctantly. + +Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into +the passage, and shut the sitting-room door behind her. + +When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting +in his easy chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round +his neck. + +Then she bent down her head. "Father," she said, "I've a bit of +news for you!" + +"Yes, my dear?" + +"Father, I'm engaged! Aren't you surprised?" + +"Well, what do you think?" said Bunting fondly. Then he turned +round and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss. + +"What'll Old Aunt say, I wonder?" he whispered. + +"Don't you worry about Old Aunt," exclaimed his wife suddenly. +"I'll manage Old Aunt! I'll go down and see her. She and I have +always got on pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, Daisy." + +"Yes," said Daisy a little wonderingly. "I know you have, Ellen." + +****** + +Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many +nights had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click +of the lock which she at once hoped and feared would herald her +lodger's return. + +As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the "Avenger" +murders stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when +a gardener, working in the Regent's Park, found a newspaper in which +was wrapped, together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, +a long, peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though of considerable +interest to the police, was not chronicled in any newspaper, but +about the same time a picturesque little paragraph went the round +of the press concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been +anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about "Old Aunt," +and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in a +more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to +do. She only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks +leave a house in charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to +follow--a remark which Daisy resented much more than did her Joe. + + +Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old +lady, by whom they are feared as well as respected, and whom they +make very comfortable. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + +***** This file should be named 2014.txt or 2014.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/1/2014/ + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + + + + +The Lodger + +by Marie Belloc Lowndes + + + + +"Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, +and mine acquaintance into darkness." +PSALM lxxxviii. 18 + + + + +CHAPTER I + +Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning, +carefully-banked-up fire. + +The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house +standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare, +was exceptionally clean and well-cared-for. A casual stranger, +more particularly one of a Superior class to their own, on suddenly +opening the door of that sitting-room; would have thought that Mr. +and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of +comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep +leather arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance +what he had been for many years of his life - a self-respecting +man-servant. + +On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed +chair, the marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they +were there all the same - in her neat black stuff dress, and in +her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as +a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid. + +But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn +English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. +Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time - how +long ago it now seemed! - both husband and wife had been proud of +their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was +strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been +bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. + +Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, +drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, +and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. +A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which +covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat +forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair +had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband +to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid +thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had +tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at +it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve +shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping +their arm-chair. + +But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, +much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the +walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded +photographs - photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former +employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had +separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not +unhappy servitude. + +But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than +usually deceitful with regard to these un-fortunate people. In +spite of their good furniture - that substantial outward sign of +respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall +into trouble try to dispose of - they were almost at the end of +their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were +beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober +man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago +by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting - prim, prudent, careful woman +as she was in her way - had realised what this must mean to him. +So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had +crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia. + +Bunting had been touched - touched as he had not been for years by +any woman's thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced +themselves into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in +their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart. + +Fortunately he never guessed - how could he have guessed, with his +slow, normal, rather dull mind? - that his poor Ellen had since +more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha'penny, for they +were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell +on the safe tableland of security - those, that is, who are sure of +making a respectable, if not a happy, living - and the submerged +multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the +conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised, +struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison. + +Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they +belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to +so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours +ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they +belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk +whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving. + +There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought +to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this +woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, +Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two +days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, +and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort +with a cruel, sharp rebuff. + +As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, +they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but +one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This +was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting +had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone +into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too +fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective. + +When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they +both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap +to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to - quite +exciting at times. But now poor Bunting didn't want to hear that +sort of stories - stories of people being cleverly "nabbed," or +stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from Chandler's +point of view, richly deserved. + +But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing +his calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him + - nay, more, he had done that which showed him to have a good and +feeling heart. He had offered his father's old acquaintance a loan, +and Bunting, at last, had taken 30s. Very little of that money +now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few coppers in his pocket; +and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that and the rent they would have to +pay in five weeks, was all they had left. Everything of the light, +portable sort that would fetch money had been said. Mrs. Bunting +had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put her feet in +such a place, and she declared she never would - she would rather +starve first. + +But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual +disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting +valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been +given to him after the death of his first master, a master he had +nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. +There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a large mourning +ring, both gifts of former employers. + +When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure +from the insecure - when they see themselves creeping closer and +closer to its dread edge - they are apt, however loquacious by +nature, to fall into long silences. Bunting had always been a +talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but +then she had always been a silent woman, and that was perhaps one +reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment +he had seen her. + +It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as +butler, and he had been shown, by the man whose place he was to +take, into the dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he +had discovered Ellen Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port +wine which her then mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning. +And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he +had watched her carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into +the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, "That is the woman for +me!" + +But now her stillness, her - her dumbness, had got on the +unfortunate man's nerves. He no longer felt like going into the +various little shops, close by, patronised by him in more prosperous +days, and Mrs. Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases +which still had to be made every day or two, if they were to be +saved from actually starving to death. + +kept, looked as if it could, +aye, and would, keep any se- + + +Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there +came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting +outside - boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening +papers. + +Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily +paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And +the paper was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants are +great readers of newspapers. + +As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask +curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him. + +It was a shame - a damned shame - that he shouldn't know what was +happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing +news of what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those +shouts, those hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really +exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for +the moment his own intimate, gnawing troubles. + +He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his eats to +listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused +babe1 of hoarse shouts, the one clear word "Murder!" + +Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some +sort of connected order. Yes, that was it - "Horrible Murder! +Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting remembered vaguely another murder +which had been committed near St. Pancras - that of an old lady by +her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was +still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among +the class to which he had belonged. + +The newsboys - for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual +thing in the Marylebone Road - were coming nearer and nearer; now +they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they +were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he +could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly "The Avenger! +The Avenger at his work again!" broke on his ear. + +During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had +been committed in London and within a comparatively small area. + +The first had aroused no special interest - even the second had only +been awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a +small paragraph. + +Then had come the third - and with that a wave of keen excitement, +for pinned to the dress of the victim - a drunken woman - had been +found a three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red +ink, and in printed characters, the words, + +"THE AVENGER" + +It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to +investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world +of men and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister +mysteries, that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes; +and before that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into +the public mind there took place yet another murder, and again the +murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some +obscure and terrible lust for vengeance possessed him. + +Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the +man who left their ha'porth of milk at the door each morning had +spoken to Bunting about them that very day. + +****** + +Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild +excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of +weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him. +He felt he could have shaken her! + +Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had +come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had +said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that +she didn't like hearing about such horrid things. + +It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of +pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to +the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories +of immorality or of physical violence. In the old, happy days, +when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper +daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some +exciting "case" or "mystery" which was affording him pleasant mental +relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen. + +But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she +felt. + +Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards +the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his +close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which +a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent. + +But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders +just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, +bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy. + +Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into +the dark hall - they had given up lighting the gas there some time +ago - and opened the front door. + +Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron +gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. +The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he +remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. + +Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, +being sorely tempted - fell. "Give me a Sun," he said roughly, "Sun +or Echo!', + +But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. "Only +penny papers left," he gasped. "What'll yer 'ave, sir?" + +With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny +out of his pocket and took a paper - it was the Evening Standard - +from the boy's hand. + +Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, +cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful +anticipation. + +Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass +a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, +miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments +of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, +with careworn, troubled Ellen. + +A hot wave of unease almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen +would never have spent that penny on herself - he knew that well +enough - and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so - so drizzly, +he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the +street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread +the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance +would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a +paper, and that well he knew it! + +Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar +voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, "What on earth are you doing +out there, Bunting? Come in - do! You'll catch your death of cold! +I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!" +Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays. + +He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. "I +went out to get a paper," he said sullenly. + +After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money +as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now +both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him - not on Ellen - by +that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done +all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, +so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring. + +He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew +she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and +contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a +very mild, oath - Ellen had very early made it clear she would +have no swearing in her presence - he lit the hall gas full-flare. + +"How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card?" +he shouted angrily. + +And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the +gas, the oblong card, though not the word "Apartments" printed on +it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned +fanlight above the front door. + +Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, +and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little +banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire +for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made +him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, +Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. + +A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. She was not +used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly +upset, was the mildest of men. + +She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible +touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. + +But her hands trembled - they trembled with excitement, with +self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful - dreadful to +have to worry about a penny! But they had come to the point when +one has to worry about pennies. Strange that her husband didn't +realise that. + +Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen +to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by +now, a little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, +and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. + +But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have +liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, +irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the +door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and + - shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably +by the now brightly burning fire, with the Evening Standard spread +out before him - she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her +hands against her temples. + +Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so - so broken as now. Where +was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting +woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading +poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age +which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter +service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed +cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs. +Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any +lodger she might get would require, but that was all. + +Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For +it had been her doing. Bunting bad been like butter in her hands. + +Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. +There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still +pretty well; and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and +that had meant ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of +other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment +which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in +debt - in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a +good-natured former employer. + +After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have +done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up +their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over, with +the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house +in the Marylebone Road. + +In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, +impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is +the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately +take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both +lived in houses overlooking Regent's Park. It had seemed a wise +plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting, +who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection +which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private +parties. + +But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. +Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and +a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. + +And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had +one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had +not asked his wife's permission to do this, as so good a husband +ought to have done. e had just gone out and done it. And she had +not had the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the +money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that +she had bought that last packet of tobacco. + +And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, +there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, +uncertain double knock. + + +CHAPTER II + +Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment +listening in the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line +of light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. + +And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double +knock; not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any +good. Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. +No; this must be some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at +all hours, and asked - whining or threatening - for money. + +Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and women + - especially women - drawn from that nameless, mysterious class +made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every +great city. But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the +passage unlit at night she had been very little troubled with that +kind of visitors, those human bats which are attracted by any kind +of light but leave alone those who live in darkness. + +She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting's place +to go to the front door, but she knew far better than he did how +to deal with difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she +would have liked him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed +in his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the bedroom door +opening was to look up and say, "Didn't you hear a knock?" + +Without answering his question she went out into the hall. + +Slowly she opened the front door. + +On the top of the thee steps which led up to the door, there stood +the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an +old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, +perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. +Bunting's trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as +he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with +whom her former employment had brought her in contact. + +"Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?" he asked, and there was +something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. + +"Yes, sir," she said uncertainly - it was a long, long time since +anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they +could think of taking into their respectable house. + +Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger +walked past her, and so into the hall. + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a +narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong +brown leather. + +"I am looking for some quiet rooms," he said; then he repeated the +words, "quiet rooms," in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered +them he looked nervously round him. + +Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully +furnished, and was very clean. + +There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger's weary +feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which +matched in colour the flock-paper on the walls. + +A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior +lodging-house keeper. + +"You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir," she said gently. "And just +now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband +and me, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too +good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a +lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which +recalled to the poor Woman her happy, far-off days of youth and +of security. + +"That sounds very suitable," he said. "Four rooms? Well, perhaps +I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see +all four before I make my choice." + +How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the +gas! But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed +them by. + +She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation +that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom +she already in her mind described as "the lodger," who turned and +rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it. + +"Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry you should have +had the trouble." + +For a moment their eyes met. "It's not safe to leave a front door +open in London," he said, rather sharply. "I hope you do not often +do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in." + +Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken +courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. + +"I assure you, sir, I never lave my front door open," she answered +hastily. "You needn't be at all afraid of that!" + +And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the +sound of Bunting coughing - it was just a little, hard cough, but +Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started violently. + +"Who's that?" he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. +"Whatever was that?" + +"Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes +ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose." + +"Your husband - ?" he looked at her intently, suspiciously. "What + - what, may I ask, is your husband's occupation?" + +Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's +occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do +for her to show offence. "He goes out waiting," she s4d stiffly. +"He was a gentleman's servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you +should you require him to do so." + +And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. + +At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to +herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a +sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door +of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier. + +This, front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little +over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green +carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table +which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the +corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, +old-fashioned chiffonnier. + +On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits +of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, +clipped from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of +these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of +elegance and refinement. + +As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that +she had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the +room a thorough turn-out. + +It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been +left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been +scared into going away by Bunting's rough threats of the police. +But now it was in apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, +of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white +curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied +if this gentleman really took the lodgings. + +But what was this - ? The stranger was looking round him rather +dubiously. "This is rather - rather too grand for me," he said at +last "I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er - " + +" - Bunting," she said softly. "Bunting, sir." + +And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and +settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, +after all - or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but +perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman - too poor, that is, to +afford the rent of more than one room, say eight or ten shillings +a week; eight or ten shlllings a week would be very little use to +her and Bunting, though better than nothing at all. + +"Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?" + +"No," he said, "no. I think I should like to see what you have +farther up the house, Mrs. - ," and then, as if making a prodigious +mental effort, he brought out her name, "Bunting," with a kind of +gasp. + +"The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the +drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact +that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had +been taken over their arrangement; in fact, they bad been left in much +the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. + +For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel +sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features +are a sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete +pattern, was fed by a tiresome, shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +It had been the property of the people from whom the Buntings had +taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no +monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they +had left behind. + +What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as +everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a +bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry +that she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. + +To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sensitive, +hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. "Capital! +Capital!" he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he +held at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a +quick, nervous movement. + +"This is just what I have been looking for." He walked with long, +eager strides towards the gas stove. "First-rate - quite first-rate! +Exactly what I wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs. - er - +Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of +experiments, and I often require the - ah, well, the presence of +great heat." + +He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the +stove. "This, too, will be useful - exceedingly useful, to me," and +he touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing +touch. + +He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare +forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down - wearily. +"I'm tired," he muttered in a low voice, "tired - tired! I've been +walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit +down upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London +streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far +more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Indeed, sir," she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, +she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, +"Then you mean to take my rooms, sir?" + +"This room, certainly," he said, looking round. "This room is +exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last +few days;" and then hastily he added, "I mean this kind of place +is what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would +be surprised if you knew how difficult it is to get anything of +the sort. But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief + - a very, very great relief to me!" + +He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And +then, "Where's my bag?" he asked suddenly, and there came a note of +sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman +standing before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of +fright shoot through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far +away, right down the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a +perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of +the well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like +other people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. "Surely +I had a bag when I came in?" he said in a scared, troubled voice. + +"Here it is, sir," she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it +up and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the +bag was not at all heavy; it was evidently by no means full. + +He took it eagerly from her. "I beg your pardon," he muttered. +"But there is something in that bag which is very precious to me + - something I procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could +never get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. +That must be the excuse for my late agitation." + +"About terms, sir?" she said a little timidly, returning to the +subject which meant so much, so very much to her. + +"About terms?" he echoed. And then there came a pause. "My name +is Sleuth," he said suddenly, - "S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, +Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I could provide you +with a reference - " (he gave her what she described to herself as +a funny, sideways look), "but I should prefer you to dispense with +that, if you don't mind. I am quite willing to pay you - we1l, shall +we say a month in advance?" + +A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She felt sick with +relief - nay,'with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known +till that moment how hungry she was - how eager for- a good meal. +"That would be all right, sir," she murmured. + +"And what are you going to charge me?" There had come a kindly, +almost a friendly note into his voice. "With attendance, mind! I +shall expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if +you can cook, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir," she said. "I am a plain cook. What would you say +to twenty-five shillings a week, sir?" She looked at him +deprecatingly, and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, +"You see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best +of attendance and careful cooking - and my husband, sir - he would +be pleased to valet you." + +"I shouldn't want anything of that sort done for me," said Mr. +Sleuth hastily. "I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used +to waiting on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to +sharing lodgings - " + +She interrupted eagerly, "I could let you have the use of the two +floors for the same price - that is, until we get another lodger. +I shouldn't like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It's +such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir - do your work +and your experiments up here, and then have your meals in the +drawing-room." + +"Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that sounds a good plan. And if I +offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your +not taking another lodger?" + +"Yes," she said quietly. "I'd be very glad only to have you to +wait on, sir." + +"I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? +I don't like to be disturbed while I'm working." + +He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, "I suppose +you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir, there's a key - a very nice little key. The people +who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door." +She went over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round +disk had been fitted above the old keyhole. + +He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if +absorbed in thought, "Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will +suit me perfectly. And I'll begin now by paying my first month's +rent in advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is" - he +jerked his head back and stared at his new landlady; for the first +time he smiled, a queer, wry smile - "why, just eight pounds eight +shillings, Mrs. Bunting!" + +He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long +cape-like coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began +putting these down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in +the centre of the room. "Here's five - six - seven - eight - nine + - ten pounds. You'd better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, +for I shall want you to do some shopping for me to-morrow morning. +I met with a misfortune to-day." But the new lodger did not speak +as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. + +"Indeed, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Mrs. Bunting's heart was +going thump - thump - thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy +with relief and joy. + +"Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things +I managed to bring away with me." His voice dropped suddenly. "I +shouldn't have said that," he muttered. "I was a fool to say that!" +Then, more loudly, "Someone said to me, 'You can't go into a +lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn't take you in.' But +you have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I'm grateful for - for the +kind way you have met me - " He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, +and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly +towards her new lodger. + +"I hope I know a gentleman when I see one," she said, with a break +in her staid voice, + +"I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. Bunting." +Again he looked at her appealingly. + +"I expect you'd like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you tell +me what you'd like for supper? We haven't much in the house." + +"Oh, anything'll do," he said hastily. "I don't want you to go out +for me. It's a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a +little bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied." + +"I have a nice sausage," she said hesitatingly. + +It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning +for Bunting's supper; as to herself, she had been going to content +herself with a little bread and cheese. But now - wonderful, almost, +intoxicating thought - she could send Bunting out to get anything +they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort +and good cheer. + +"A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh +meat," he said; "it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, +Mrs. Bunting." + +"Is it indeed, sir?" She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, +"And will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?" + +A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth's +pale face. + +"Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. +I had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer - " + +"So I am, sir, lifelong. And so's Bunting been since we married." +She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such +confidences, that she had made Buntlng abstain very early in their +acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing +that first made her believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense +that he talked to her, in those far-away days of his courting. Glad +she was now that he had taken the pledge as a younger man; hut for +that nothing would have kept him from the drink during the bad times +they had gone through. + +And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom +which opened out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. +Bunting's own room just underneath, excepting that everything up +here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better +in quality. + +The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of +content and peace stealing over his worn face. "A haven of rest," +he muttered; and then, "'He bringeth them to their desired haven.' +Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Yes, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone +had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to +set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth's respectability. + +What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one +lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! +Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and +Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the +seaside. + +How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to +London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately +respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible +underworld of men and women who, having, as the phase goes, seen +better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of +petty fraud. + +"I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean +towels," she said, going to the door. + +And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. "Mrs. Bunting " - and as +he spoke he stammered a little - " I - I don't want you to interpret +the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off +your feet for me. I'm accustomed to look after myself." + +And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed - even a +little snubbed. "All right, sir," she said. "I'll only just let +you know when I've your supper ready." + + +CHAPTER III + +But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy +of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune +which had fallen their way? + +Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. +In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still +her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of +emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling "making a fuss." + +Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment +looking at her husband's bent back, and she realised, with a pang +of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him. + +Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He +put the paper he had been holding down on to the table: "Well," he +said, "well, who was it, then?" + +He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have +answered the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard +murmurs. + +And then in a moment his wife's hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns +fell in a little clinking heap on the table. + +"Look there!" she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her +voice. "Look there, Bunting!" + +And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. + +He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion +that his wile had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this +ten pounds represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that +were so, then it was the beginning of the end. That furniture in +the first-floor front had cost - Ellen had reminded him of the fact +bitterly only yesterday - seventeen pounds nine shillings, and +every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she had +only got ten pounds for it. + +Yet he hadn't the heart to reproach her. + +He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that +troubled, rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought +had happened. + +"We've a new lodger!" she cried. "And - and, Bunting? He's quite +the gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance, at +two guineas a week." + +"No, never!" + +Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, +fascinated by the little heap of gold. "But there's ten sovereigns +here," he said suddenly. + +"Yes, the gentleman said I'd have to buy some things for him +to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he's so well spoken, I really felt +that - I really felt that - " and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step +or two sideways, sat down, and throwing her little black apron over +her face burst into gasping sobs. + +Bunting patted her back timidly. "Ellen?" he said, much moved by her +agitation, "Ellen? Don't take on so, my dear - " + +"I won't," she sobbed, "I - I won't! I'm a fool - I know I am! +But, oh, I didn't think we was ever going to have any luck again!" + +And then she told him - or rather tried to tell him - what the +lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing +she did impress on her husband's mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was +eccentric, as so many clever people are eccentric - that is, in a +harmless way - and that he must be humoured. + +"He says he doesn't want to be waited on much," she said at last +wiping her eyes, "but I can see he will want a good bit of looking +after, all the same, poor gentleman." + +And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound +of a loud ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled +again and again. + +Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. "I think I'd better go up, eh, +Ellen?" he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. +For the matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something +again. + +"Yes," she answered, "you go up! Don't keep him waiting! I wonder +what it is he wants? I said I'd let him know when his supper was +ready." + +A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on +his face. "Whatever d'you think he wanted?" he whispered +mysteriously. And as she said nothing, he went on, "He's asked me +for the loan of a Bible!" + +"Well, I don't see anything so out of the way in that," she said +hastily, "'specially if he don't fell well. I'll take it up to him." + +And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, +Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her +as a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had +lived for several years. + +"He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper," said +Bunting; and, then, "Ellen? He's a queer-looking cove - not like +any gentleman I ever had to do with." + +"He is a gentleman," said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. + +"Oh, yes, that's all right." But still he looked at her doubtfully. +"I asked him if he'd like me to just put away his clothes. But, +Ellen, he said he hadn't got any clothes!" + +"No more he hasn't;" she spoke quickly, defensively. "He had the +misfortune to lose his luggage. He's one dishonest folk 'ud take +advantage of." + +"Yes, one can see that with half an eye," Buntlng agreed. + +And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting +put down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband +to go out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with +a sovereign. "Be as quick as you can," she said, "for I feel a bit +hungry. I'll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth's supper. +He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I'm glad I've never +fallen to bad eggs!" + +"Sleuth," echoed Bunting, staring at her. "What a queer name! +How d'you spell it - S-l-u-t-h?" + +"No," she shot out, "S-l-e - u - t - h." + +"Oh,'' he said doubtfully. + +"He said, 'Think of a hound and you'll never forget my name,'" +and Mrs. Bunting smiled. + +When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: "We'll now be able +to pay young Chandler back some o' that thirty shillings. I am +glad." She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. + +And then each went about his and her business - Bunting out into +the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. + +The lodger's tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and +daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. + +Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly +remembered Mr. Sleuth's request for a Bible. Putting the tray down +in the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; +but when back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it +was worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she +could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and +taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. + +But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth's +landlady opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped +the tray. She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy +thud to the ground. + +The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the +early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, +with their faces to the wall! + +For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the +tray down on the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It +troubled her that the should have fallen to the ground; but really +she hadn't been able to help it - it was mercy that the tray hadn't +fallen, too. + +Mr. Sleuth got up. "I - I have taken the liberty to arrange the +room as I should wish it to be," he said awkwardly. "You see, +Mrs. - er - Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women's eyes +followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave +me quite an eerie feeling." + +The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the +table. She made no answer to her lodger's remark, for the good +reason that she did not know what to say. + +Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a +long pause, he spoke again. + +"I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting," he spoke with some agitation. +"As a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about +me for a long time." And then, at last his landlady answered him, +in a composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. +"I quite understand, sir. And when Bunting comes in he shall take +the pictures all down. We have plenty of space in our own rooms +for them." + +"Thank you - thank you very much." + +Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. + +"And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understood you wanted +the loan of it?" + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing +himself, he said, "Yes, yes, I do. There is no reading like the Book. +There is something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of +body too - " + +"Very true, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what really +looked a very appetising little meal, turned round and quietly shut +the door. + +She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for +Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen to clear up. And as she +did so there came to her a comfortable recollection, an incident of +her long-past youth, in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had +maided a dear old lady. + +The old lady had a favourite nephew - a bright, jolly young gentleman, +who was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. +Algernon - that was his rather peculiar Christian name - had had the +impudence to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings +done by the famous Mr. Landseer! + +Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only +occurred yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. + +It was quite early; she had come down - for in those days maids +weren't thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the +upper housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid's duty to be down +very early - and, there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. +Algernon engaged in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, his +aunt thought all the world of those pictures, and Ellen had felt +quite concerned, for it doesn't do for a young gentleman to put +himself wrong with a kind aunt. + +"Oh, sir," she had exclaimed in dismay, "whatever are you doing?" +And even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had +answered, "I am doing my duty, fair Helen" - he had always called +her "fair Helen" when no one was listening. "How can I draw ordinary +animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all the +time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?" That was +what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what +he repeated in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when +that dear old lady had come downstairs. In fact he had declared, +quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted by Mr. Landseer +put his eye out! + +But his aunt had been very much annoyed - in fact, she had made him +turn the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he +just had to put up with what he called "those half-human monsters." +Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth's +odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her +long-gone youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so +strange as he appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did +not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told herself +that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the +pictures in the drawing-room herself. + +But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's landlady +went upstairs to dear away, and when on the staircase she heard the +sound of - was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she +waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then +she realised that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. +There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on +her listening ears: + +"A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for +a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men." + +She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of ,the door, +and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, +sing-song voice, "Her house is the way to hell, going down to +the chambers of death." + +It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up +courage, knocked, and walked in. + +"I'd better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said. And Mr. Sleuth +nodded. + +Then he got up and dosed the Book. "I think I'll go to bed now," +he said. "I am very, very tired. I've had a long and a very +weary day, Mrs. Bunting." + +After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed +up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. +Sleuth. Each left an unsightly mark on the wall - but that, after +all, could not be helped. + +Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried +them down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed. + + +CHAPTER IV + +Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had +felt for a very, very long time. + +For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different + - and then she suddenly remembered. + +How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, +lay, in the well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction at +an auction held in a Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two +guineas a week! Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would +be "a permanency." In any case, it wouldn't be her fault if he +wasn't. As to his - his queerness, well, there's always something +funny in everybody. But after she had got up, and as the morning +wore itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there +came no sound at all from the new lodger's rooms. At twelve, +however, the drawing-room bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. +She was painfully anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His +coming had only been in the nick of time to save them from terrible +disaster. + +She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was sitting at the +round table which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his +landlady's large Bible lay open before him. + +As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see +how tired and worn he seemed. + +"You did not happen," he asked, "to have a Concordance, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She shook her head; she had no idea what a Concordance could be, +but she was quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. + +And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he +desired her to buy for him. She had supposed the bag he had +brought with him to contain certain little necessaries of +civilised life - such articles, for instance, as a comb and brush, +a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say nothing of a couple of +nightshirts - but no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth +required all these things to be bought now. + +After having cooked him a nice breakfast Mrs. Bunting hurried +out to purchase the things of which he was in urgent need. + +How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse +again - not only someone else's' money, but money she was now in +the very act of earning so agreeably. + +Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber's shop close by. +It was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It +was a funny, rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as +she could, the more so that the foreigner who served her insisted +on telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this +Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours before, and +in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. + +The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn't want to think of +anything painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. + +Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. +Sleuth was pleased with everything, and thanked her most courteously. +But when she suggested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked +quite put out. + +"Please wait till this evening," he said hastily. "It is my custom +to stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when +the lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem +a little, just a little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed +to. And I must ask you to understand that I must not be disturbed +when thinking out my problems - " He broke off short, sighed, then +added solemnly, "for mine are the great problems of life and death." + +And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her +prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth's landlady was a true woman + - she had, that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries +and oddities. + + +When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth's landlady met with a +surprise; but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had +been upstairs, talking to the lodger, Bunting's young friend, Joe +Chandler, the detective, had come in, and as she walked into the +sitting-room she saw that her husband was pushing half a sovereign +across the table towards Joe. + +Joe Chandler's fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction: +not at seeing his money again, mark you, but at the news Bunting +had evidently been telling him - that news of the sudden wonderful +change in their fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. + +"Mr. Sleuth don't want me to do his bedroom till he's gone out!" +she exclaimed. And then she sat down for a bit of a rest. + +It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good +breakfast? and there was no need to think of him for the present. +In a few minutes she would be going down to make her own and +Bunting's dinner, and she told Joe Chandler that he might as well +stop and have a bite with them. + +Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood +which seldom surprised her - a mood to be pleased with anything +and everything. Nay, more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler +about the last of those awful Avenger murders, she even listened +with a certain languid interest to all he had to say. + +In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that +very day three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery +which was now beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London, +West and East, North and South. Bunting had read out little bits +about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself +Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. + +"They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They do say, Joe, that +the police have a clue they won't say nothing about?" He looked +expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was +attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police +invested the young man with a kind of sinister glory - especially +just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amazing and +terrifying the town. + +"Them who says that says wrong," answered Chandler slowly, and a +look of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face. +"'Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a clue." + +And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, Joe?" she said, +smiling indulgently; the young man's keenness about his work pleased +her. And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took +his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. + +"Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day I'm on this +business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard's nettled - that's +what it is, and we're all on our mettle - that we are. I was right +down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty in the street +where the last one happened - " + +"No!" said Bunting incredulously. "You don't mean there was a +policeman there, within a few yards?" + +That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper. + +Chandler nodded. "That's exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting! The +man is near off his head, so I'm told. He did hear a yell, so he +says, but he took no notice - there are a good few yells in that +part o' London, as you can guess. People always quarrelling and +rowing at one another in such low parts." + +"Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes +his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly. + +Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those +three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims' skirts, +on which was roughly written in red ink and in printed characters +the words "The Avenger." + +His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his +elbows on the table, and stared across expectantly at the young man. + +"Yes, I have," said Joe briefly. + +"A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting laughed; the notion +struck him as downright comic. + +But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make a joke about," +she said reprovingly. + +And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said feelingly. "I'll +never forget what I've been made to see over this job. And as for +that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting - or, rather, those grey bits of +paper " - he corrected himself hastily - " you know they've three of +them now at the Yard - well, they gives me the horrors!" + +And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I oughtn't to be +wasting my time in pleasant company - " + +"Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs. Bunting +solicitously. + +But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I had a bite +before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you know. A +lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't leave us +much time for lazing about, I can tell you." + +When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate +carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London +again soon?" + +Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very +fond of his only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. "No," +he said, "I'm afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, +keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite +put about that week the child was up with us last June." + +"Indeed? Well, so long!" + +After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, +"Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?" + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly +dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting's +daughter was being managed by that old aunt of hers - an idle, +good-for-nothing way, very different from the fashion in which +she herself had been trained at the Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting +as a little child bad known no other home, no other family than +those provided by good Captain Coram. + +"Joe Chandler's too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls +yet awhile," she said tartly. + +"No doubt you're right," Bunting agreed. "Times be changed. In my +young days chaps always had time for that. 'Twas just a notion that +came into my head, hearing him asking, anxious-like, after her." + +****** + +About five o'clock, after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. +Sleuth went out, and that same evening there came two parcels +addressed to his landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But +it was quite clear to Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new +clothes. In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good +second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for a real gentleman like +Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had given up all hope of +getting back his lost luggage. + +When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him, of +that Mrs. Bunting was positive. And yet, though she searched high +and low for it, she could not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept +it. And at last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed +woman, with a good memory, she would have been disposed to think +that the bag had never existed, save in her imagination. + +But no, she could not tell herself that! She remembered exactly +how it had looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange, +queer-looking figure of a man, on her doorstep. + +She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of +the top front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he +had asked her eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was + - only to find it safely lodged at his feet! + +As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, +for, strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again. +But, of course, she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. +The brown leather bag which had formed Mr. Sleuth's only luggage +the afternoon of his arrival was almost certainly locked up in the +lower part of the drawing-room chiffonnier. Mr. Sleuth evidently +always carried the key of the little corner cupboard about his +person; Mrs. Bunting had also had a good hunt for that key, but, +as was the case with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never +saw either the one or the other again. + + +CHAPTER V + +How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped the next few +days. Already life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on +Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. Bunting could manage to do easily, +and without tiring herself. + +It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred to be waited +on only by one person, and that person his landlady. He gave her +very little trouble. Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the +lodger; it even did her good that he was not like other gentlemen; +for the fact occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. The +more so that whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had none of those +tiresome, disagreeable ways with which landladies are only too +familiar, and which seem peculiar only to those human beings who +also happen to be lodgers. To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did +not ask to be called unduly early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen +into the way of lying rather late in the morning, and it was a great +comfort not to have to turn out to make the lodger a cup of tea at +seven, or even half-past seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom required anything +before eleven. + +But odd he certainly was. + +The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth had brought in +a book of which the queer name was Cruden's Concordance. That and +the Bible - Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a +relation between the two books - seemed to be the lodger's only +reading. He spent hours each day, generally after he had eaten +the breakfast which also served for luncheon, poring over the Old +Testament and over that, strange kind of index to the Book. + +As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, +Mr. Sleuth was everything - everything that the most exacting +landlady could have wished. Never had there been a more confiding +or trusting gentleman. On the very first day he had been with them +he had allowed his money - the considerable sum of one hundred and +eighty-four sovereigns - to lie about wrapped up in little pieces +of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing-table. That had quite +upset Mrs. Bunting. She had allowed herself respectfully to point +out to him that what he was doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But +as only answer he had laughed, and she had been startled when the +loud, unusual and discordant sound had issued from his thin lips. + +"I know those I can trust," he had answered, stuttering rather, as +was his way when moved. "And - and I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that +I hardly have to speak to a human being - especially to a woman" +(and he had drawn in his breath with a hissing sound) "before I +know exactly what manner of person is before me." + +It hadn't taken the landlady very long to find out that her lodger +had a queer kind of fear and dislike of women. When she was doing +the staircase and landings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading +aloud to himself passages in the Bible that were very uncomplimentary +to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very great opinion of her sister +woman, so that didn't put her out. Besides, where one's lodger is +concerned, a dislike of women is better than - well, than the other +thing. + +In any case, where would have been the good of worrying about the +lodger's funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he +hadn't been, as Bunting funnily styled it, "just a leetle touched +upstairs," he wouldn't be here, living this strange, solitary life +in lodgings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way +with some of his relatives, or with a friend of his own class. + +There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back - as even the +least imaginative of us are apt to look back to any part of our +own past lives which becomes for any reason poignantly memorable + - wondered how soon it was that she had discovered that her +lodger was given to creeping out of the house at a time when +almost all living things prefer to sleep. + +She brought herself to believe - but I am inclined to doubt whether +she was right in so believing - that the first time she became aware +of this strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth's happened to be +during the night which preceded the day on which she had observed a +very curious circumstance. This very curious circumstance was the +complete disappearance of one of Mr. Sleuth's three suits of clothes. + +It always passes my comprehension how people can remember, over any +length of time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is +natural enough, but the day, the hour, the minute when these +happenings took place! Much as she thought about it afterwards, +even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind whether it was during +the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth's stay under her roof +that she became aware that he had gone out at two in the morning and +had only come in at five. + +But that there did come such a night is certain - as certain as is +the fact that her discovery coincided with various occurrences +which were destined to remain retrospectively memorable. + +****** + +It was intensely dark, intensely quiet - the darkest quietest hour +of the night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, +dreamless sleep by sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She +knew at once what those sounds were. They were those made by Mr. +Sleuth, first coming down the stairs, and walking on tiptoe - she +was sure it was. on tiptoe - past her door, and finally softly +shutting the front door behind him. + +Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to +sleep again. There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting +should waken up too, till she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, +creep back into the house and so up to bed. + +Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the morning she +felt very tired, so tired indeed, that she had been very glad when +Bunting good-naturedly suggested that he should go out and do their +little bit of marketing. + +The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of +catering it was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, +and that though he always tried to appear pleased. This perfect +lodger had one serious fault from the point of view of those who +keep lodgings. Strange to say, he was a vegetarian. He would not +eat meat in any form. He sometimes, however, condescended to a +chicken, and when he did so condescend he generously intimated that +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were welcome to a share in it. + +Now to-day - this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. +Bunting's mind so very long, and to remain so very vivid, it had +been arranged that Mr. Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, +while what he left was to be "done up" to serve for his simple supper. + +Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour, for he was +a gregarious soul, and liked to have a gossip in the shops he +frequented, Mrs. Bunting rose and dressed in a leisurely manner; +then she went and "did" her front sitting-room. + +She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after a broken +night, and it was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Sleuth was not +likely to ring before twelve. + +But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged through the +quiet l1ouse. She knew it for the front door bell. + +Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened one of those +tiresome people who come round for old, bottles and such-like +fal-lals. + +She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then her face cleared, +for it was that good young chap, Joe Chandler, who stood waiting +outside. + +He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked over-quickly +through the moist, foggy air. + +"Why, Joe?" said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. "Come in - do! Bunting's +out, but he won't be very long now. You've been quite a stranger +these last few days." + +"Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting - " + +She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Then, +suddenly she remembered. Why, of course, Joe was on a big job just +now - the job of trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had +alluded to the fact again and again when reading out to her little +bits from the halfpenny evening paper he was taking again. + +She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good thing Bunting +had insisted on lighting the fire before he went out, for now the +room was nice and warm - and it was just horrible outside. She had +felt a chill go right through her as she had stood, even for that +second, at the front door. + +And she hadn't been alone to feel it, for, "I say, it is jolly to +be in here, out of that awful cold!" exclaimed Chandler, sitting +down heavily in Bunting's easy chair. + +And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the young man was tired, +as well as cold. He was pale, almost pallid under his usual healthy, +tanned complexion - the complexion of the man who lives much out of +doors. + +"Wouldn't you like me just to make you a cup of tea?" she said +solicitously. + +"Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful for one, Mrs. +Bunting!" Then he looked round, and again he said her name, "Mrs. +Bunting - ?" + +He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. "Yes, +what is it, Joe?" she asked. And then, in sudden terror, "You've +never come to tell me that anything's happened to Bunting? He's +not had an accident?" + +"Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But - but, Mrs. +Bunting, there's been another of them!" + +His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with +unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, eyes. + +"Another of them?" She looked at him, bewildered - at a loss. +And then what he meant flashed across her - " another of them" +meant another of these strange, mysterious, awful murders. + +But her relief for the moment was so great - for she really had +thought for a second that he had come to give her ill news of +Bunting - that the, feeling that she did experience on hearing +this piece of news was actually pleasurable, though she would +have been much shocked had that fact been brought to her notice. + +Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested +in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination +of the whole of London's nether-world. Even her refined mind had +busied itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem +so frequently presented to it by Bunting - for Bunting, now that they +were no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in +"The Avenger" and his doings. + +She took the kettle off the gas-ring. "It's a pity Bunting isn't +here," she said, drawing in her breath. "He'd a-liked so much to +hear you tell all about it, Joe." + +As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. + +But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. "Why, +you do look bad!" she exclaimed. + +And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad - very bad indeed. + +"I can't help it," he said, with a kind of gasp. "It was your +saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn +queer. You see, this time I was one of the first there, and it +fairly turned me sick - that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. +Bunting! Don't talk of it." + +He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. + +She looked at him with sympathetic interest. "Why, Joe," she said, +"I never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, +that anything could upset you like that." + +"This isn't like anything there's ever been before," he said. "And +then - then - oh, Mrs. Bunting, 'twas I that discovered the piece of +paper this time." + +"Then it is true," she cried eagerly. "It is The Avenger's bit of +paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in that +practical joker." + +"I did," said Chandler reluctantly. "You see, there are some queer +fellows even - even - " (he lowered his voice, and looked round him +as if the walls had ears) - "even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and +these murders have fair got on our nerves." + +"No, never!" she said. "D'you think that a Bobby might do a thing +like that?" + +He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn't worth answering. +Then, "It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while +the poor soul was still warm he shuddered - " that brought me out +West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince +Albert Terrace, and I had to go and tell him all about it. They +never offered me a bit or a sup - I think they might have done that, +don't you, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Yes," she said absently. "Yes, I do think so." + +"But, there, I don't know that I ought to say that," went on Chandler. +"He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to +me while I was telling him." + +"Have a bit of something now?" she said suddenly. + +"Oh, no, I couldn't eat anything," he said hastily. "I don't feel +as if I could ever eat anything any more." + +"That'll only make you ill." Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, +for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite +out of the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him. + +"I expect you're right," he said. "And I've a goodish heavy day +in front of me. Been up since four, too - " + +"Four?" she said. "Was it then they found - " she hesitated a +moment, and then said, "it?" + +He nodded. "It was just a chance I was near by. If I'd been half +a minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have +knocked up against that - that monster. But two or three people +do think they saw him slinking away." + +"What was he like?" she asked curiously. + +"Well, that's hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful +fog. But there's one thing they all agree about. He was carrying +a bag - " + +"A bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. "Whatever sort of +bag might it have been, Joe?" + +There had come across her-just right in her middle, like - such a +strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering. + + She was at a loss to account for it, + +"Just a hand-bag," said Joe Chandler vaguely. "A woman I spoke to + - cross-examining her, like - who was positive she had seen him, +said, 'Just a tall, thin shadow - that's what he was, a tall, thin +shadow of a man - with a bag."' + +"With a bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. "How very strange +and peculiar - " + +"Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does +the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. We've always wondered how +he hid it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you +know." + +"Do they, indeed?" Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, wondering +way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the +lodger had done with his bag. It was possible - in fact, when one +came to think of it, it was very probable - that he had just lost +it, being so forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone +out, as she knew he was fond of doing, into the Regent's Park. + +"There'll be a description circulated in an hour or two," went on +Chandler. "Perhaps that'll help catch him. There isn't a London +man or woman, I don't suppose, who wouldn't give a good bit to lay +that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now." + +"Won't you wait a bit longer for Bunting?" she said hesitatingly. + +"No, I can't do that. But I'll come in, maybe, either this evening +or to-morrow, and tell you any more that's happened. Thanks kindly +for the tea. It's made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Well, you've had enough to unman you, Joe." + +"Aye, that I have," he said heavily. + +A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had +quite a little tiff - the first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth +became their lodger. + +It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting +was angry that Mrs. Bunting hadn't got more details of the horrible +occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler. + +"You don't mean to say, Ellen, that you can't even tell me where it +happened?" he said indignantly. "I suppose you put Chandler off + - that's what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, +excepting to tell us all about it?" + +"He came to have something to eat and drink," snapped out Mrs. +Bunting. "That's what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. +He could hardly speak of it at all - he felt so bad. In fact, he +didn't say a word about it until he'd come right into the room and +sat down. He told me quite enough!" + +"Didn't he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had +written his name was square or three-cornered?" demanded Bunting. + +"No; he did not. And that isn't the sort of thing I should have +cared to ask him." + +"The more fool you!" And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys +were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful +discovery which had been made that morning - that of The Avenger's +fifth murder. Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took +the things he had brought in down to the kitchen. + +The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened +Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadn't been in the kitchen ten minutes +before his bell rang. + + +CHAPTER VI + +Mr. Sleuth's bell rang again. + +Mr. Sleuth's breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since +he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at +once. But when there came the second imperative tinkle - for +electric hells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned house - +she made up her mind to go upstairs. + +As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, +sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wile stepping heavily +under the load of the well-laden tray. + +"Wait a minute!" he called out. "I'll help you, Ellen," and he came +out and took the tray from her. + +She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room +floor landing. + +There she stopped him. "Here," she whispered quickly, "you give me +that, Bunting. The lodger won't like your going in to him." And +then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she +added in a rather acid tone, "You might open the door for me, at +any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on +my hands?" + +She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised - rather +put out. Ellen wasn't exactly what you'd call a lively, jolly woman, +but when things were going well - as now - she was generally equable +enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had +spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder. + +However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, +and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked +into the room. + +And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, +of lightness of heart. + +As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible. + +Somehow - she could not have told you why, she would not willingly +have told herself - she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking +different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the same - in fact, +as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up +his thin, pallid face. + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting," he said genially, "I overslept myself this +morning, but I feel all the better for the rest." + +"I'm glad of that, sir," she answered, in a low voice. "One of the +ladies I once lived with used to say, 'Rest is an old-fashioned +remedy, but it's the best remedy of all." + +Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden's Concordance off +the table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady +laying the cloth. + +Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the +morning. "I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you +outside the door just now?" + +"Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray." + +"I'm afraid I give you a good deal of trouble," he said hesitatingly. + +But she answered quickly, "Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was +only saying yesterday that we've never had a lodger that gave us as +little trouble as you do, sir." + +"I'm glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar." + +He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of +denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and +truthful woman. It never occurred to her to question his statement. +Mr. Sleuth's habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at +night, or rather in the early morning, for instance? So she remained +silent. + +After she had laid the lodger's breakfast on the table she prepared +to leave the room. "I suppose I'm not to do your room till you goes +out, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. "No, no!" he said. "I never +want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. +Bunting. But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a +somewhat elaborate experiment - upstairs. If I go out at all" he +waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly " - I shall wait +till night-time to do so." And then, coming back to the matter in +hand, he added hastily, "Perhaps you could do my room when I go +upstairs, about five o'clock - if that time is convenient to you, +that is?" + +"Oh, yes, sir! That'll do nicely!" + +Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself +wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face - even in her +inmost heart - the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken +her. She only repeated to herself again and again, "I've got upset + - that's what I've done," and then she spoke aloud, "I must get +myself a dose at the chemist's next time I'm out. That's what I +must do." + +And just as she murmured the word "do," there came a loud double +knock on the front door. + +It was only the postman's knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar +visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was +nervous, that's what was the matter with her, - so she told herself +angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must +have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All +gentlefolk have. But when she picked the small envelope off the +hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husband's daughter. + +"Bunting!" she called out sharply. "Here's a letter for you." + +She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there +was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading +a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting +felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing +nothing - in fact, doing worse than nothing - wasting his time +reading all about those horrid crimes. + +She sighed - a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into +idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she +prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man +when they had first made acquaintance. . . + +She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, +that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland +Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of +port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a +good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking +fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had +appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as +butler! + +To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past +rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. + +Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed +the door softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various +little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to +cook. And all the time she was down there she fixed her mind +obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting. +She wondered what she'd better do to get him into good ways again. + +Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A +week ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if +nothing could save them from disaster. But everything was now +changed! + +Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor +of that registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed +hands. It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an +occasional job - for the matter of that he could now take up a +fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that +it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has acquired +those ways. + +When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of +what she had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid +it very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. + +"Ellen?" he cried eagerly, "here's news! Daisy's coming to-morrow! +There's scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she'd better +come away for a few days. So, you see, she'll be here for her +birthday. Eighteen, that's what she be on the nineteenth! It do +make me feel old - that it do!" + +Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. "I can't have the girl here just +now," she said shortly. "I've just as much to do as I can manage. +The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for." + +"Rubbish!" he said sharply. "I'll help you with the lodger. It's +your own fault you haven't had help with him before. Of course, +Daisy must come here. Whatever other place could the girl go to?" + +Bunting felt pugnacious - so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. +But as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction +vanished. Ellen's face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill + - ill and horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and +behave like this - just when they were beginning to get on nicely +again. + +"For the matter of that," he said suddenly, "Daisy'll be able to help +you with the work, Ellen, and she'll brisk us both up a bit." + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. +And then she said languidly, "You might as well show me the girl's +letter." + +He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. + +"DEAR FATHER (it ran) - I hope this finds you as well at it leaves +me. Mrs. Puddle's youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks +I had better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few +days. Please tell Ellen I won't give her no trouble. I'll start +at ten if I don't hear nothing. - Your loving daughter, + + +"Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here," Mrs. Bunting slowly. +"It'll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life." + +And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content +himself. + +****** + +Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. +Sleuth's landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She +remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room. + +He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things +about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. +No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the +various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first +two days he had been there, were carefully arranged in the chest +of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he +had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes +with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first +day that he never wished them to go down +to be cleaned. + +A funny idea - a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after +midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were +glad to be at home, snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself +admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman. + +After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the +sitting-room and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept +quite as nice as she would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting +longed to give the drawing-room something of a good turn out; but +Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself +was in his bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. +Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he only used +it when making his mysterious experiments, and never during the +day-time. + +And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with +longing eyes - she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture +a slight shake. If only the doors would fly open, as the locked +doors of old cupboards sometimes do, even after they have been +securely fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more +comfortable somehow she would feel! + +But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. + +****** + +About eight o'clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just +for a few minutes' chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the +morning, but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting +listened in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself, while +he and Bunting talked. + +"Yes," he said, "I'm as right as a trivet now! I've had a good rest + - laid down all this afternoon. You see, the Yard thinks there's +going to be something on to-night. He's always done them in pairs." + +"So he has," exclaimed Hunting wonderingly. "So he has! Now, I +never thought o' that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster'll be +on the job again to-night?" + +Chandler nodded. "Yes. And I think there's a very good chance of +his being caught too - " + +"I suppose there'll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?" + +"I should think there will be! How many of our men d'you think +there'll be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?" + +Bunting shook his head. "I don't know," he said helplessly. + +"I mean extra," suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice." + +"A thousand?" ventured Bunting. + +"Five thousand, Mr. Bunting. + +"Never!" exclaimed Bunting, amazed. + +And even Mrs. Bunting echoed "Never!" incredulously. + +"Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!" +Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. "Just +listen to this: + +"'The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to +the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any +surprise at the information that a popular attack has been organised +on the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even +talk of an indignation mass meeting.' + +"What d'you think of that? That's not a pleasant thing for a +gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?" + +"Well, it does seem queer that the police can't catch him, now +doesn't it?" said Bunting argumentatively. + +"I don't think it's queer at all," said young Chandler crossly. +"Now you just listen again! Here's a bit of the truth for once - +in a newspaper." And slowly he read out: + +"'The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind +man's buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes +bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through +the slums of a great city."' + +"Whatever does that mean?" said Bunting. "Your hands aren't tied, +and your eyes aren't bandaged, Joe?" + +"It's metaphorical-like that it's intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven't +got the same facilities - no, not a quarter of them - that the +French 'tecs have." + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: "What was that +word, Joe - 'perpetrators'? I mean that first bit you read out." + +"Yes," he said, turning to her eagerly. + +"Then do they think there's more than one of them?" she said, and +a look of relief came over her thin face. + +"There's some of our chaps thinks it's a gang," said Chandler. +"They say it can't be the work of one man." + +"What do you think, Joe?" + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don't know what to think. I'm fair puzzled." + +He got up. "Don't you come to the door. I'll shut it all right. +So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps." As he had done the other +evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's visitor stopped at the door. "Any +news of Miss Daisy?" he asked casually. + +"Yes; she's coming to-morrow," said her father. "They've got scarlet +fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks she'd better clear out." + + +The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting +found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, +the half-hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old +church close by. + +And then, just as she was dozing off - it must have been about one +o'clock - she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been +expecting to hear, that of the lodger's stealthy footsteps coming +down the stairs just outside her room. + +He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. + +But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him +come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. + +Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder +still, it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going +out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been +pushed through the letter-box. + +But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into +her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning +up against the wall to steady herself, for she was trembling with +cold and fatigue, she opened the paper. + +Yes, there was the heading she sought: + +The AVENGER Murders" + +But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed: + +"Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report +concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, +and, indeed, staggering not only London, hut the whole civilised +world, and which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating +teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the last of these +dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator, +or perpetrators, has been obtained, though several arrests were made +in the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested +were able to prove a satisfactory alibi." + +And then, a little lower down + +"The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that +even a stranger to London would know that something very unusual +was in the air. As for the place where the murder was committed +last night - " + +"Last night!" thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised +that "last night," in this connection, meant the night before last. + +She began the sentence again: + +"As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all +approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds +of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of +traces of the tragedy." + +Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its +original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the +mat where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going +back into bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. + +"Anything the matter?" Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. +"Anything the matter, Ellen?" + +She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange +gladness, "No, nothing, Bunting - nothing the matter! Go to sleep +again, my dear." + +They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting +rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's coming, and even Daisy's +stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl +about the house to help her a bit. + +About ten o'clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought +back with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy's dinner, and +three mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the +sauce. + + +CHAPTER VII + +Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. + +It brought Daisy - pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy - a +sight to gladden any father's heart. + +"Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad," she +cried out joyously. + +There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's Cross, as all +the world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, +but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that +he had done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all. + +While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, +walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was +awaiting her. + +As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, 'twas a mere +peck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, with startling suddenness, +loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they +sounded strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roar +of traffic in the Edgware Road. + +"What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "Why, whatever's +that?" + +The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying out that 'orrible +affair at King's Cross. He's done for two of 'em this time! That's +what I meant when I said I might 'a got a better fare. I wouldn't +say nothink before little missy there, but folk 'ave been coming +from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, +too - but there, there's nothing to see now!" + +"What? Another woman murdered last night?" + +Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand +constables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen? + +The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, I tell yer - +within a few yards of one another. He 'ave - got a nerve - But, +of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the drink!" + +"Have they caught him?" asked Bunting perfunctorily. + +"Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave happened hours +and hours ago - they was both stone cold. One each end of a little +passage what ain't used no more. That's why they didn't find 'em +before." + +The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer - two news vendors +trying to outshout each other. + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled exultingly. +"The Avenger again!" + +And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all in his hand, +ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for +a halfpenny paper. + +He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with +young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He +hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it, +as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily +been out. + +As be walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy's voice - +high, voluble, excited - giving her stepmother a long account of +the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's neighbours had +thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. + +But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there +came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's voice, and he heard +her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!" +and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window - do." + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross - a clue at last!" yelled +the newspaper-boys triumphantly. + +And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, +and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an +ecstasy of mirth. + +"Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?" + +Daisy looked quite scared. + +"She's in 'sterics - that's what it is," he said shortly. +"I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!" + +Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous - that's what she +was, to be so easily upset. + +The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either +that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical +effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all +over, but mentally composed. + +"I'll go up," she skid a little chokingly. "As for you, child, +just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of pork +roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the +sauce." + +As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made +of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the +banister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself, +she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments +on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom. "I'm not well," +he called out querulously; "I think I've caught a chill. I should +be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put it +outside my door, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Very well, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer and +giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his +cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring. + +During their midday dinner the husband and wile had a little +discussion as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been settled +that a bed should be made up for her in the top back room, but +Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. "I think 'twould be +better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to +sleep upstairs." + +Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellen +was probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, +after all, they didn't know much about the lodger, though he seemed +a respectable gentleman enough. + +Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make +herself useful to her stepmother. "I'll wash up; don't you bother to +come downstairs," she said cheerfully. + +Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him a +furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about. + +"Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last. + +"Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But I've put it away. +I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're that nervous." + +Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as +usual - he evidently meant just what he said and no more. + +"I thought they was shouting something in the street - I mean just +before I was took bad." + +It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather +furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, +of hysterics - call it what you might - had been due to the shouting +outside. She was not the only woman in London who had got the +Avenger murders on her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lot +of women were afraid to go out alone. Was it possible that the +curious way she had been taken just now had had nothing to do with +the shouts and excitement outside? + +"Don't you know what it was they were calling out?" he asked slowly. + +Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a very +great deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did not know what +those dreadful cries had portended. But when it came to the point +she found she could not do so. + +"Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and there. There's +been another murder, hasn't there?" + +"Two other murders," he said soberly. + +"Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale - a sallow +greenish-white - that Bunting thought she was again going queer. + +"Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a care! I can't +think what's come over, you about these murders. Turn your mind +away from them, do! We needn't talk about them - not so much, +that is " + +"But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically. + +The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table, +the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the +door. + +Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and +disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure +looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully, +Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands - she +had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has never +done rough work - grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive +movement. + +Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," he said +to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! That would be +a to-do just now." + +"Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. " Can't you see +I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!" + +"There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. "There's +precious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what brought +Daisy told me - " + +"Well?" + +"What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, and they'd +both been drinking heavily, poor creatures." + +"Was it where the others was done?" she asked looking at her husband +fearfully. + +"No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. It was a good bit +farther West - in fact, not so very far from here. Near King's Cross + - that's how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to have +been done in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as he +thought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he added +hastily. "There, that's enough for the present! We shall soon be +hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure to +come in some time to-day." + +"Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" said Mrs. +Bunting slowly. + +She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more +upright. + +"No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful and no mistake +about it. But wait a minute - " he turned and took up the paper +which he had laid aside, on a chair. "Yes they says here that they +has a clue." + +"A clue, Bunting?" Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away +voice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the +table. + +But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paper +close up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable +satisfaction: + +"'It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last +believe they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the +arrest of the - '" and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed +round the table. + +His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the +floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay there +in what appeared to be a dead faint. And Bunting, scared out of +his wits, opened the door and screamed out, "Daisy! Daisy! Come +up, child. Ellen's took bad again." + +And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource +which even at this anxious moment roused her fond father's +admiration. + +"Get a wet sponge, Dad - quick!" she cried, "a sponge, - and, if +you've got such a thing, a drop o' brandy. I'll see after her!" +And then, after he had got the little medicine flask, "I can't think +what's wrong with Ellen," said Daisy wonderingly. "She seemed quite +all right when I first came in. She was listening, interested-like, +to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly - well, you saw how +she was took, father? 'Taint like Ellen this, is now?" + +"No," he whispered. "No, 'taint. But you see, child, we've been +going through a pretty bad time - worse nor I should ever have let +you know of, my dear. Ellen's just feeling it now - that's what it +is. She didn't say nothing, for Ellen's a good plucked one, but +it's told on her - it's told on her!" + +And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and +instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was +all right. + +She hadn't really been quite "off." It would have been better for +her if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she +couldn't stand up - more, that she must fall down. Bunting's words +touched a most unwonted chord in the poor woman's heart, and the +eyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not thought her +husband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starving +and waiting. + +But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her +such betrayal betokened "foolishness," and so all she said was, +"There's no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. +I never was right off, Daisy." + +Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly +poured a little brandy. "I wouldn't touch such stuff - no, not if +I was dying!" she exclaimed. + +Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of +the table, on to her feet. "Go down again to the kitchen, child"; +but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice. + +"You haven't been eating properly, Ellen - that's what's the matter +with you," said Bunting suddenly. "Now I come to think of it, you +haven't eat half enough these last two days. I always did say - in +old days many a time I telled you - that a woman couldn't live on +air. But there, you never believed me!" + +Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, +pretty face. "I'd no idea you'd had such a bad time, father," she +said feelingly. "Why didn't you let me know about it? I might have +got something out of Old Aunt." + +"We didn't want anything of that sort," said her stepmother hastily. +"But of course - well, I expect I'm still feeling the worry now. I +don't seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, of - of - " +she restrained herself; another moment and the word "starving" would +have left her lips. + +"But everything's all right now," said Bunting eagerly, all right, +thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is." + +"Yes," repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. "Yes, +we're all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it's all along of +Mr. Sleuth." + +She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. "I'm just a little +tottery still," she muttered. + +And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a +whisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, "Don't you +think Ellen ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her +something that would pull her round." + +"I won't see no doctor!" said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. "I +saw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten +months did my poor missis have. Just determined on having 'em she +was! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit +sooner." + +"She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen," began Bunting +aggressively. + +Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress +died. They might have been married some months before they were +married but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it. + +His wife smile wanly. "We won't have no words about that," she said, +and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. "Daisy? +If you won't go down to the kitchen again, then I must" - she turned +to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room. + +"I think the child grows prettier every minute," said Bunting fondly. + +"Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep," said his +wife. She was beginning to feel better. "But still, I do agree, +Bunting, that Daisy's well enough. And she seems more willing, too." + +"I say, we mustn't forget the lodger's dinner," Bunting spoke +uneasily. "It's a bit of fish to-day, isn't it? Hadn't I better +just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, as +you're not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?" + +"I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's luncheon," she said +quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger's +dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth +had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot +her lodger was a gentleman. + +"After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I can manage +all right. Don't you worry," she added after a long pause. + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later +than usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs +with far heartier an appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice +slice of roast pork downstairs. + +"I hope you're feeling a little better, sir," Mrs. Bunting had forced +herself to say when she first took in his tray. + +And he had answered plaintively, querulously, "No, I can't say I +feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired - very tired. And as I +lay in bed I seemed to hear so many sounds - so much crying and +shouting. I trust the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy +thoroughfare, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, no, sir, I don't think that. We're generally reckoned very +quiet indeed, sir." + +She waited a moment - try as she would, she could not allude to what +those unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. "I expect you've +got a chill, sir," she said suddenly. "If I was you, I shouldn't +go out this afternoon; I'd just stay quietly indoors. There's a lot +of rough people about - " Perhaps there was an undercurrent of +warning, of painful pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated +in some way to the brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and +an uneasy, watchful look came into his luminous grey eyes. + +"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think I'll take your +advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss +to know what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of +Books." + +"Then you're not afraid about your eyes, sir?" said Mrs. Bunting +curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted +her to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about +him downstairs. It seemed to banish the terror which filled her +soul - aye, and her body, too - at other times. When she was with +him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so reasonable, so - so grateful. + +Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely +wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentric - so much +must be admitted. But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric +folk, eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long career +as useful maid. + +Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced +woman, she had never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on +certain things she had learnt as to the aberrations of which human +nature is capable - even well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human +nature - as exemplified in some of the households where she had +served. It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now became morbid +or - or hysterical. + +So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she +had talked during the first few days of Mr. Sleuth's stay in her +house, that she exclaimed, "Well, sir, I'll be up again to clear +away in about half an hour. And if you'll forgive me for saying so, +I hope you will stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather + - that's what it is! If there's any little thing you want, me or +Bunting can go out and get it." + +****** + +It must have been about four o'clock when there came a ring at the +front door. + +The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up + - she really was saving her stepmother a good bit of trouble - and +the girl was now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Aunt's +pernickety ways. + +"Whoever can that be?" said Bunting, looking up. "It's too early +for Joe Chandler, surely." + +"I'll go," said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her chair. +"I'll go! We don't want no strangers in here." + +And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, +"A clue? What clue?" + +But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from +her. "Why, Joe? We never thought 'twas you! But you're very +welcome, I'm sure. Come in." + +And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, +fair young face. + +"I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to know - " he began, +in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. +She didn't want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler +might be going to say. + +"Don't talk so loud," she said a little sharply. "The lodger is +not very well to-day. He's had a cold," she added hastily, "and +during the last two or three days he hasn't been able to go out." + +She wondered at her temerity, her - her hypocrisy, and that moment, +those few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Bunting's life. It was +the first time she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was +one of those women - there are many, many such - to whom there is +a whole world of difference between the suppression of the truth +and the utterance of an untruth. + +But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. "Has Miss Daisy arrived?" +he asked, in a lower voice. + +She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father +and daughter were sitting. + +"Well?" said Bunting, starting up. "Well, Joe? Now you can tell +us all about that mysterious clue I suppose it'd be too good news +to expect you to tell us they've caught him?" + +"No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If they'd caught +him," said Joe ruefully, "well, I don't suppose I should be here, +Mr. Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. +And - well, they've found his weapon!" + +"No?" cried Bunting excitedly. "You don't say so! Whatever sort +of a thing is it? And are they sure 'tis his?" + +"Well, 'tain't sure, but it seems to be likely." + +Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. +But she was still standing with her back against the door, looking +at the group in front of her. None of them were thinking of her + - she thanked God for that! She could hear everything that was +said without joining in the talk and excitement. + +"Listen to this!" cried Joe Chandler exultantly. "'Tain't given +out yet - not for the public, that is - but we was all given it by +eight o'clock this morning. Quick work that eh?" He read out: + + +"WANTED + +A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height +approximately 5 ft. '8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or +whiskers. Wearing a black diagonal coat hard felt hat, high +white collar, and tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very +respectable appearance." + + +Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of +unutterable relief. + +"There's the chap!" said Joe Chandler triumphantly. "And now, Miss +Daisy" - he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little +tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice - "if you knows of any +nice, likely young fellow that answers to that description - well, +you've only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hundred +pounds." + +"Five hundred pounds!" cried Daisy and her father simultaneously. + +"Yes. That's what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private +bloke - nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred +from taking that reward, worse luck. And it's too bad, for we has +all the trouble, after all" + +"Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?" said Bunting. "I'd +like to con it over to myself." + +Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. + +A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. "Well, it's +clear enough, isn't it?" + +"Yes. And there's hundreds - nay, "thousands - of young fellows +that might be a description of," said Chandler sarcastically. "As +a pal of mine said this morning, 'There isn't a chap will like to +carry a newspaper parcel after this.' And it won't do to have a +respectable appearance - eh?" + +Daisy's voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly +appreciated Mr. Chandler's witticism. + +"Why on earth didn't the people who saw him try and catch him?" +asked Bunting suddenly. + +And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, "Yes, Joe - that seems +odd, don't it?" + +Joe Chandler coughed. "Well, it's this way," he said. "No one +person did see all that. The man who's described here is just made +up from the description of two different folk who think they saw +him. You see, the murders must have taken place - well, now, let +me see - perhaps at two o'clock this last time. Two o'clock - +that's the idea. Well, at such a time as that not many people are +about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one woman declares she +saw a young chap walking away from the spot where 'twas done; and +another one - but that was a good bit later - says The Avenger +passed by her. It's mostly her they're following in this 'ere +description. And then the boss who has charge of that sort of +thing looked up what other people had said - I mean when the other +crimes was committed. That's how he made up this 'Wanted."' + +"Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?" said +Bunting slowly, disappointedly. + +"Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description +fits him all right," said Chandler; but he also spoke in a +hesitating voice. + +"You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?" observed Bunting +insinuatingly. + +He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on - in fact, +that she even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She +had come up close to them, and now looked quite her old self again. + +"Yes. They believe they've found the weapon what he does his awful +deeds with," said Chandler. "At any rate, within a hundred yards +of that little dark passage where they found the bodies - one at +each end, that was - there was discovered this morning a very +peculiar kind o' knife - 'keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger' - +that's the exact words the boss used when he was describing it to +a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that clue than of +the other - I mean than of the description people gave of the chap +who walked quickly by with a newspaper parcel. But now there's a +pretty job in front of us. Every shop where they sell or might a' +sold, such a thing as that knife, including every eating-house in +the East End, has got to be called at!" + +"Whatever for?" asked Daisy. + +"Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling +about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the +time. But, Mr. Bunting" - Chandler's voice changed; it became +businesslike, official - "they're not going to say anything about +that - not in newspapers - till to-morrow, so don't you go and +tell anybody. You see, we don't want to frighten the fellow off. +If he knew they'd got his knife - well, he might just make himself +scarce, and they don't want that! If it's discovered that any knife +of that kind was sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways +are known, then - then - " + +"What'll happen then?" said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer. + +"Well, then, nothing'll be put about it in the papers at all," said +Chandler deliberately. "The only objec' of letting the public know +about it would be if nothink was found - I mean if the search of +the shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try +and find out someone - some private person-like, who's watched that +knife in the criminal's possession. It's there the reward - the +five hundred pounds will come in. + +"Oh, I'd give anything to see that knife!" exclaimed Daisy, clasping +her hands together. + +"You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!" cried her stepmother passionately. + +They all looked round at her, surprised. + +"Come, come, Ellen!" said Bunting reprovingly. + +"Well, it is a horrible idea!" said his wife sullenly. "To go and +sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds." + +But Daisy was offended. "Of course I'd like to see it!" she cried +defiantly. "I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. +Chandler said that! I only said I'd like to see the knife." + +Chandler looked at her soothingly. "Well, the day may come when +you will see it," he said slowly. + +A great idea had come into his mind. + +"No! What makes you think that?" + +"If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our +Black Museum at the Yard, you'll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. +They keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this +weapon should lead to the conviction of The Avenger - well, then, +that knife 'ull be there, and you'll see' it!" + +"The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your +place for?" asked Daisy wonderingly. "I thought there was only the +British Museum - " + +And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, +laughed aloud. + +"You are a goosey girl!" said her father fondly. "Why, there's a +lot of museums in London; the town's thick with 'em. Ask Ellen +there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when we was +courting - if the weather was bad." + +"But our museum's the one that would interest Miss Daisy," broke in +Chandler eagerly. "It's a regular Chamber of 'Orrors!" + +"Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before," said Bunting +excitedly. "D'you really mean that there's a museum where they +keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives +murders have been committed with?" + +"Knives?" cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of +attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even +Mrs. Bunting looked at him expectantly. "Much more than knives, Mr. +Bunting! Why, they've got there, in little bottles, the real poison +what people have been done away with." + +"And can you go there whenever you like?" asked Daisy wonderingly. +She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable +privileges are attached to the position of a detective member of +the London Police +Force. + +"Well, I suppose I could - " Joe smiled. "Anyway I can certainly +get leave to take a friend there." He looked meaningly at Daisy, +and Daisy looked eagerly at him. + +But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? +Ellen was so prim, so - so irritatingly proper. But what was this +father was saying? "D'you really mean that, Joe?" + +"Yes, of course I do!" + +"Well, then, look here! If it isn't asking too much of a favour, I +should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don't +want to wait till The Avenger's caught " - Bunting smiled broadly. +"I'd be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum +o' yours. Ellen, there " - he looked across at his wife-" don't +agree with me about such things. Yet I don't think I'm a +bloodthirsty man! But I'm just terribly interested in all that sort +of thing - always have been. I used to positively envy the butler +in that Balham Mystery!" + +Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man - it was a look +which contained and carried a great many things backwards and +forwards, such as - "Now, isn't it funny that your father should +want to go to such a place? But still, I can't help it if he does +want to go, so we must put up with his company, though it would +have been much nicer for us to go just by our two selves." And +then Daisy's look answered quite as plainly, though perhaps Joe +didn't read her glance quite as clearly as she had read his: "Yes, +it is tiresome. But father means well; and 'twill be very pleasant +going there, even if he does come too." + +"Well, what d'you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? I'd +call for you here about - shall we say half-past two? - and just +take you and Miss Daisy down to the Yard. 'Twouldn't take very +long; we could go all the way by bus, right down to Westminster +Bridge." He looked round at his hostess: "Wouldn't you join us, +Mrs. Bunting? 'Tis truly a wonderful interesting place." + +But his hostess shook her head decidedly. "'Twould turn me sick," +she exclaimed, "to see the bottle of poison what had done away with +the life of some poor creature! + +"And as for knives - !" a look of real horror, of startled fear, +crept over her pale face. + +"There, there!" said Bunting hastily. "Live and let live - that's +what I always say. Ellen ain't on in this turn. She can just +stay at home and mind the cat - I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!" + +"I won't have Mr. Sleuth laughed at," said Mrs. Bunting darkly. +"But there! I'm sure it's very kind of you, Joe, to think of giving +Bunting and Daisy such a rare treat " - she spoke sarcastically, but +none of the three who heard her understood that. + + +CHAPTER IX + +The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the +stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart +of that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, +Daisy Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of +Romance. Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up +to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a +new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, +quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this +was the first time a lift had come her way. + +With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler +marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. + +Daisy clung to her father's arm, a little bewildered, a little +oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was +stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful place where she +found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of great rooms full +of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling - or so she supposed + - the mysteries of crime. + +They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped +short. "Look in there," he said, in a low voice, addressing the +father rather than the daughter, "that's the Finger-Print Room. +We've records here of over two hundred thousand men's and women's +finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we've got +the print of a man's five finger-tips, well, he's done for - if he +ever does anything else, that is. Once we've got that bit of him +registered he can't never escape us - no, not if he tries ever so. +But though there's nigh on a quarter of a million records in there, +yet it don't take - well, not half an hour, for them to tell +whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful +thought, ain't it?" + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a +troubled look came over his stolid face. "Wonderful, but also a +very fearful thought for the poor wretches as has got their +finger-prints in, Joe." + +Joe laughed. "Agreed!" he said. "And the cleverer ones knows that +only too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was +here safe, managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just +so as to make a blurred impression - you takes my meaning? But +there, at the end of six weeks the skin grew all right again, and +in exactly the same little creases as before!" + +"Poor devil!" said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came +over Daisy's bright eager face. + +They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they +came to a half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than +that of the Finger-Print Identification Room. + +"If you'll glance in there," said Joe briefly, "you'll see how we +finds out all about any man whose finger-tips has given him away, so +to speak. It's here we keeps an account of what he's done, his +previous convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where I told +you, and his record in there - just connected by a number." + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was +longing to get on - to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe +and her father were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the +matter of that not worth taking the trouble to understand. However, +she had not long to wait. + +A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on +very friendly terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, +unlocking a common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of +three through into the Black Museum. + +For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment +and surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they +called the Science Room in the public library of the town where she +lived with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up with +plain glass cases fixed at a height from the floor which enabled +their contents to be looked at closely. + +She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The +exhibits shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, +the sort of things one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in +an untidy house - old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what +looked like a child's broken lantern, even a box of pills. . . + +As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking +objects; bits of old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and +leather, and so on. + +It was really rather disappointing. + +Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf +just below the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the +great room look so light and shadowless, was a row of life-size +white plaster heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. +There were about a dozen of these, not more - and they had such odd, +staring, helpless, real-looking faces. + +"Whatever's those?" asked Bunting in a low voice. + +Daisy clung a thought closer to her father's arm. Even she guessed +that these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of +those men and women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains +that the murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death. + +"All hanged!" said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. "Casts +taken after death." + +Bunting smiled nervously. "They don't look dead somehow.. They +looks more as if they were listening," +he said. + +"That's the fault of Jack Ketch," said the man facetiously. "It's +his idea - that of knotting his' patient's necktie under the left +ear! That's what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom he has +to act valet on just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a +bit to one side. You look here - ?" + +Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed +with his' finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each +neck; running from this indentation was a curious little furrow, +well ridged above, showing how tightly Jack Ketch's necktie had been +drawn when its wearer was hurried through the gates of eternity. + +"They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or - or hurt," said +Bunting wonderingly. + +He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring +faces. + +But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, +"Well, a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his +plans brought to naught - and knowing he's only got a second to live + - now wouldn't he?" + +"Yes, I suppose he would," said Bunting slowly. + +Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere +of the place was beginning to tell on her. She now began to +understand that the shabby little objects lying there in the glass +case close to her were each and all links in the chain of evidence +which, in almost every case, had brought some guilty man or woman +to the gallows. + +"We had a yellow gentleman here the other day," observed the guardian +suddenly; "one of those Brahmins - so they calls themselves. Well, +you'd a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He +'declared - what was the word he used? " - he turned to Chandler. + +"He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, +mind you - queer to say, he left them out - exuded evil, that was +the word he used! Exuded - squeezed out it means. He said that +being here made him feel very bad. And twasn't all nonsense either. +He turned quite green under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him +out quick. He didn't feel better till he'd got right to the other +end of the passage!" + +"There now! Who'd ever think of that?" said Bunting. "I should say +that man 'ud got something on his conscience, wouldn't you?" + +"Well, I needn't stay now," said Joe's good-natured friend. "You +show your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place nearly as +well as I do, don't you?" + +He smiled at Joe's visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed +that he could not tear himself away after all. + +"Look here," he said to Bunting. "In this here little case are the +tools of Charles Peace. I expect you've heard of him." + +"I should think I have!" cried Bunting eagerly. + +"Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of +all. Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he +would have been, had he been put in the way of it. Here's his +ladder; you see it folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little +bundle - just like a bundle of old sticks any man might have been +seen carrying about London in those days without attracting any +attention. Why, it probably helped him to look like an honest +working man time and time again, for on being arrested he declared +most solemnly he'd always carried that ladder openly under his arm." + +"The daring of that!" cried Bunting. + +"Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could reach from the +ground to the second storey of any old house. And, oh! how clever +he was! Just open one section, and you see the other sections open +automatically; so Peace could stand on the ground and force the +thing quietly up to any window he wished to reach. Then he'd go +away again, having done his job, with a mere bundle of old wood +under his arm! My word, he was artful! I wonder if you've heard +the tale of how Peace once lost a finger. Well, he guessed the +constables were instructed to look out for a man missing a finger; +so what did he do?" + +"Put on a false finger," suggested Bunting. + +"No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do without a hand +altogether. Here's his false stump: you see, it's made of wood + - wood and black felt? Well, that just held his hand nicely. +Why, we considers that one of the most ingenious contrivances in +the whole museum." + +Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. With Chandler +in delighted attendance, she bad moved away to the farther end of +the great room, and now she was bending over yet another glass case. +"Whatever are those little bottles for?" she asked wonderingly. + +There were five small phials, filled with varying quantities of +cloudy liquids. + +"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what they are. There's +enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to do for you and me + - aye, and for your father as well, I should say." + +"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said Daisy, smiling. +Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little +bottles only brought a pleasant thrill. + +"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was. +Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was +really going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband. +She'd got a bit tired of him, I suspect." + +"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with," +said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they +began to laugh aloud in unison. + +"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?" asked Chandler, +becoming suddenly serious. + +"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. "That was the +wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother. +They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she won't let me go +to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father take me there +last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow +I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!" + +"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of relics of Mrs. +Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that's at Madame +Tussaud's - at least so they claim, I can't say. Now here's something +just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that man's jacket +there?!' + +"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed, +frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had +been taken queer. + +"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and by mistake he +went and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one +of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't seem much of a +clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you +that that other bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged +the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all three buttons +was different!" + +Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which +had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked, pointing to a +piece of dirty-looking stuff. + +"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a horrible thing + - that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried with a woman - +buried in the ground, I mean - after her husband had cut her up and +tried, to burn her. Twas that bit o' shirt that brought him to the +gallows." + +"I considers your museum's a very horrid place!" said Daisy +pettishly, turning away. + +She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly +lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room. + +But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types +of infernal machines. "Beautiful little works of art some of them +are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree. + +"Come along - do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've seen about +enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it 'ud give me +the horrors. I don't want to have no nightmares to-night. It's +dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the world. +Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without +knowing it, mightn't we?" + +"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I don't suppose +you'll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone +who's committed a murder - not one in a million does that. Why, +even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!" + +But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every +moment of the time. Just now he was studying intently the various +photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially +was he pleased to see those connected with a famous and still +mysterious case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, +and in which the servant of the man who died had played a +considerable part - not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery. + +"I suppose a good many murderers get off?" he said musingly. + +And Joe Chandler's friend nodded. "I should think they did!" he +exclaimed. "There's no such thing as justice here in England. +'Tis odds on the murderer every time. 'Tisn't one in ten that +come to the end he should do - to the gallows, that is." + +"And what d'you think about what's going on now - I mean about +those Avenger murders?" + +Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already +moving towards the door. + +"I don't believe he'll ever be caught," said the other +confidentially. "In some ways 'tis a lot more of a job to catch a +madman than 'tis to run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of +course - leastways to my thinking - The Avenger is a madman - one +of the cunning, quiet sort. Have you heard about the letter?" his +voice dropped lower. + + "No," said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. "What letter d'you +mean?" + +"Well, there's a letter - it'll be in this museum some day - which +came just before that last double event. 'Twas signed 'The Avenger,' +in just the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always +leaves behind him. Mind you, it don't follow that it actually was The +Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, +and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it." + +"And where was it posted?" asked Bunting. "That might be a bit of a +clue, you know." + +"Oh, no," said the other. "They always goes a very long way to +post anything - criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But +this particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office." + +"What? Close to us?" said Bunting. "Goodness! dreadful!" + +"Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don't suppose +The Avenger's in any way peculiar-looking -in fact we know he ain't." + +"Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?" asked +Bunting hesitatingly. + +Our description was made up from what she said," answered the other +cautiously. "But, there, you can't tell! In a case like that it's +groping - groping in the dark all the time - and it's just a lucky +accident if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it's upsetting +us all very much here. You can't wonder at that!" + +No, indeed," said Bunting quickly. "I give you my word, I've hardly +thought of anything else for the last month." + +Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage +she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was +saying. + +He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother +lived, at Richmond - that it was a nice little house, close to the +park. He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there +one afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and +how nice it would be. + +"I don't see why Ellen shouldn't let me," the girl said rebelliously. +"But she's that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen - a regular +old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I'm staying with them, +father don't like for me to do anything that Ellen don't approve of. +But she's got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her - ?" +She looked at him, and he nodded sagely. + +"Don't you be afraid," he said confidently. "I'll get round Mrs. +Bunting. But, Miss Daisy" - he grew very red - "I'd just like to +ask you a question - no offence meant - " + +"Yes?" said Daisy a little breathlessly. "There's father close to +us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?" + +"Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you've never +walked out with any young fellow?" + +Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her +cheek. "No," she said sadly. "No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not." +In a burst of candour she added, "You see, I never had the chance!" + +And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. + + +CHAPTER X + +By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found +herself for close on an hour quite alone in the house during her +husband's and Daisy's jaunt with young Chandler. + +Mr. Sleuth did not o4ften go out in the daytime, but on this +particular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was +falling, he suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, +and his landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. + +As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the +drawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two +rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, +that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room she +wanted to do - as to engage in a vague search for - she hardly knew +for what. + +During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always +had a deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who +read their employers' private letters, and who furtively peeped +into desks and cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of +discovering family skeletons. + +But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to +do herself what she had once so scorned others for doing. + +Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He +was a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, +under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had early +undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of +washing he required done, with her own and Bunting's. Luckily he +wore soft shirts. + +At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with +this tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at +it herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting's +shirts. Everything else she managed to do herself. + +>From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the +dressing-table. + +Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he +generally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned +looking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulled +out the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there; +she only glanced at the heap of sovereigus and a few bits of silver. +The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes +he required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost, +making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely +comforted Mrs. Bunting. + +Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a +little way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap +of paper. And at last, when more or less giving up the search, as +she came and went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting door +wide open, her mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as +to the lodger's past life. + +Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible +sort of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct +as have other people of his class. He was queer about the drink-one +might say almost crazy on the subject - but there, as to that, he +wasn't the only one! She. Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a +lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the +question of drink and drunkards - She looked round the neat +drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place +where anything could be kept concealed - that place was the +substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea +suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought of before. + +After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly +bring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the +corner where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her +not very great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece +of furniture. + +As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound, - something rolling +about on the second shelf, something which had not been there before +Mr. Sleuth's arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier +backwards and forwards - once, twice, thrice - satisfied, yet strangely +troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the +disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by +its owner. + +Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Buntlng's mind. +She hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside +the cupboard. A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier +must become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some +dark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the bottom of the little +cupboard door. + +She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red, +on her finger. + +Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. In +fact the colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over. + +It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset - that was all! How +could she have thought it was anything else? + +It was the more silly of her - so she told herself in scornful +condemnation - because she knew that the lodger used red ink. +Certain pages of Cruden's Concordance were covered with notes written +in Mr. Sleuth's peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some places +you couldn't see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarks +and notes of interrogation. + +Mr Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in the +chiffonnier - that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done; +and it was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to know +things she would be none the better, none the happier, for knowing, +that this accident had taken place. + +She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallen +on the green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily told +herself, foolishly upset she went once more into the back room. + +It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She would +have expected him to have made that one of his first purchases - the +more so that paper is so very cheap, especially that rather +dirty-looking grey Silurian paper. Mrs. Buntlng had once lived with +a lady who always used two kinds of notepaper, white for her friends +and equals, grey for those whom she called "common people." She, +Ellen Green, as she then was, had always resented the fact. 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. 215s0d." + +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. "Taking advantage of your being out I went up to +dust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the +chiffonnier it tilted. I'm afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that +was inside may have got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, +sir. But I hope there's no harm done. I wiped it up as well as +I could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked." + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. +But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now +than she had felt before he came in. Then she had been so +frightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to the +pavement, for company. + +"Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there." + +She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger's brow +cleared. + +"I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went on, "for I have +seen you marking that book of yours - I mean the book you read +together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you +another bottle, sir?" + +"No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will at once proceed +upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you I +shall ring." + +He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room bell +did ring. + +At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier was +wide open, and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle of +red ink which had turned over and now lay in a red pool of its own +making on the +lower shelf. + +"I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps I +was ill-advised to keep my ink in there." + +"Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a drop or two fell +out on to the carpet, and they don't show, as you see, sir, for it's +a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well." + +Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long pause, "I think +not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the ink +remaining in the bottle will do quite well, especially if I add a +little water, or better still, a little tea, to what already +remains in the bottle. I only require it to mark up passages which +happen to be of peculiar interest in my Concordance - a work, Mrs. +Bunting, which I should have taken great pleasure in compiling +myself had not this - ah - this gentleman called Cruden, been before. + +****** + +Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter in +her manner than usual that evening. She listened to all they had +to say about their interesting visit to the Black Museum, and did +not snub either of them - no, not even when Bunting told of the +dreadful, haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged. + +But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked her +a question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she had +not heard the last few words he had been saying. + +"A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. But she shook her +head. + +Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came back +dressed up in a blue-and-white check silk gown. + +"My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy. I've never seen +you wearing that before." + +"And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed Mrs. Bunting +sarcastically. And then, "I suppose this dressing up means that +you're expecting someone. I should have thought both of you must +have seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that +young chap does his work - that I do! He never seems too busy to +come and waste an hour or two here." + +But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. And +even Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlike +herself. She went about her cooking and the various little things +she had to do even more silently than was her wont. + +Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was the +storm of dread, of sombre, anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense, +which shook her soul, and which so far affected her poor, ailing +body that often she felt as if she could not force herself to +accomplish her simple round of daily work. + +After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a penny +evening paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather' rueful +smile, that he had read so much of that nasty little print this +last week or two that his eyes hurt him. + +"Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy eagerly, and he +handed her the paper. + +Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock +echoed through the house. + +CHAPTER XI + +It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no +longer "Chandler," as he had mostly used to do. + +Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. +She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her. + +To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel +which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty +horde with right on their side. And she was always expecting that +first single spy who would herald the battalion against whom her +only weapon would be her woman's wit and cunning. + +But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her +face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look +it assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and +stepdaughter. + +"Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door open behind +her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had +bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold to-night." + +A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news. + +Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? +Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the +sooner where he was now. + +Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the +double murder which had been committed early in the morning of +the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the thousands of +men belonging to the Metropolitan Police - to say nothing of the +smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force - +were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that +there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with +horror, breeds contempt. + +But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something +happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest +this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the +more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering +severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the +huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent +speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary. + +But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little +house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle +of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a +moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an +unsatisfactory, job. He secretly agreed with one of his pals who +had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last double +crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a needle in a rick o' hay +than this - bloke!" + +And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now - after +nine long, empty days had gone by? + +Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. +Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. +Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the +father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented +domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight. + +Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her +stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left +side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable +arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude - as +it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought +a pang to Mrs. Bunting - which showed that age was beginning to +creep over the listener. + +One of Daisy's duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of +reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her +accomplishment. + +Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy bad been asking, +"Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had answered quickly, +"Aye, do, my dear." + +He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the +door, he had only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming +so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves. + +Daisy read out:' + +"The Avenger: A - " + +And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. +Bravely, however, she went on. "A the-o-ry." + +"Go in - do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. "Why should +we stay out here in the cold? It's ridiculous." + +"I don't want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered Chandler back, +rather hoarsely. + +"Well, you'll hear it all the better in the room. Don't think +she'll stop because of you, bless you! There's nothing shy about +our Daisy!" + +The young man resented the tart, short tone. "Poor little girl!" +he said to himself tenderly. "That's what it is having a stepmother, +instead of a proper mother." But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then +he was pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright +blush came over her pretty face. + +"Joe begs you won't stop yet awhile. Go on with your reading," +commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. "Now, Joe, you can go and sit over +there, close to Daisy, and then you won't miss a word." + +There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed +that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went +and sat on a chair just behind Daisy. From there he could note with +reverent delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards from +the nape of her slender neck. + +"The AVENGER: A THE-O-RY" + +began Daisy again, clearing her throat. + +"DEAR Sir - I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think +there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable +that The Avenger - to give him the name by which he apparently +wishes to be known - comprises in his own person the peculiarities +of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson's now famous hero. + +"The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, +pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of +London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the +husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and +is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his +widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he +has become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, +occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy +nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out +of the house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes +his way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area. +Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like +gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home +again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once +more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, +esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and +acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene +of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal +lunatic. + +"I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that +I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to +the part of London where these murders have been actually committed. +I am quite sure from all that has come out - and we must remember +that full information is never given to the newspapers - The Avenger +should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London + - Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly - " + +Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the +word "Gab-o-ri-you," said she. + +"What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly. + +And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French chap what wrote +detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of them are, too!" + +"Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, +I take it?" said Bunting. + +"Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's written that silly +letter just signed that name for fun." + +"It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. "I +wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish." + +"Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman cried Daisy, in +an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how-to-do!" + +"There may be something in the notion," said her father thoughtfully. +"After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute he must +be somewhere a-hiding of himself." + +"Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting scornfully. + +She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. 'Twould soon be time +for the lodger's supper. + +She hurried on: "But what I do say is that - that - he has nothing +to do with the West End. Why, they say it's a sailor from the Docks + - that's a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I'm fair +sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. +The Avenger this - The Avenger that - " + +"I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night," said Bunting +cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything new?" + +"I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in excitedly. +She read out: + + +"BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED" + + +"Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her +tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!" + +Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. "Why, 'twould be +a very good idea, if 'twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. +But, there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers' shops, +to say nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o' that sort?" + +But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking ear there +seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her +fresh young voice. + +"Hark to this," she said: + +"A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn +was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious +instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and +hanged." + +"La, now I Who'd ever have thought of such a thing?" Bunting +exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do have some useful +hints in sometimes, Joe." + +But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds ain't no use," he +said; "no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the +suggestions that the last few days have brought in - well, all I +can say is our work would be cut out for us - not but what it's +cut out for us now, if it comes to that!" He sighed ruefully. He +was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this +pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on +for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would presently have +to do, into the cold and foggy night! + +Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There +was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, +even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where +he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to +taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than that one of +his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the young fellow +had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had +spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent +speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan +Police, but also against the Home Secretary. + +But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the +possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading +just yet. + +"Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another letter, father!" + + +"PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES. + + +"DEAR Sir - During the last day or two several of the more +Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, +whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. +It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however +nomad he may be in his habits - " + +"Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy interrupted herself, and +looked round at her little audience. + +"I've always declared the fellow had all his senses about him," +observed Bunting confidently. + +Daisy went on, quite satisfied: + +" - however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat +where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person +who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information +in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory +after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My +suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. +The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. +Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly +difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for +English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence." + +"There's something worth listening to in that letter," said Joe, +leaning forward. + +Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as +she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he +was saying. + +"Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively. + +"Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in +a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone - a woman his +mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. +But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!" + +"I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a reward," said +Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. + +"Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler confidently. "You'd +only be doing what it's the plain duty of everyone - everyone, that +is, who's a good citizen. And you'd be getting something for doing +it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty." + +"A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common +informer," went on Bunting obstinately. "And no man 'ud care to be +called that! It's different for you, Joe," he added hastily. "It's +your job to catch those who've done anything wrong. And a man'd be +a fool who'd take refuge - like with you. He'd be walking into the +lion's mouth - " Bunting laughed. + +And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: "If I'd done anything I +wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," she said. + +And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you did you needn't +be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!" + +And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, +sitting with towed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience +and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain. + +"Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting quickly. + +"Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like," answered the poor +woman heavily. "It's over now. Don't mind me." + +"But I don't believe - no, that I don't - that there's anybody in +the world who knows who The Avenger is," went on Chandler quickly. +"It stands to reason that anybody'd give him up - in their own +interest, if not in anyone else's. Who'd shelter such a creature? +Why, 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house along with one!" + +"Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for the wicked things +he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at Chandler +with eager, anxious eyes. + +"I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough to hang!" said +Chandler deliberately. "After all the trouble he's been giving us, too!" + +"Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said Bunting. + +"Not if he's not responsible," said his wife sharply. "I never +heard of anything so cruel - that I never did! If the man's a +madman, he ought to be in an asylum - that's where he ought to be." + +"Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. +"Contrary isn't the word for her! But there, I've noticed the last +few days that she seemed to be taking that monster's part. That's +what comes of being a born total abstainer." + +Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What nonsense you do talk!" +she said angrily. "Not but what it's a good thing if these murders +have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. England's drink +is England's shame - I'll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, +get up, do! Put down that paper. We've heard quite enough. You can +be laying the cloth while I goes down the kitchen." + +"Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's supper," called out +Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring - " he turned to Chandler. +"For one thing, he's often out about this time." + +"Not often - just now and again, when he wants to buy' something," +snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I hadn't forgot his supper. He +never do want it before eight o'clock." + +"Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's eager voice +broke in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was +now laying the cloth. + +"Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You +have your work cut out looking after things down here - that's where +I wants you to help me." + +Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be doing nothing +while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, looking across at Mrs. +Bunting, "I'd forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?" + +"Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman," said Bunting. +"He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth." + +His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy laughed. +"You'll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I've never seen this +wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she does! If I +was father I'd be jealous!" + +Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too funny. + + +CHAPTER XII + +"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can't always do +just what one wants to do - not in this world, at any rate!" + +Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, +though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She +was standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she +spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in +her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which +they were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other +would have to bow. + +There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, +"I don't see why I should go if I don't want to!" she cried. +"You'll allow I've been useful to you, Ellen? 'Tisn't even as if +you was quite well." + +"I am quite well - perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and +she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her +stepdaughter. + +"'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and father." There +were tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at +his wife. + +An invitation had come to Daisy - an invitation from her own dead +mother's sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave +Square. "The family" had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and +Aunt Margaret - Daisy was her godchild - had begged that her niece +might come and spend two or three days with her. + +But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was +like in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt +Margaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modern +employer is always sighing. While "the family" were away it was +her joy - she regarded it as a privilege - to wash sixty-seven pieces +of very valuable china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room; +she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. +These were the two duties with which she intended her young niece +to assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened at the prospect. + +But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an +hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret +was not one to be trifled with. + +Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the +very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go - that there +was no doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But +discuss it they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. +But that, as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set +on her own view. + +"What the child says is true," he observed. "It isn't as if you +was quite well. You've been took bad twice in the last few days + - you can't deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn't I just take a bus +and go over and see Margaret? I'd tell her just how it is. She'd +understand, bless you!" + +"I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried Mrs. Bunting, +speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. +"Haven't I a right to be ill, haven't I a right to be took bad, +aye, and to feel all right again - same as other people?" + +Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh, + +Ellen!" she cried; "do say that you can't spare me! I don't want +to go across to that horrid old dungeon of a place." + +"Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm fair tired of +you both! There'll come a day, Daisy, when you'll know, like me, +that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and when +your Aunt Margaret's left her savings to somebody else just because +you wouldn't spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you'll +know what it's like to go without - you'll know what a fool you +were, and that nothing can't alter it any more!" + +And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it +snatched from her. + +"Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does matter - a +terrible deal-though I never thought to hear Ellen say 'twas the +only thing that mattered. But 'twould be foolish - very, very +foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It'll only be +two days after all - two days isn't a very long time." + +But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She had already +rushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her +childish tears of disappointment - the childish tears which came +because she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman's natural +instinct for building her own human nest. + +Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange +young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police. + +"Who'd ever have thought she'd have minded as much as that!" +Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart +was misgiving him. + +"It's plain enough why she's become so fond of us all of a sudden," +said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her +uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, "as plain as +the nose on your face, my man." + +"What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit slow, Ellen, but +I really don't know what you'd be at?" + +"Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe +Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only +foolishness then, but I've come round to your view - that's all." + +Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of +coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome +Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested +in the Avenger murders that he hadn't thought of Joe in any other +connection - not this time, at any rate. + +"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an unwonted tone of +excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting's voice. + +His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly +smile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I've never been one +to prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don't mind +telling you, Bunting - Daisy'll have plenty o' time to get tired +of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!" + +"Well, she might do worse," said Bunting ruminatingly. "He's as +steady as God makes them, and he's already earning thirty-two +shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt'd like the notion? +I don't see her parting with Daisy before she must." + +"I wouldn't let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing +as that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not for millions of gold!" +And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a +very different tune now to what she'd sung a few minutes ago, when +she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square. + +"If she still seems upset while she's having her dinner," said his +wife suddenly, "well, you just wait till I've gone out for something, +and then you just say to her, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' + - just that, and nothing more! She'll take it from you. And I +shouldn't be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot." + +"For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn't +go over and see her there," said Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. Plenty of +reason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to +know any of her secrets. I've only seen that woman once, hut I know +exactly the sort Margaret is. She's just waiting for Old Aunt to +drop off and then she'll want to have Daisy herself - to wait on +her, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young +fellow what stood in her way." + +She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day clock which +had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. +It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and +had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth's +arrival. + +"I've time to go out with that telegram," she said briskly - somehow +she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days - +"and then it'll be done. It's no good having more words about it, +and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait till the +child comes upstairs again." + +She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather +wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as "the child " + - in fact, he could only remember her having done so once before, +and that was a long time ago. They had been talking over their +future life together, and she had said, very solemnly, "Bunting, +I promise I will do my duty - as much as lies in my power, that +is - by the child." + +But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. +As not infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to +do, that particular duty had been taken over by someone else who +had no mind to let it go. + +"What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked Bunting, rather +nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them +that Ellen had offered to go out in the morning. + +She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, +she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so +- strange, and, to herself, very comfortable and pleasant. + +"Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door and say I'll be +back in a few minutes - that I had to go out with a message. He's +quite a reasonable gentleman." She went into the back room to put +on her bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold - getting colder +every minute. + +As she stood, buttoning her gloves - she wouldn't have gone out +untidy for the world - Bunting suddenly came across to her. "Give +us a kiss, old girl," he said. And his wife turned up her face. + +"One 'ud think it was catching!" she said, but there was a lilt in +her voice. + +"So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that old cook get +married just after us? She'd never 'a thought of it if it hadn't +been for you!" + +But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. +Sleuth revenged himself for his landlady's temporary forgetfulness. + +During the last two days the lodger had been queer, odder than usual, +unlike himself, or, rather, very much as he had been some ten days +ago, just before that double murder had taken place. + +The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadful +place to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs. +Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead, restlessly +walking up and down his sitting-room. And later, when she took up +his supper, she had listened a moment outside the door, while he +read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in - terrible texts +telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge. + +Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with the +curious personality of her lodger, that she did not look where she +was going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up against her. + +She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young person +muttered a word of apology; - then she again fell into deep thought. + +It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the +problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She, +Ellen, was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after +all it wasn't wonderful that she had been snappy. This last night +she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake listening + - and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake listening for a +sound that never comes. + +The house had remained so still you could have heard a pin drop. Mr. +Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. +Had he stirred his landlady was bound to have heard him, for his bed +was, as we know, just above hers. No, during those long hours of +darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had fallen on +Mrs. Bunting's ears. + +And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined +effort to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts. + +It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe +had said only last evening, it was full time that he should again +turn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. +Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre +a bright blinding light - but the shadow had no form or definite +substance. Sometimes he looked like one thing, sometimes like +another. . . + +Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the street +where there was a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to the +left she stopped short for a minute. + +There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebuke +and even self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women, +should have longed to hear that another murder had been committed +last night! + +Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all through +breakfast hoping to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes, +and more or less during the long discussion which had followed on +the receipt of Margaret's letter she had been hoping - hoping +against hope - that those dreadful triumphant shouts of the +newspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone Road. +And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when he +had expressed, not disappointment exactly - but, well, surprise, +that nothing had happened last night. + +Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think how +afraid she had been of that young man! She was no longer afraid of +him, or hardly at all. He was dotty - that's what was the matter +with him, dotty with love for rosy-checked, blue-eyed little Daisy. +Anything might now go on, right under Joe Chandler's very nose - but, +bless you, he'd never see it! Last summer, when this affair, this +nonsense of young Chandler and Daisy bad begun, she had had very +little patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way Joe +had gone on then, the tiresome way he would be always dropping in, +had been one reason (though not the most important reason of all) +why she had felt so terribly put about at the idea of the girl +coming again. But now? Well, now she had become quite tolerant, +quite kindly - at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was concerned. + +She wondered why. + +Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for a +couple of days. In fact 'twould be a very good thing, for then he'd +think of Daisy - think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absence +does make the heart grow fonder - at first, at any rate. Mrs. +Bunting was well aware of that. During the long course of hers +and Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated for about three +months, and it was that three months which had made up her mind for +her. She had got so used to Bunting that she couldn't do without +him, and she had felt - oddest fact of all - acutely, miserably +jealous. But she hadn't let him know that - no fear! + +Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job - that would never do, But +what a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn't like some of +those detective chaps that are written about in stories - the sort +of chaps that know everything, see everything, guess everything + - even where there isn't anything to see, or know, or guess! + +Why, to take only one little fact - Joe Chandler had never shown +the slightest curiosity about their lodger. . .. + +Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurried +quickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her. + +She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman +without a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed to +manage other people's affairs, had even written out the words: "Will +be with you to tea. - DAISY." + +It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anything +horrible was going to happen in the next two or three days - it was +just as well Daisy shouldn't be at home. Not that there was any real +danger that anything would happen, - Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. + +By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentally +counting up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine, +or was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by +now, if - as that writer in the newspaper had suggested - he was a +quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, whatever vengeance +he had to wreak, must be satisfied? + +She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for the lodger to ring +before she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr. +Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed into +the house. Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. There +came the sound of voices - of voices she thought she did not know - +in the sitting-room. + +She opened the door, and' then drew a long breath. It was only Joe +Chandler - Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stopped +rather guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heard +Chandler utter the words: "That don't mean nothing! I'll just run +out and send another saying you won't come, Miss Daisy." + +And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting's face. There +had fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shouts +which betokened that something had happened last night - something +which made it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying +down the Maryleb6ne Road. + +"Well?" she said a little breathlessly. "Well, Joe? I suppose +you've brought us news? I suppose there's been another?" + +He looked at her, surprised. "No, that there hasn't, Mrs. Bunting + - not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you're thinking of those +newspaper chaps? They've got to cry out something," he grinned. +"You wouldn't 'a thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They're just +shouting out that there's been an arrest; but we don't take no +stock of that. It's a Scotchman what gave himself up last night +at Dorking. He'd been drinking, and was apitying of himself. +Why, since this business began, there's been about twenty arrests, +but they've all come to nothing." + +"Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed," said Bunting +jokingly. "Come to think of it, it's high time The Avenger was at +work again." He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned to +young Chandler: "Well, you'll be glad when its all over, my lad." + +"Glad in a way," said Chandler unwillingly. "But one 'ud have liked +to have caught him. One doesn't like to know such a creature's at +large, now, does one?" + +Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. "I must just go +and see about Mr. Sleuth's breakfast," she said in a weary, +dispirited voice, and left them there. + +She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plot +which had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance of +success; Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out another +telegram contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy's stepmother +shrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself wouldn't care to +do such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere +in her pretty little head. If it ever became her fate to live as +a married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the right +side of Aunt Margaret. + +And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother's heart became +very soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact, +there was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth's two eggs. Feeling +suddenly more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took +the tray upstairs. + +"As it was rather late, I didn't wait for you to ring, sir," she +said. + +And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was +studying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book. +"Quite right, Mrs. Bunting - quite right! I have been pondering +over the command, 'Work while it is yet light.'" + +"Yes, sir?" she said, and a queer; cold feeling stole over her +heart. "Yes, sir?" + +"'The spirit is willing, but the flesh - the flesh is weak,'" said +Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy, sigh. + +"You studies too hard, and too long - that's what's ailing you, sir," +said Mr. Sleuth's landlady suddenly. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had +been settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler +was going to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He +could carry Daisy's modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead +of walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station +to Victoria - that would land them very near Belgrave Square. + +But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn't had a walk, she +declared, for a long, long time - and then she blushed rosy red, +and even her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was very +nice looking, not at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to +go about the London streets by herself. + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, +watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. + +A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had +come a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining, rather +lamely, that it was the fog which had brought him so soon. + +"If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, 'twouldn't have been +possible to walk a yard," he explained, and they had accepted, +silently, his explanation. + +"I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that?" Bunting looked +deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once +that he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was +like an old hen with her last chicken. + +"She's safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn't have +a smarter young fellow to look after her." + +"It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner," said Bunting. "It's +always worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I'd 'a taken +her by the Underground Railway to Victoria - that 'ud been the best +way, considering the weather 'tis." + +"They don't think anything of the weather, bless you!" said his +wife. "They'll walk and walk as long as there's a glimmer left for +'em to steer by. Daisy's just been pining to have a walk with that +young chap. I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they both +were when you was so set on going along with them to that horrid +place." + +"D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked upset. "I understood +Joe to say he liked my company." + +"Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect he liked it just +about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go +out with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how +the woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her." + +"But I'm Daisy's father; and an old friend of Chandler," said Bunting +remonstratingly. "I'm quite different from that cook. She was +nothing to us, and we was nothing to her." + +"She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt," observed +his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little +foolishly. + +By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and +a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. +Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. +The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and +she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very +unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You might +just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, only +that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. "No, that I won't! +He's a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes, +and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even your +father's hardly seen him." + +But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr. +Sleuth. + +There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her +stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence young +Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken +to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to +her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe +Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be human nature + - at any rate, not girlish human nature - not to do so, even if +Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret. + +Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, +would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a +good thing. + +When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. +Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 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. . . . + +Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than +usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it +later than it was. + +When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, and just one +piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don't +feel like having anything else this afternoon." + +"It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice +than usual. "No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir. And then it +isn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it?" + +"No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting." + +She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, +as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp +dismay. + +Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long +Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, +ready for him to put on. + +"You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly. +"Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!" + +Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a +scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between +the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way - to erect +between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living +barrier. + +"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and he +looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, +slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed +for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right +hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been +on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him. + +It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered, +"but - but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do +not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I - I +cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are +watched - spied upon." + +She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, sir," she +said, with considerable dignity. "I've done my best to satisfy +you - " + +"You have - you have!" he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone. +"But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing +what I wish to do - indeed, what I have to do. For years I have +been misunderstood - persecuted" - he waited a moment, then in +a hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not tell me that +you are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid I'll ever be +that, sir. I only spoke as I did because - well, sir, because I +thought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out this +afternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so near +Christmas." + +He walked across to the window and looked out. "The fog is clearing +somewhat; Mrs. Bunting," but there was no relief in his voice, rather +was there disappointment and dread. + +Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. +The fog was lifting - rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in +which local fogs sometimes do lift in London. + +He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversation has made me +forget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you +would just leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for +me this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for +after my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through +a very difficult experiment." + +"Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. + +But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it +had drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing +Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing + - a thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. She +pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass let +into the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" she +moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" + +But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming +intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery +never occurred to Mrs. Bunting. + +In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that +a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The +timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human +being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not +revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost +be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayer +has been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for revenge. So +far, perhaps because she is subject rather than citizen, her duty +as a component part of civilised society weighs but lightly on +woman's shoulders. + +And then - and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become +attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his +sad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals, and when +this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased - pleased and vaguely +touched. In between those - those dreadful events outside, which +filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, +she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. + +Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over +the strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have +lived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She did not +even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters; friends she +knew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he was, he had +evidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind +of life, till - till now. + +What had made him alter all of a sudden - if, that is, he had +altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully +with herself; and, what was more, and very terribly, to the point, +having altered, why should he not in time go back to what he +evidently had been - that is, a blameless, quiet gentleman? + +If only he would! If only he would! + +As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these +thoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed through +her brain. + +She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day - that +there had never been, in the history of the world, so strange a +murderer as The Avenger had proved himself to be. + +She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated, +on Joe's words, as he had told them of other famous series of +murders which had taken place in the past, not only in England but +abroad - especially abroad. + +One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, +respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order +to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale +of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, +living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers +who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any +valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or +murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in +almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. + +At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she +went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. + +"The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. I hope +that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it." + +But the other shook his head silently. "No such luck!" he said +briefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I +expect 'twill soon be just as heavy here as 'twas half an hour ago!" + +She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. +"Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she observed. + +"There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking +of asking if you wouldn't like to go along there with me." + +"No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at home." + +She was listening - listening for the sounds which would betoken +that the lodger was coming downstairs. + +At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled +shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact +when the front door shut to. + +"That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on his wife, +startled. "Why, the poor gentleman'll come to harm - that he will! +One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn't +taken any of his money out with him." + +"'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog," said Mrs. +Bunting sombrely. + +Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true words. And then +she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken +what she said. + +But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. "We +don't get the good old fogs we used to get - not what people used +to call 'London particulars.' I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. +Crowley - I've often told you about her, Ellen?" + +Mrs. Bunting nodded. + +Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of those he had +liked best - a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her +servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat +they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated +her kind thought. + +"Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic +way, "that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so +long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked +the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. +Fog never kept her from going out - no, that it didn't. She wasn't +a bit afraid. But - " he turned round and looked at his wife - " +I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a +timid kind of gentleman - " + +He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him. + +"I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a low voice, "but +he is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes going out when +there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don't +suppose he'll be out long." + +She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon + - that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. + +Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She +got up, and went over to the farthest window. + +The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on +the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and +shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards +the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops. + +At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to +the cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one +out. + +"I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I've +looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, +but now there's nothing in 'em." + +His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days +had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had +very little to say about them that they hadn't said in different +language a dozen times before. + +She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. + +Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so +engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not +had much time for that sort of work. + +It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or - or +the lodger, in it. + +At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric +slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. +Sleuth's return home. + +And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful +wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she +knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any +kind of - well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he +had lived during the last few weeks. + +No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way +as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, +until, perhaps - God, what a horrible thought - a picture published +in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting's +knowledge. + +But if that happened - if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, +she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also +would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the +astounding revelation. + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't a night +you would wish a dog to be out in." + +Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and +look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the +evening paper he held in his hand. + +He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his +nice arm-chair. He looked very well - well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting +stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of +resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry +way, very fond of Bunting. + +"You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for +himself all right." + +Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. "I +can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather," he said +impatiently. + +"Well, it's none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?" + +"No, that's true enough. Still, 'twould be a very bad thing for us +if anything happened to him. This lodger's the first bit of luck +we've had for a terrible long time, Ellen." + +Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She +remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious +to be worth answering. Also she was listening, following in +imagination her lodger's quick, singularity quiet progress - +"stealthy" she called it to herself - through the fog-filled, +lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What +was that Bunting was saying ? + +"It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather - no, that +it ain't, not unless they have something to do that won't wait till +to-morrow." The speaker was looking straight into his wife's narrow, +colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove +himself right. "I've a good mind to speak to him about it, that +I have! He ought to be told that it isn't safe - not for the sort +of man he is - to be wandering about the streets at night. I read +you out the accidents in Lloyd's - shocking, they were, and all +brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster 'ull soon +be at his work again - " + +"Monster?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. + +She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead. She was +very curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, +or straight upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always +called it. + +But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up +trying to listen to what was going on above. + +"It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that +in the fog, eh, Ellen?" He spoke as if the notion had a certain +pleasant thrill in it after all. + +"What stuff you do talk!" said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then she +got up. Her husband's remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn't they +talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time +together? + +Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she moved quietly about +the room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and to-night she +was going to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That +fortunate man, as she was fond of telling him, with mingled contempt +and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, and yet he was rather +fanciful, as gentlemen's servants who have lived in good places +often are. + +Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. +Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, and she would never +have allowed an unrefined word - such a word as "stomach," for +instance, to say nothing of an even plainer term - to pass her +lips, except, of course, to a doctor in a sick-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen; +instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading +into her bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back +into the darkness, and stood motionless, listening. + +At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her +listening ears the sound of someone moving softly about in the +room just overhead, that is, in Mr. Sleuth's bedroom. But, try as +she might, it was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was +doing. + +At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little +landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, +that Mr. Sleuth would pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless +room above. He hadn't spent any time up there for quite a long +while-in fact, not for nearly ten days. 'Twas odd he chose to-night, +when it was so foggy, to carry out an experiment. + +She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired - +strangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical +exertion. + +Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck, +and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that. + +As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first +time, what the lodger's departure would mean. It would almost +certainly mean ruin; just as his staying meant all sorts of good +things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth +stayed on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, it +meant respectability, and, above all, security. + +Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He never received a +letter, and yet he must have some kind of income - so much was +clear. She supposed he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out +of a bank as he required it. + +Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr. +Sleuth. + +The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that +there would come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel +satiated; when he would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. + +To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so +pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady + - indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish +to leave such nice lodgings. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook +off her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the +handle of the door giving into the passage she turned it, and then, +with light, firm steps, she went down into the kitchen. + +When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by +her care, if not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very +clean place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still +white walls the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron +and bright steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one +pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in +the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that +kind of business. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for +what she consumed after she had consumed it. + +Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she +turned up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle. + +Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the +stove, and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, +to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting +gentleman than the lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, +so - so peculiar. + +She thought of the bag - that bag which had rumbled about so +queerly in the chiffonnier. Something seemed to tell her that +tonight the lodger had taken that bag out with him. + +And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently +from her mind, and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. +Sleuth's income, and of how little trouble he gave. Of course, +the lodger was eccentric, otherwise he wouldn't be their lodger +at all - he would be living in quite a different sort of way with +some of his relations, or with a friend in his own class. + +While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, +Mrs. Bunting went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting +it up into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing +everything, as was always her way, with a certain delicate and +cleanly precision. + +And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to +be poured the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled +her, made her feel uncomfortable. + +Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. + +She looked up and listened. + +Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy +night - going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second +time? But no; the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar +footsteps, did not continue down the passage leading to the front +door. + +Instead - Why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen +so intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the +toasting-fork grew quite black. With a start she became aware +that this was so, and she frowned, vexed with herself. That came +of not attending to one's work. + +Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. +He was coming down into the kitchen. + +Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the +kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting's heart began to beat as if in +response. She put out the flame of the gas-ring, unheedful of the +fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. + +Then she turned and faced the door. + +There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door +opened, and revealed, as she had at once known and feared it would +do, the lodger. + +Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid +dressing-gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though +she knew that he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In +his hand was a lighted candle. + +When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in +it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. + +"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn't ring, sir?" + +Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had +no business to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to +let him know that such was her view. + +"No, I - I didn't ring," he stammered awkwardly. "The truth is, I +didn't know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. +My gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot +arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had a +gas-stove. I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to-night for +an important experiment I wish to make." + +Mrs. Bunting's heart was beating quickly - quickly. She felt +horribly troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn't Mr. Sleuth's +experiment wait till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but +there was that in his face that made her at once afraid and pitiful. +It was a wild, eager, imploring look. + +"Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here." + +"It seems most pleasantly warm," he observed, his voice full of +relief, "warm and cosy, after my cold room upstairs." + +Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even +that cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and +more cosy than this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. + +"I'll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it's in +perfect order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house +was to have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might +have set the house on fire." Mrs. Bunting's housewifely instincts +were roused. "For the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in +your bedroom this cold night." + +"By no means - I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire +there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told +you as much." + +Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his +candle still alight, just inside the kitchen door. + +"I shan't be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You +could come down then. I'll have everything quite tidy for you. Is +there anything I can do to help you?" + +"I do not require the use of your kitchen yet - thank you all the +same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later - altogether later - +after you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much +obliged if you would see that the gas people come to-morrow and +put my stove in order. It might be done while I am out. That the +shilling-in-the-slot machine should go wrong is very unpleasant. +It has upset me greatly." + +"Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter +of that, I could ask him to go up now. + +"No, no, I don't want anything of that sort done to-night. Besides, +he couldn't put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, +and I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite +simple. The machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish +plan, so I always felt it to be." + +Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to +speak, but Mrs. Bunting sympathised with him in this matter. She +had always suspected that those slot machines were as dishonest as +if they were human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up +the shillings! She had had one once, so she knew. + +And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward +and stared at the stove. "Then you haven't got a slot machine?" he +said wonderingly. "I'm very glad of that, for I expect my experiment +will take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you something for +the use of the stove, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't think of charging you anything for that. +We don't use our stove very much, you know, sir. I'm never in the +kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather." + +Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually +in Mr. Sleuth's presence her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps +because his manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. +But still there came over her an eerie feeling, as, with him +preceding her, they made a slow progress to the ground floor. + +Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady good-night, +and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments. + +Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove; +but she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she was +cooking the cheese, she tried to concentrate her mind on what she +was doing, and on the whole she succeeded. But another part of her +mind seemed to be working independently, asking her insistent +questions. + +The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she +caught herself listening - which was absurd, for, of course, she +could not hope to hear what Mr. Sleuth was doing two, if not three, +flights upstairs. She wondered in what the lodger's experiments +consisted. It was odd that she had never been able to discover what +it was he really did with that big gas-stove. All she knew was +that he used a very high degree of heat. + + +CHAPTER XV + +The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting made +up her mind to keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour +of the night the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry +through his experiment, and, above all, she was anxious to know +how long he would stay there. + +But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she +fell asleep. + +The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs. Bunting +awoke. She felt put out sharply annoyed with herself. How could +she have dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down +and up again hours ago! + +Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid +odour in the room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass +her and the snoring man by her side, almost as a vapour might have +done. + +Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the +cold, she quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and +crawled along to the bottom of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady did a very curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail +and put her face close to the hinge of the door giving into the +hall. Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor was +coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage. + +As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to +give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard +herself saying, "Bunting, get up! There's something strange and +dreadful going on downstairs which we ought to know about." + +But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening with painful +intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she +would do nothing of the sort. + +What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess - a certain +amount of smell - in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not - was he +not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, +where could they ever hope to get another like him? + +Three o'clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps +creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight +up to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he +went to the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he +came past her door, and she thought - but could not be sure - that +he sat down on the stairs. + +At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage +again. Very softly he closed the front door. By then she had +divined why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted +to get the strong, acrid smell of burning - was it of burning wool? + - out of the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the +lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get +rid of the horrible odour. + +Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. + +At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and +then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse +voices seemed to be shouting in her ear: "The Avenger close here! +The Avenger close here!" "'Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!" +"The Avenger at his work again"' + +And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered - angered and +impatient. She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this +horrid nightmare! It was because of Bunting - Bunting, who could +think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders, in +which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest. + +Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking +to her about it: + +"Ellen " - so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear - "Ellen, my dear, +I'm just going to get up to get a paper. It's after seven o'clock." + +The shouting - nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet +smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead +with both hands, she sat up and listened. + +It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse - +reality. + +Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and +let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have +been easier to bear than this awakening. + +She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the +paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then +he came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the +gas-ring in the sitting-room. + +Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had +promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet +broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, +no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge +that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale blue eyes. +This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job. + +When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his +wife lying with her face to the wall. + +"Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, +nay happy, excitement in his voice. + +She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she asked. "Well? +Why don't you tell me about it?" + +"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I thought, Ellen, +you never heard nothing." + +"How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. +Why don't you tell me?" + +"I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly. + +"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the +rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don't +tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?" + +"Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you. The +Avenger's moving West - that's what he's doing. Last time 'twas +King's Cross - now 'tis the Edgware Road. I said he'd come our way, +and he has come our way!" + +"You just go and get me that paper," she commanded. "I wants to +see for myself." + +Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her +silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. + +"Why, whatever's this?" she asked. "This ain't our paper!" + +"'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly. "It's a special early +edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger. Here's the bit +about it" - he showed her the exact spot. But she would have found +it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring +over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear +characters: - + +"Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger +has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, +and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an +interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were +concentrating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, +he moved swift1y and silently Westward. And, choosing a time when +the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another +human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery. + +"Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had +lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of +happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that +cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing +his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest accident +that the body was discovered as soon as it was - that is, just +after midnight + +"Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that +the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at +first thought - we were going to say, hoped - that this murder had +nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying +the whole of the civilised world. But no - pinned on the edge of the +dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of +grey paper - the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of +man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his +audacity and daring - so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent +wickedness." + +All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful +intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to +burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his +Ellen's unsympathetic ears. + +At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. + +"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?" +she said irritably. "Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go +away - do!" + +And Bunting went off into the next room. + +After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried +to think of nothing. Nay, more - so strong, so determined was her +will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She +felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does +a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness. + +Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of +her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if +those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; +she wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her +brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret +was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as +that. + +Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes - to-morrow, not +to-day. Well, that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things +Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl +had an excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise, +funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," lent herself to +the cruel gift. + +And then Mrs. Bunting's mind - her poor, weak, tired mind - wandered +off to young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you came to +think of it - which she, Ellen Bunting, didn't often do. There was +Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty +young women, too, - quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times more +artful - and yet there! He passed them all by, had done so ever +since last summer, though you might be sure that they, artful minxes, +by no manner of means passed him by, - without giving them a thought! +As Daisy wasn't here, he would probably keep away to-day. There +was comfort in that thought, too. + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful +turgid flood. If Joe did come in, she must nerve herself to hear +all that - that talk there'd be about The Avenger between him and +Bunting. + +Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she +had just recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, +very, very tired in body and soul. + +She stood for a moment listening - listening, and shivering, for +it was very cold. Considering how early it still was, there +seemed a lot of coming and going in the Marylebone Road. She could +hear the unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and the tightly +fastened windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular +crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene +of The Avenger's last extraordinary crime. + +She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling +from the letter-box on to the floor of the hall, and a moment later +came the sound of Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. +She visualised him coming back, and sitting down with a sigh of +satisfaction by the newly-lit fire. + +Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant +tramping and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume +and in sound as the moments slipped by. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen everything looked just +as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she +had expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed +room was full of fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were +bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had +been widely opened to the air. She had left them shut. + +Making a "spill" out of a twist of newspaper - she had been taught +the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses - she stooped and +flung open the oven-door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had +expected a fierce heat had been generated there since she had last +used the oven, and through to the stone floor below had fallen a +mass of black, gluey soot. + +Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous +day for her own and Bunting's breakfast upstairs, and broiled them +over the gas-ring in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in +surprised silence. She had never done such a thing before. + +"I couldn't stay down there," she said; "it was so cold and foggy. +I thought I'd make breakfast up here, just for to-day." + +"Yes," he said kindly; "that's quite right, Ellen. I think you've +done quite right, my dear." + +But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the +nice breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea. + +"I'm afraid you're ill, Ellen?" Bunting asked solicitously. + +"No," she said shortly; "I'm not ill at all. Don't be silly! The +thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me, +and put me off my food. Just hark to them now!" + +Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet +and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd; nay, what a mob, must be +hastening busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing +to be seen! + +Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. "I don't want +any of those ghouls in here!" she exclaimed angrily. And then, +"What a lot of idle people there are in the world!" she said. + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the +window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; +then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down. + +But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up +he would rise from his chair, and go to the window again. + +"I wish you'd stay still," his wife said at last. And then, a few +minutes later, "Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and go +out?" she exclaimed. + +And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat +and coat and go out. + +As he did so be told himself that, after all, he was but human; it +was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, +extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn't +reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had +been that very morning - angry with him because he had gone out +to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had +come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her +to hear about it! + +Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the +kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, +a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned and +did what she had never in her life done before, and what she had +never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. + +But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from +everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She +felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which +mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns. + +Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? +Daisy, at any rate, was company - kind, young, unsuspecting company. +With Daisy she could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort +to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say +nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of +guilt, of shame. She was the man's wedded wife - in his stolid way +he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something +he certainly had a right to know. + +Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful +suspicion - nay, of her almost certainty. + +At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went +upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little +better. + +She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved +by his absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet +she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house. + +And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind +into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what +was going on upstairs. + +What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only +natural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last +night, or rather this morning. + +****** + +Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did +not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal +which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she +went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food. + +Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and +just outside the sitting-room - for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had +got up, that he was there already, waiting for her - she rested the +tray on the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments she +heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice +with which she had become so familiar: + +"'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in +secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, +and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'" + +There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of +her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. +Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer voice: + +"'She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men +have been slain by her.'" And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone +came the words: "'I applied my heart to know, and to search, and +to seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the +wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.'" + +And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of +spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time +in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and +strangeness, of human life. + +Poor Mr. Sleuth - poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An +overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the +loathing, she had been feeling for her lodger. + +She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. + +"Come in, Mrs. Bunting." Mr. Sleuth's voice sounded feebler, more +toneless than usual. + +She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was +not sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round table +on which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of +his bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it +were placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But as his +landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and began +staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying +crowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road. + +"There seem a great many people out today," he observed, without +looking round. + +"Yes, sir, there do." + +Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and +putting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized +with a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there. + +At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to +look at him. How tired, how worn, he looked, and - how strange! + +Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands +together with a nervous gesture - it was a gesture he only made when +something had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at +him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he +had first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained a +large gas-stove and a convenient sink. + +What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a +play she had once seen - a play to which a young man bad taken her +when she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled +and fascinated her. "Out, out, damned spot!" that was what the tall, +fierce, beautiful lady who had played the part of a queen had said, +twisting her hands together just as the lodger was doing now. + +"It's a fine day," said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and unfolding his +napkin. "The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with +me, Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining, +as it is now, at any rate, trying to shine." He looked at her +inquiringly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. +However, that did not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. + +He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, +taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced +any such feeling for many years past. + +He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. "I +don't feel as if I could eat very much to-day," he said plaintively. +And then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. + +Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat +Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the day before. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?" + +And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. + +"Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly +allowed me to make of your kitchen last night?" he said quietly. +"I tried to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but - +well, the truth is I was carrying out a very elaborate experiment " + +Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took +the coin. The fingers which for a moment brushed lightly against +her palm were icy cold - cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently +not well. + +As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball +hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's landlady, and +threw blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece of +gold she was holding in her hand. + +****** + +The day went by, as other days had gone by in that quiet household, +but, of course, there was far greater animation outside the little +house than was usually the case. + +Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some +days, the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that part +of the town. + +When Bunting at 1ast came back, his wife listened silently while he +told her of the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. And +then, after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot a +strange look at him. + +"I suppose you went to see the place?" she said. + +And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. + +"Well?" + +"Well, there wasn't anything much to see - not now. But, oh, Ellen, +the daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry +out - which they don't believe she had - it's impossible someone +wouldn't 'a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like +that - in the afternoon, like - he never will be caught. He must +have just got mixed up with all the other people within ten seconds +of what he'd done!" + +During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly - in fact, he +must have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all the +supposed and suggested clues, there was nothing - nothing at all new +to read, less, in fact than ever before. + +The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting +began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less - less +terrified than she had felt through the morning. + +And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the +quietude of the day. + +They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the +papers he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, +thundering, double knock at the door. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. "Why, whoever can that be?" she +said. + +But as Bunting got up she added quickly, "You just sit down again. +I'll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I'll soon send +them to the right-about!" + +And then she left the room, but not before there had come another +loud double knock. + +Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the +person who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark +man, with fierce, black moustaches. And somehow - she could not +have told you why - he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting's mind. + +This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. +For, "I'm here to execute a warrant!" he exclaimed in a theatrical, +hollow tone. + +With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms +as if to bar the way; she turned deadly white - but then, in an +instant the supposed stranger's laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, +familiar sound! + +"There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I'd take you in as well +as all that!" + +It was Joe Chandler - Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he +sometimes, not very often, did dress up in the course of his work. + +Mrs. Bunting began laughing - laughing helplessly, hysterically, +just as she had done on the morning of Daisy's arrival, when the +newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road. + +"What's all this about?" Bunting came out + +Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I didn't mean to +upset her like this," he said, looking foolish; "'twas just my silly +nonsense, Mr. Bunting." And together they helped her into the +sitting-room. + +But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she +threw her black apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically. + +"'I made sure she'd know who I was when I spoke," went on the young +fellow apologetically. "But, there now, I have upset her. I am +sorry!" + +"It don't matter!" she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, +but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and +laughed by turns. "Don't matter one little bit, Joe! 'Twas stupid +of me to be so taken aback. But, there, that murder that's happened +close by, it's just upset me - upset me altogether to-day." + +"Enough to upset anyone - that was," acknowledged the young man +ruefully. "I've only come in for a minute, like. I haven't no +right to come when I'm on duty like this - " + +Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were +still on the table. + +"You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup," said Bunting +hospitably; "and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We're +right in the middle of everything now, ain't we?" He spoke with +evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. + +Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He +waited a moment, and then: "Well I have got one piece of news - not +that I suppose it'll interest you very much." + +They both looked at him - Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her +breast still heaved from time to time. + +"Our Boss has resigned!" said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. + +"No! Not the Commissioner o' Police?" exclaimed Bunting. + +"Yes, he has. He just can't bear what's said about us any longer + - and I don't wonder! He done his best, and so's we all. The +public have just gone daft - in the West End, that is, to-day. As +for the papers, well, they're something cruel - that's what they +are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You'd never believe the +things they asks us to do - and quite serious-like." + +"What d'you mean?" questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to +know. + +"Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-house +investigation - all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to +let the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, +just to see if The Avenger isn't concealed there. Dotty, I calls +it! Why, 'twould take us months and months just to do that one +job in a town like London." + +"I'd like to see them dare come into my house!" said Mrs. Bunting +angrily. + +"It's all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to +work a different way this time," said Chandler slowly. + +Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was +eagerly listening. "How d'you mean?" he asked. "I don't take +your meaning, Joe." + +"Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was always saying +how extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar +time to do his deeds - I mean, the time when no one's about the +streets. Now, doesn't it stand to reason that the fellow, reading +all that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, 'I'll go on +another tack this time'? Just listen to this!" He pulled a strip +of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket: + + +"'AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE AVENGER + + +"'Will the murderer be caught? Yes,' replied Sir John, 'he will +certainly be caught - probably when he commits his next crime. A +whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his +track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community +against him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered that +he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes. + +"'Londoners are now in such a state of nerves - if I may use the +expression, in such a state of funk - that every passer-by, however +innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his +avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and +three in the morning.' + +"I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!" concluded Joe Chandler +wrathfully. + +Just then the lodger's bell rang. + +"Let me go up, my dear," said Bunting. + +His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. + +"No, no," she said hastily. "You stop down here, and talk to Joe. +I'll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a +bit earlier than usual to-day." + +Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton +wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, +and then went in. + +"You did ring, sir?" she said, in her quiet, respectful way. + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up. + +She thought - but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have +been just her idea, and nothing else - that for the first time the +lodger looked frightened - frightened and cowed. + +"I heard a noise downstairs," he said fretfully, "and I wanted to +know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I +first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me.". + +"It was just a friend of ours, sir. I'm sorry you were disturbed. +Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting'll be +pleased to do it if you don't like to hear the sound of the knocks." + +"Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such trouble as that." Mr. Sleuth +looked quite relieved. "Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. +Bunting? He made a great deal of noise." + +"Just a young fellow," she said apologetically. "The son of one of +Bunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did +give such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak to +him about it" + +"Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of +the kind. It was just a passing annoyance - nothing more!" + +She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of +the hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam +every hour or two throughout that day, But no, Mr. Sleuth made no +allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at +his reading. + +"I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little earlier to-night, +sir?" + +"Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting - just when it's convenient. I +do not wish to put you out in any way." + +She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door. + +As she did 'so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed + - Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the +lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her +kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came +to her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow. + +Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly +giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought +her, she got up and dressed. + +She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase +required a thorough "doing down," and she did not even wait till +they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It +made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading +his morning paper - the paper which was again of such absorbing +interest - he called out, "There's no need for so much hurry, Ellen. +Daisy'll be back to-day. Why don't you wait till she's come home to +help you?" + +But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, +his wife's voice came back: "Girls ain't no good at this sort of +work. Don't you worry about me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing an +extra bit of cleaning to-day. I don't like to feel as anyone could +come in and see my place dirty." + +"No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck +him. "Ain't you afraid of waking the lodger?" he called out. + +"Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night," she +answered quickly. "As it is, I study him over-much; it's a long, +long time since I've done this staircase down." + +All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left +the sitting-room door wide open. + +That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn't like to get +up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn't +read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had +never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he +looked up and frowned rather crossly. + +There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellen +was standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing. + +"Come in," he said, "do! Ain't you finished yet?" + +"I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don't tell me nothing. +I'd like to know if there's anything - I mean anything new - in the +paper this morning." + +She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her +unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting +suddenly uneasy. "Come in - do!" he repeated sharply. "You've +done quite enough - and before breakfast, too. 'Tain't necessary. +Come in and shut that door." + +He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him. + +She came in, and did what she had never done before - brought the +broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. + +Then she sat down. + +"I think I'll make breakfast up here," she said. "I - I feel cold, +Bunting." And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of +perspiration were glistening on her forehead. + +He got up. "All right. I'll go down and bring the eggs up. Don't +you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if +you like." + +"No," she said obstinately. "I'd rather do my own work. You just +bring them up here - that'll be all right. To-morrow morning we'll +have Daisy to help see to things." + +"Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair," he suggested +kindly. "You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see'd +such a woman!" + +And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room +with languid steps. + +He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. + +She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took +two steps towards her. + +"I'll show you the most interesting bit" he said eagerly. "It's +the piece headed, 'Our Special Investigator.' You see, they've +started a special investigator of their own, and he's got hold of +a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man +who writes all that - I mean the Special Investigator - was a +famous 'tec in his time, and he's just come back out of his +retirement o' purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You +read what he says - I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he ends by +getting that reward! One can see he just loves the work of +tracking people down." + +"There's nothing to be proud of in such a job," said his wife +listlessly. + +"He'll have something to be proud of if he catches The Avenger!" +cried Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put off +by Ellen's contradictory remarks. "You just notice that bit about +the rubber soles. Now, no one's thought o' that. I'll just tell +Chandler - he don't seem to me to be half awake, that young man +don't." + +"He's quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! +How about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast +even if you don't - " + +Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly +described to himself as "Ellen's snarling voice. + +He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There +was something queer about her, and he couldn't make it out. He +didn't mind it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was +used to that. 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. In his +time he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he +thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first +drawn him to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap as +cordially as he had done when they first came to London. + +But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort +of talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed +reproachfully: "To hear you two, one would think there was no nice, +respectable, quiet people left in the world!" + +But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be +to hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her +own view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had had +her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman +who thought for herself - a clever woman, not an everyday woman by +any manner of means. + +While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, +Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give +Ellen a nice little surprise - to cook an omelette as a French chef +had once taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn't know how +she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but +never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn't +been eating her food properly of late. + +And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be +admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even +noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading +with intense, painful care the column that the great daily paper +they took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective. + +According to this Special Investigator's own account he had +discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the +police and of the official detectives. For instance, owing, he +admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where +the two last murders had been committed very soon after the double +crime had been discovered - in fact within half an hour, and he +had found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavement +imprints of the murderer's right foot. + +The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. +At the same time, he also admitted - for the Special Investigator +was very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the +enterprising paper which had engaged him to probe the awful +mystery - that there were thousands of rubber soles being worn in +London. . . . + +And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, and +there came a wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It was +quite true - that about rubber soles; there were thousands of +rubber soles being worn just now. She felt grateful to the Special +Investigator for having stated the fact so clearly. + +The column ended up with the words: + +"And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten +days ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public +inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery +of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible +to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general +public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same people +have been examined and cross-examined in private by the police, +their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly +confused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubt +that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually +saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double +crime - this being so, to-day's investigation may be of the highest +value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account of +the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements +made during its course." + +Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had +gone on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he +said rather crossly, "Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The +omelette I've cooked for you will be just like leather if you don't +eat it." + +But once his wile had eaten her breakfast - and, to Bunting's +mortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched + - she took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, +until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to +The Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and then +uttered an exclamation under her breath. + +What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for - what at last she had found + - was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that +day. The hour named was a rather odd time - two o'clock in the +afternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting's point of view, it was most +convenient. + +By two o'clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had +his lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have +had their dinner, and - and Daisy wasn't coming home till tea-time. + +She got up out of her husband's chair. "I think you're right," she +said, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about me seeing a doctor, +Bunting.' I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon." + +"Wouldn't you like me to go with you?" he asked. + +"No, that I wouldn't. In fact I wouldn't go at all you was to go +with me." + +"All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my dear; you know +best." + +"I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned." + +Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. "'Twas I said, +long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; 'twas you said you +wouldn't!" he exclaimed pugnaciously. + +"Well, I've never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, +I'm going." + +"Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with a look of real +solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. + +Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there opposite him. Her +shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a +little. She had never looked so bad - not even when they had been +half starving, and dreadfully, dreadfully worded. + +"Yes," she said briefly, "I've a pain in my head, at the back of +my neck. It doesn't often leave me; it gets worse when anything +upsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler." + +"He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!" said Bunting +crossly. "I'd a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, +Ellen, I wonder he took you in - he didn't me!" + +"Well, you had no chance he should - you knew who it was," she said +slowly. + +And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had +already spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and saw +their cleverly disguised visitor. + +"Those big black moustaches," he went on complainingly, "and that +black wig - why, 'twas too ridic'lous - that's what I call it!" + +"Not to anyone who didn't know Joe," she said sharply. + +"Well, I don't know. He didn't look like a real man - nohow. If +he's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever see him looking like +that!" and Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. + +He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last +two days, and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, +unnatural life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe was +earning good money. They wouldn't have long to wait, these two +young people, as a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, +Bunting, and Daisy's mother had had to do, for ever so long before +they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn't +be spliced quite soon - lf so the fancy took them. And Bunting +had very little doubt that so the fancy would take Joe, at any rate. + +But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn't be eighteen till the +week after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that +time Old Aunt might be dead, and Daisy might have come into quite +a tidy little bit of money. + +"What are you smiling at?" said his wife sharply. + +And he shook himself. "I - smiling? At nothing that I knows of." +Then he waited a moment. "Well, if you will know, Ellen, I was +just thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is +gone on her, ain't he?" + +"Gone?" And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly +laugh. "Gone, Bunting?" she repeated. "Why, he's out o' sight + - right, out of sight!" + +Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, +twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke: - +"I suppose he'll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or - or +d'you think he'll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?" + +"Inquest? What inquest?" He looked at her puzzled. + +"Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King's +Cross." + +"Oh, no; he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o' +that, I know he's going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night + - just when 'you went up to the lodger." + +"That's just as well." Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable +satisfaction. "Otherwise I suppose you'd ha' had to go. I wouldn't +like the house left - not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be +upset if there came a ring at the door." + +"Oh, I won't leave the house, don't you be afraid, Ellen - not while +you're out" + +"Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting." + +"No fear. Of course, you'll be a long time if it's your idea to see +that doctor at Ealing?" + +He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow +nodding didn't seem as bad as speaking a lie. + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, +when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is +entirely novel. + +Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a +witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was +sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. + +In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for +a fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of +those sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the +serenity, the apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household. + +The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned +herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause +for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles +to the strange lady's maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, +and it was during the conversation the two women had had together +that the girl had threatened to take her own life. + +As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going +out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful +affair, and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. + +She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, +unfortunate creature had been held. + +The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give +evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful +animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women +as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl's fate had +aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those +who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid. + +Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to +Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in +the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with +chairs, but with cake and wine. + +She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had +felt as if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place, +rather than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the +sad business. + +But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had +been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on +the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the +exact words the unhappy girl had used. + +One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by +an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, +low-ceilinged room. "Ought not Miss Ellen Green," so the man had +asked, "to have told someone of the girl's threat? If she had done +so, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself +into the lake?" And she, the witness, had answered, with some +asperity - for by that time the coroner's kind manner had put her +at her ease - that she had not attached any importance to what the +girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman +could be so silly as to drown herself for love! + +****** + +Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was +going to be present this afternoon would be like that country +inquest of long ago. + +It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well +how little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, +had got the whole truth out - the story, that is, of how that +horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first +minute she had set eyes on him, had, taken up with another young +woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited +by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the +dead girl's letters had been read out - piteous, queerly expressed +letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And +the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered +the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a +passage for him to slink out of the crowded room. + +Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting +that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and +somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it. + +She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed +to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess +where she was thinking of going. + +And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head + - no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, +never suspect her of telling him a lie. + +Stop - had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after +the inquest was finished - if there was time, that is. She wondered +uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, +as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely +be very formal - formal and therefore short. + +She herself had one quite definite object - that of hearing the +evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving +the spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowing +blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager +curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter +would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of +people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day +before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a +living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and +where he spent his time between his awful crimes. + +As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her +husband. + +"Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the doctor. You +looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along with +you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Not +by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know." + +"There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first +minute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully +and sadly. + +And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone and clean +forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait +till to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?" + +"I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone +else's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting +really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, "I'll +be all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!" + +As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl +she had put over her long jacket more closely round her. + +She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. +And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden +with poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft. +Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer - as if she +would give the world to tell someone - anyone - what it was that she +suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth. + +But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it +was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the +last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house +unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come +into contact with the lodger. + +When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There +were two ways of getting to St. Pancras - she could go by bus, or +she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before +turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the +early afternoon papers lying on the ground. + +Two words, + + +THE AVENGER, + + +stared up at her in varying type. + +Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, +Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined +to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes +were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the +close print in the paper Bunting took in. + +Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. + +And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. + +The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be +empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they +were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question +she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. + +"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquests +are held " - she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then +concluded - " in the neighbourhood of King's Cross?" + +The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at +all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest - there are many +such - just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a +widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain +Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face. + +"I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said good-naturedly. +"So you can come along of me. You see there's that big Avenger +inquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to make other +arrangements for - hum, hum - ordinary cases." And as she looked +at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd of people at +The Avenger inquest - a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to +say nothing of the public." + +"That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could +scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, +yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was +going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder +inquest! + +During the last few days all her perceptions had be come sharpened +by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the +stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have +regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a +simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet - and yet that was +just what she was about to do herself. + +"I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she murmured. It was +a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. + +"Ah!" he said reflectively. "A - a relative connected with one of +the two victims' husbands, I presume?" + +And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. + +"Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and then he turned and +looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. + +"Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker's voice. + +And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't seen her for +quite a long time, I suppose?" + +"Never had, seen her. I'm from the country." Something impelled +Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, +"At least, I was." + +"Will he be there?" + +She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was +alluding. + +"I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. "I felt sorry +for the last poor chap - I mean the husband of the last one - he +seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a good wife and a +good mother till she took to the drink." + +"It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting. + +"Aye." he waited a moment. "D'you know anyone about the court?" he +asked. + +She shook her head. + +"Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o' me. You'd never +get in by yourself." + +They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one's charge, of +having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even +now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial +about the whole business. + +"If he knew - if he only knew what I know!" she kept saying over +and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly +form of the police inspector. + +"'Tisn't far - not three minutes," he said suddenly. "Am I walking +too quick for you, ma'am?"' + +"No, not at all. I'm a quick walker." + +And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, +a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking +little door sunk into a high wall. + +"Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. "Make way there! +Make way!" he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the +serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight +of his uniform. + +"Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd never have got +through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner of +means." + +The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves +on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few +men were out there, smoking. + +Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of +the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his watch. +"There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he said. +"There's the mortuary" - he pointed with his thumb to a low room +built out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in and +see them?" he whispered. + +"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked +down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a +nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued +with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it +her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to +one of The Avenger's victims. + +They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men +talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones. + +"I think you'd better sit down' here," he said considerately, and, +leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed +walls - "unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is." + +But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an effort, "Oughtn't +I to go into the court now, if it's likely to be so full?" + +"Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get a proper place. +I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come back in good time +and look after you." + +She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while +they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, +and looked about her. + +Many of the gentlemen - they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats + - standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She picked +out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated +face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely +advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair - the +preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had +great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to +himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a +dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, +and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody. + +How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, +from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious +beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid +place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all +thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality + - that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose +to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away +from them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly +trained minds - aye, and bodies, too - at bay. + +Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her +presence among them. + + +CHAPTER XIX + +It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long +time - it was really about a quarter of an hour - when her official +friend came back. + +"Better come along now," he whispered; "it'll begin soon." + +She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, +and so into the Coroner's Court. + +The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a +chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a +gallery evidently set aside for the general public, for it was now +crammed to its utmost capacity. + +Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces. Had +it not been for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now +following, it was there that she would have had to try and make her +way. And she would have failed. Those people had rushed in the +moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their way in a way +she could never have pushed or fought. + +There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking +women, belonging to every class, but made one by their love of +sensation and their power of forcing their way in where they wanted +to be. But the women were few; the great majority of those standing +there were men - men who were also representative of every class of +Londoner. + +The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three +steps below the surrounding gallery. Just now it was comparatively +clear of people, save for the benches on which sat the men who were +to compose the jury. Some way from these men, huddled together in +a kind of big pew, stood seven people - three women and four men. + +"D'you see the witnesses?" whispered the inspector, pointing these +out to her. He supposed her to know one of them with familiar +knowledge, but, if that were so, she made no sign. + +Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little +platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting +guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would sit. And to +the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also raised +considerably above the jury. + +Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than +the scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that +bright April day, in the village inn. There the coroner had sat on +the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped +forward one by one, and taken their place before him. + +Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely +die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that +curious box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat +the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart. + +But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman +witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the +centre of attention and attraction to the general public. It was +plain each was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress +in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the attention of all +London - it might almost be said of the whole world. + +Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was +which. Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who +had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten +seconds of the double crime being committed? The woman who, aroused +by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed to her window and +seen the murderer's shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog? + +Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most +circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it +was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed. + +Those two women now before her had been interrogated and +cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by +representatives of every newspaper in London. It was from what they +had both said - unluckily their accounts materially differed - that +that official description of The Avenger had been worked up - that +which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow +of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel. + +As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon +companion of the dead. + +Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze +on another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed +through the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the +coroner's high dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, +was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her +place, there had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now +every seat at the table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking +men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, +before him. + +"Them's the reporters," whispered her friend. "They don't like +coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last to go. +At an ordinary inquest there are only two - maybe three - attending, +but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well applied for a +pass to that reporters' table." + +He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. "Now let +me see what I can do for you - " + +Then he beckoned to the coroner's officer: "Perhaps you could put +this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a +relation of the deceased, but doesn't want to be - " He whispered +a word or two, and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at +Mrs. Bunting with interest. "I'll put her just here," he muttered. +"There's no one coming there to-day. You see, there are only seven +witnesses - sometimes we have a lot more than that." + +And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite to where the +seven witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set faces, ready + - aye, more than ready - to play their part. + +For a moment every eye in the court was focused on Mrs. Bunting, but +soon those who had stared so hungrily, so intently, at her, realised +that she had nothing to do with the case. She was evidently there +as a spectator, and, more fortunate than most, she had a "friend at +court," and ,so was able to sit comfortably, instead of having to +stand in the crowd. + +But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon some of the +important-looking gentlemen she had seen downstairs came into the +court, and were ushered over to her seat while two or three among +them, including the famous writer whose face was so familiar that +it almost seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly acquaintance, +were accommodated at the reporters' table. + +"Gentlemen, the Coroner." + +The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat down again; +over the spectators there fell a sudden silence. + +And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the +first time, that informal little country inquest of long ago. + +First came the "Oyez! Oyez!" the old Norman-French summons to all +whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death + - sudden, unexplained, terrible - of a fellow-being. + +The jury - there were fourteen of them - all stood up again. They +raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words +of their oath. + +Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences 'twixt the coroner +and his officer. + +Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies - he +quickly corrected himself - the body, for, technically speaking, the +inquest just about to be held only concerned one body. + +And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could +be heard through the court, the coroner - a clever-looking gentleman, +though not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to +occupy so important a position on so important a day - gave a little +history, as it were, of the terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes. + +He spoke very dearly, warming to his work as he went on. + +He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of +The Avenger's former victims. "I only went through professional +curiosity," he threw in by way of parenthesis, "little thinking, +gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would +ever be held in my court." + +On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and +though that little was known to every one of his listeners. + +Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her +whisper to another: "Drawing it out all he can; that's what he's +doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!" And then the other +whispered back, so low that she could only just catch the words, +"Aye, aye. But he's a good chap - I knew his father; we were at +school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know - he does +to-day, at any rate." + +****** + +She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which +would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm +them. But the word, the sentence, was never uttered. + +And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did +throw out a hint which might mean anything - or nothing. + +"I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence to-day as +will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has +committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes." + +Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner's firm, +determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any +new evidence - evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was +ignorant? And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart +gave a sudden leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the +witness-box - a policeman who had not been sitting with the other +witnesses. + +But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply +the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like +tones he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, +foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it +slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place + - no, he was making a mistake - that was the place where the other +body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had got rather +mixed up between the two bodies - that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy +Hurtle. + +And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: "For the purpose +of this inquiry," he said, "we must, I think, for a moment consider +the two murders together." + +After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he +proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of +The Avenger's acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood +of sick fear and - and, yes, remorse. + +Up to now she had given very little thought - if, indeed, any thought + - to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had +filled her thoughts, - he and those who were trying to track him down. +But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here to-day. She +wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman's +words had conjured up out of her mind - out of her memory. + +And then there, came an eager stir of excitement and of attention +throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of +the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to +his place. + +Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, +remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that +poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman +had looked so cheerful, so - so well pleased with herself till a +minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round +her as a hunted animal might have done. + +But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his +manner, just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen +Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl. + +After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words +of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. +At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed +to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, +as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, +stifled screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively +jumped out of bed and rushed to her window. + +The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. "Let me +see! Here is the plan. Yes - I think I understand that the house +in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes +were committed?" + +And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face +the alley, but the window of the witness's bedroom faced the alley. + +"A distinction without a difference," said the coroner testily. +"And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when +you looked out." + +There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman +broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. +"I saw 'im!" she cried. "I shall never forget it - no, not till my +dying day!" And she looked round defiantly. + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had +had with a person who slept under this woman's room. That person +had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that +night - that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept +lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, +she would have heard if there had been either the scream described +by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed. + +"We quite understand that you think you saw the" - the coroner +hesitated - "the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible +crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. +In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you +say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your +window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like." + +The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured +handkerchief she held in her hand. + +"Let us begin at the beginning," said the coroner patiently. "What +sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from +the passage?" + +"It was just a black 'at" said the witness at last, in a husky, +rather anxious tone. + +"Yes - just a black hat. And a coat - were you able to see what +sort of a coat he was wearing?" + +"'E 'adn't got no coat" she said decidedly. "No coat at all! I +remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was +so cold - everybody as can wears some sort o' coat this weather!" + +A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and +apparently not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here +jumped up and put out his hand. + +"Yes?" the coroner turned to him. + +"I just want to say that this 'ere witness - if her name is Lizzie +Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat - a big, heavy +coat. I've got it here, in this bit of paper." + +"I never said so!" cried the woman passionately. "I was made to +say all those things by the young man what came to me from the +Evening Sun. Just put in what 'e liked in 'is paper, 'e did - not +what I said at all!" + +At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. + +"In future," said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who +had now sat down again, "you must ask any question you wish to ask +through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my +examination of the witness." + +But this interruption, this - this accusation, had utterly upset +the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man +she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall - no, +he was short. He was thin - no, he was a stoutish young man. And +as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an +acrimonious discussion. + +Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had +seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back + - so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that +she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard +who had taken down her first account - in fact, to him she had +declared confidently that the man had carried nothing - nothing at +all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down. + +One fact - if fact it could be called - the coroner did elicit. +Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed +her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. + +"He looked up at you?" repeated the coroner. "You said nothing of +that in your examination." + +"I said nothink because I was scared - nigh scared to death!" + +"If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was +dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?" + +But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his +desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman's story. + +"Dark!" she answered dramatically. "Dark, almost black! If you can +take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look." + +And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the +coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. + +Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. + +This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. +Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse +situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the +crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some +food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, +breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been +drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and +because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. + +Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much +from what this witness had said that the official description of The +Avenger had been composed - that description which had brought such +comfort to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul. + +This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the +newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and +positive. + +"It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with string." + +She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man +to carry such a parcel - that was what had made her notice it. But +when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night + - so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, +though every step was familiar. + +When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears +told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna +Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had +nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that +she admitted reluctantly that "Anny" would have been such a nice, +respectable young woman if it hadn't been for the drink. + +Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that +of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very +respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. +He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn't seen his +wife for two years; he hadn't had news of her for six months. Before +she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and - and yes, +mother. + +Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or +imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered +woman was in the box. He had had later news of his unfortunate +daughter than her husband had had, but of course he could throw no +light at all on her murder or murderer. + +A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the +public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He +had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it +looking cast down, uneasy. + +And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly +unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made +the utmost much to Mrs. Bunting's indignation. But neither coroner +nor jury - and they, after all, were the people who mattered - +thought a great deal of it. + +There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had +been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, "They are +now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He's been in every big murder case for +the last thirty years. He's sure to have something interesting to +say. It was really to hear him I came." + +But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with +which he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a +stir among the general public, or, rather, among those spectators +who stood near the low wooden door which separated the official +part of the court from the gallery. + +The coroner's officer, with an apologetic air, approached the +coroner, and banded him up an envelope. And again in an instant, +there fell absolute silence on the court. + +Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced +down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up. + +"Mr. - " then he glanced down again. "Mr. - ah - Mr. - is it Cannot?" +he said doubtfully, "may come forward." + +There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned. + +A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, +with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from +the place where he had been standing among the general public, to +the witness-box. + +"This is somewhat out of order, Mr. - er - Cannot," said the +coroner severely. "You should have sent me this note before the +proceedings began. This gentleman," he said, addressing the jury, +"informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to +reveal in connection with our investigation." + +"I have remained silent - I have locked what I knew within my own +breast" - began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, "because I am so +afraid of the Press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, +that my house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. . . . +I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things - the +state of things I imagine - might cause her death - indeed, I hope +she will never read a report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she +has an excellent trained nurse - " + +"You will now take the oath," said the coroner sharply. He already +regretted having allowed this absurd person to have his say. + +Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum which had been +lacking in most of those who had preceded him. + +"I will, address myself to the jury," he began. + +"You will do nothing of the sort," broke in the coroner. "Now, +please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who +is the - the - " + +"The Avenger," put in Mr. Cannot promptly. + +"The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met +him on the very night he committed the murder we are now +investigating?" + +"I do so declare," said Mr. Cannot confidently. "Though in the best +of health myself," - he beamed round the court, a now amused, +attentive court - "it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to +have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private +affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out +at so undue an hour as one o'clock in the morning - " + +Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into +broad smiles. + +"Yes," went on the witness solemnly, "I was with a sick friend - in +fact, I may say a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. +I will not reveal my exact dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my +notepaper. It is not necessary to reveal it, but you will understand +me when I say that in order to come home I had to pass through a +portion of the Regent's Park; and it was there - to be exact, about +the middle of Prince's Terrace - when a very peculiar-looking +individual stopped and accosted me." + +Mrs. Bunting's hand shot up to her breast. A feeling of deadly fear +took possession of her. + +"I mustn't faint," she said to herself hurriedly. "I mustn't faint! +Whatever's the matter with me?" She took out her bottle of +smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff. + +"He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. Coroner, with a +very odd-looking face. I should say an educated man - in common +parlance, a gentleman. What drew my special attention to him was +that he was talking aloud to himself - in fact, he seemed to be +repeating poetry. I give you my word, I had no thought of The +Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, I thought this +gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a man who'd got away from his +keeper. The Regent's Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you, is a +most quiet and soothing neighbourhood - " + +And then a member of the general public gave a loud guffaw. + +"I appeal to you; sir," the old gentleman suddenly cried out "to +protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come here with +any other object than that of doing my duty as a citizen!" + +"I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant" said the +coroner stiffly. "Time is going on, and I have another important +witness to call - a medical witness. Kindly tell me, as shortly as +possible, what made you suppose that this stranger could possibly +be - " with an effort he brought out for the first time since the +proceedings began, the words, "The Avenger?" + +"I am coming to that!" said Mr. Cannot hastily. "I am coming to +that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It was a foggy +night, but not as foggy as it became later. And just when we were +passing one an-other, I and this man, who was talking aloud to +himself - he, instead of going on, stopped and turned towards +me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the more so that +there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as +soothingly as possible, 'A very foggy night, sir.' And he said, +'Yes - yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of +dark and salutary deeds.' A very strange phrase, sir, that - 'dark +and salutary deeds.' He looked at the coroner expectantly - + +"Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person +go off in the direction of - of King's Cross, for instance?" + +"No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. "No, I must honestly +say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then +he crossed the road and was lost in the fog." + +"That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. "I thank +you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently +consider important information." + +Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some +of those present tittered rather foolishly. + +As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked +up at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a +murmur of talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard +quite distinctly what it was that he said: + +"One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The +man carried a bag - a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left +hand. It was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled +knife." + +Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She remembered suddenly +that she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag. +And then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a +single reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put down that last +remark of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one of them had heard it. + +Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And +then silence did fall on the court. + +"One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May I ask to be +accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see +there is some room left on the witnesses' bench." And, without +waiting for permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was +bending over her. + +"Perhaps you'd like to come along now," he said urgently. - "I +don't suppose you want to hear the medical evidence. It's always +painful for a female to hear that. And there'll be an awful rush +when the inquest's over. I could get you away quietly now." + +She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed +him obediently. + +Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty, +room downstairs. + +"I'll let you out the back way," he said. "I expect you're tired, +ma'am, and will like to get home to a cup o' tea." + +"I don't know how to thank you!" There were tears in her eyes. +She was trembling with excitement and emotion. "You have been good +to me." + +"Oh, that's nothing," he said a little awkwardly. "I expect you +went though a pretty bad time, didn't you?" + +"Will they be having that old gentleman again?" she spoke in a +whisper, and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look. + +"Good Lord,' no! Crazy old fool! We're troubled with a lot of +those sort of people, you know, ma'am, and they often do have funny +names, too. You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City, +or what not; then they retires when they gets about sixty, and +they're fit to hang themselves with dulness. Why, there's hundreds +of lunies of the sort to be met in London. You can't go about at +night and not meet 'em. Plenty of 'em!" + +"Then you don't think there was anything in what he said?" she +ventured. + +"In what that old gent said? Goodness - no!" he laughed +good-naturedly. "But I'll tell you what I do think. If it wasn't +for the time that had gone by, I should believe that the second +witness had seen that crafty devil - " he lowered his voice. "But, +there, Dr. Gaunt declares most positively - so did two other medical +gentlemen - that the poor creatures had been dead hours when they +was found. Medical gentlemen are always very positive about their +evidence. They have to be - otherwise who'd believe 'em? If we'd +time I could tell you of a case in which - well, 'twas all because +of Dr. Gaunt that the murderer escaped. We all knew perfectly well +the man we caught did it, but he was able to prove an alibi as to +the time Dr. Gaunt said the poor soul was killed. + + +CHAPTER XX + +It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, +but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go +to Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think of +nothing. + +Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she +began listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt +that it would do her more good to stay out in the air than take the +train. Also she would thus put off the moment - the moment to which +she looked forward with dread and dislike - when she would have to +invent a circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor, +and what the doctor had said to her. + +Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest +in other people's ailments, the more interest that he was himself so +remarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn't +tell him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that the +doctor had told her. + +As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, +and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest +edition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. "Avenger +Inquest?" they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" At +one place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the +pavement by stones, she stopped and looked down. "Opening of the +Avenger Inquest. What is he really like? Full description." On yet +another ran the ironic query: "Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?" + +And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. +Bunting turned sick - so sick and faint that she did what she had +never done before in her life - she pushed her way into a +public-house, and, putting two pennies down on the counter, asked +for, and received, a glass of cold water. + +As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind +dwelling persistently - not on the inquest at which she had been +present, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims. + +Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the +mortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, though +cold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this time +yesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul - +alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers had +already interviewed, particularly merry and bright. + +Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of +The Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered +wearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear +which encompassed her night and day. + +As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. +The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others +exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front +yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, +keep any secret closely hidden. + +For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from her +mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were +concentrated on Bunting - Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what +had happened during her absence - whether the lodger had rung his +bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with +him? + +She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a +pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must +have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, +for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door. + +"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in, +Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now - and you +out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all +right?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety. + +And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No," +she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and +waited, but he never came in at all. "Twas my own fault" she added +quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though +she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, +she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her +years ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night," she +said. "Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance +of finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to go out +to people at all times of day." + +"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said. + +And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the +doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, +would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained +she'd known him a long time. + +She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired +voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'd +be very grateful for a cup now - if you'd just make it for me over +the ring." + +"'Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in and sit down, +my dear. Don't trouble to take your things off now - wait till +you've had tea." + +And she obeyed him. "Where's Daisy?" she asked suddenly. "I thought +the girl would be back by the time I got home." + +"She ain't coming home to-day" - there was an odd, sly, smiling look +on Bunting's face. + +"Did she send a telegram?" asked Mrs. Bunting. + +"No. Young Chandler's just come in and told me. He's been over +there and, - would you believe it, Ellen? - he's managed to make +friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain't it? He +went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, +and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money +to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this +evening - she and Daisy - to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o' +such a thing?" + +"Very nice for them, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bunting absently. But +she was pleased - pleased to have her mind taken off herself. "Then +when is that girl coming home?" she asked patiently. + +"Well, it appears that Chandler's got to-morrow morning off too - +this evening and to-morrow morning. He'll be on duty all night, +but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early +dinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?" + +"Yes. That'll be all right," she said. "I don't grudge the girl +her bit of pleasure. One's only young once. By the way, did the +lodger ring while I was out?" + +Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to +see the kettle boil. "No," he said. "Come to think of it, it's +rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. +Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all +about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened +while you was out, Ellen." + +"Something else happened?" she said in a startled voice. Getting +up from her chair she came towards her husband: "What happened? +Who came?" + +"Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a +young lady's birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter + - one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing - fell out +just at the last minute and so they had to send for me." + +His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his +old friend's business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very +badly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for +ever so long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this new +man had never employed him - no, not once. + +"I hope you didn't make yourself too cheap?" said his wife jealously. + +"No, that I didn't! I hum'd and haw'd a lot; and I could see the +fellow was quite worried - in fact, at the end he offered me +half-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!" + +Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long +time. + +"You won't mind being alone, here? I don't count the lodger - he's +no good - " Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted +to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so +unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that +she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been +so in the days when he got more jobs. + +She stared at him, a little suspiciously. "I be afraid?" she echoed. +"Certainly not. Why should I be? I've never been afraid before. +What d'you exactly mean by that, Bunting?" + +"Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone +on this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young +fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door." + +"I shouldn't have been frightened if he'd just been an ordinary +stranger," she said shortly. "He said something silly to me - just +in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I +feel better now." + +As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise +outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers. + +"I'll just run out," said Bunting apologetically, "and see what +happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue +about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it - +when he wasn't talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He's +on to-night, luckily not till twelve o'clock; plenty of time to +escort the two of 'em back after the play. Besides, he said +he'll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto' +goes on too long for him to take 'em home." + +"On to-night?". repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever for?" + +"Well, you see, The Avenger's always done 'em in couples, so to +speak. They've got an idea that he'll have a try again to-night. +However, even so, Joe's only on from midnight till five o'clock. +Then he'll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, +Fine thing to be young, ain't it, Ellen?" + +"I can't believe that he'd go out on such a night as this!" + +"What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken +so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. + +"What do I mean?" she repeated - and a great fear clutched at her +heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. + +"Why, by saying he won't go out. Of course, he has to go out. +Besides, he'll have been to the play as it is. 'Twould be a pretty +thing if the police didn't go out, just because it was cold!" + +"I - I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bunting. She looked +at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter +those true words. + +"He don't take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting sombrely. +"I take it the man's dead to all human feeling - -saving, of +course, revenge. + +"So that's your idea about him, is it?" She looked across at her +husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between +them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. +"D'you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young +man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?" + +"Let me see," he said slowly. "I thought that 'twas from the bedroom +window a woman saw him?" + +"No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband's +breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most +respectable-looking woman of the two," said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. + +And then, seeing her husband's look of utter, blank astonishment, +she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly +mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. +"There, now," she said; "here I am gossiping all about nothing when +I ought to be seeing about the lodger's supper. It was someone in +the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The +Avenger." + +Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the +gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to +buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous +discussion. + +As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, +Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite +unnaturally cold even for the time of year. + +She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed +by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that +stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going +to be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and +she didn't like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suit +her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, +in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to +cheer her up after he had gone. + +Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little +sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, +at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little +ease, listening - listening. . . . + +She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth's +supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so +as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so. + +Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she +listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good +fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! +But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was +moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his +wont at this time of the evening. + +She knocked, and then waited a moment. + +There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in +the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard - or so Mr. Sleuth's landlady +could have sworn. + +There was a pause - she knocked again. + +"Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and +carried in the tray. + +"You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?" +he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice. + +"I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I lost count of +the time. I thought you'd like your breakfast early, as you had +dinner rather sooner than usual." + +"Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." He looked at +her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible +questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes. + +"Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look well, Mrs. +Bunting." + +"No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went over to see a doctor +this afternoon, to Ealing, sir." + +"I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting" - the lodger's voice had +become softer, kinder in quality. + +"It always does me good to see the doctor," said Mrs. Bunting +evasively. + +And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth's face. "Doctors are a +maligned body of men," he said. "I'm glad to hear you speak well of +them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable +to err, but I assure you they do their best." + +"That I'm sure they do, sir " - she spoke heartily, sincerely. +Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously. + +And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger's one hot dish +upon it, she went towards the door. "Wouldn't you like me to bring +up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it's bitterly cold - getting +colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in - " she +looked at him deprecatingly. + +And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. +Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full +height. + +"What d'you mean?" he stammered. "Why did you say that, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an +awful questioning look over his face. + +"I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He's got a job to-night. He's +going to act as waiter at a young lady's birthday party. I was +thinking it's a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, +too" - she brought out her words jerkily. + +Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. "Ah!" +he said. "Dear me - I'm sorry to hear that! I hope your husband +will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting." + +And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. + +****** + +Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy +washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. + +Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. + +"Time for you to dress," she cried out cheerfully, "and I've got a +little bit of fire for you to dress by." + +As he exclaimed at her extravagance, "Well, 'twill be pleasant for +me, too; keep me company-like while you're out; and make the room +nice and warm when you come in. You'll be fair perished, even +walking that short way," she said. + +And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs +and cleared away Mr. Sleuth's supper. + +The lodger said no word while she was so engaged - no word at all. + +He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him +to do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees. + +Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, a +great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting's +heart. He was such a - a - she searched for a word in her mind, but +could only find the word "gentle " - he was such a nice, gentle +gentleman, was Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving his +money about, as he had done the first day or two, and with some +concern his landlady had seen that the store had diminished a good +deal. A very simple calculation had made her realise that almost the +whole of that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, had +passed through her hands. + +Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his +landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. +And Mrs. Bunting's conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly +ever used that room upstairs - that room for which he had paid extra +so generously. If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty +man in Baker Street, - and now that the ice had been broken between +them it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a very +well-trained, experienced waiter - then she thought she would tell +Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was +now doing. + +She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. + +"Good-night, sir," she said at last. + +Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. + +"I hope you'll sleep well, sir." + +"Yes, I'm sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a +little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been +studying all day I require a little exercise." + +"Oh, I wouldn't go out to-night," she said deprecatingly. "'Tisn't +fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold." + +"And yet - and yet" - he looked at her attentively - "there will +probably be many people out in the streets to-night." + +"A many more than usual, I fear, sir." + +"Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a strange thing, +Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse +themselves should carry their revels far into the night?" + +"Oh, I wasn't thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking" - she +hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the +words, "of the police." + +"The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or +three times with a nervous gesture. "But what is man - what is man's +puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over +whose feet God has set a guard?" + +Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up +his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then +she had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, +that - was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? + +"Very true, sir," she said respectfully. "But Providence means us +to take care o' ourselves too." And then she closed the door behind +her and went downstairs. + +But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She +came into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think +the next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger's meal on +her table. 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. It even +occurred to her to do the one thing that might have quieted her +excited brain - to get a book, one of those detective stories of +which Bunting had a slender store in the next room, and then, +lighting the gas, to sit up and read. + +No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read in +bed, and she was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything that +she had been told was wrong. . . . + + +CHAPTER XXI + +It was a very cold night - so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was the +atmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors. + +Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved a +really pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his way +this evening, all the more welcome because it was quite unexpected! +The young lady at whose birthday party he had been present in +capacity of waiter had come into a fortune that day, and she had had +the gracious, the surprising thought of presenting each of the hired +waiters with a sovereign! + +This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had gone +to Bunting's heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservative +principles; only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet, +old-fashioned, respectable, gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom +those nasty Radicals know nothing and care less! + +But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been. +Slackening his footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern of +how queer his wife had seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous, +so "jumpy," that he didn't know what to make of her sometimes. She +had never been really good-tempered - your capable, self -respecting +woman seldom is - but she had never been like what she was now. And +she didn't get better as the days went on; in fact she got worse. +Of late she had been quite hysterical, and for no reason at all! +Take that little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. Ellen knew +quite well he often had to go about in some kind of disguise, and yet +how she had gone on, quite foolish-like - not at all as one would +have expected her to do. + +There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in more +senses than one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had taken +to talking in her sleep. "No, no, no!" she had cried out, only the +night before. "It isn't true - I won't have it said - it's a lie!" +And there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her usually +quiet, mincing voice. + +****** + +Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves. + +He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walking +more quickly. + +As h& tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sight +of his lodger walking along the opposite side of the solitary street + - one of those short streets leading off the broad road which +encircles Regent's Park. + +Well! This was a funny time o' night to be taking a stroll for +pleasure, like! + +Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth's tall, thin figure +was rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. His +left arm was thrust into his long Inverness tape, and so was quite +hidden, but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger +were carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung down straight. + +Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talked +aloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who live +much alone. It was clear that he had not yet become aware of the +proximity of his landlord. + +Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger was +certainly a most eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not, +that that odd, luny-like gentleman should have made all the +difference to his, Bunting's, and Mrs. Bunting's happiness and +comfort in life? + +Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for +the first time, of this perfect lodger's one fault - his odd dislike +to meat, and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food. + +But there, you can't have everything! The more so that the lodger +was not one of those crazy vegetarians who won't eat eggs and cheese. +No, he was reasonable in this, as in everything else connected with +his dealings with the Buntings. + +As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife. +Indeed, he had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr. +Sleuth had been with them, and when his landlord had had occasion +to wait on him the lodger had remained silent. Indeed, their +gentleman had made it very clear that he did not like either the +husband or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitely +asked to do so. + +Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genial +conversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increased +his general comfortable sense of satisfaction. + +So it was that the a-butler, still an active man for his years, +crossed over the road, and, stepping briskly forward, began trying +to overtake Mr. Sleuth. But the more he hurried along, the more the +other hastened, and that without ever turning round to see whose +steps he could hear echoing behind him on the now freezing pavement. + +Mr. Sleuth's own footsteps were quite inaudible - an odd circumstance, +when you came to think of it - as Bunting did think of it later, +lying awake by Mrs. Bunting's side in the pitch darkness. What it +meant of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes. +Now Bunting had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down to +him to dean. He had always supposed the lodger had only one pair of +outdoor boots. + +The two men - the pursued and the pursuer - at last turned into the +Marylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home. +Plucking up courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly +on the still air: + +"Mr Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!" + +The lodger stopped and turned round. + +He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physical +condition, that the sweat was pouring down his face. + +"Ah! So it's you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and +I hurried on. I wish I'd known that it was you; there are so many +queer characters about at night in London." + +"Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have business +out of doors would be out such a night as this. It is cold, sir!" + +And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there suddenly crept +the query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth's own business out could be +on this bitter night. + +"Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words +came out sharp and quick through his thin lips. "I can't say that +I find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air always +becomes milder." + +"Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind. Why, it +freezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, there's nothing like +walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, +sir." + +Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange +way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, +on the wall side, to his landlord. + +"I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over Primrose Hill to +see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, +and then, coming back, I lost my way. + +Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the +shabby, paved court in front of the house - that gate which now was +never locked. + +Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged +path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, stepping +aside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front +door for him. + +As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left hand +brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was +wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth against +which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from +stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet - wet and +gluey. + +Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other +that he placed the key in the lock of the door. + +The two men passed into the hail together. + +The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up +road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the +lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of +mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful +immediate danger. + +A stuffless voice - the voice of his first wife, the long-dead +girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays - uttered into +his ear the words, "Take care!" + +And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, +though not loud. + +"I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, +foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but I +brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some +thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose +Hill." + +"No, sir, no. I didn't notice nothing. 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. Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and +dipped a hand into the water-jug. + +"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came a +voice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily. + +"I'm just washing my hands." + +"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such +a thing - putting your hand into the water in which I was going to +wash my face to-morrow morning!" + +"I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away. +You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?" + +She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting +lay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more +uncomfortable than he was already. + +At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence +by telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, +but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if +it had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside. + +Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook +the bed. + +"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning in +the hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly. + +He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as +she had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money - or, +rather, Mr. Sleuth's good money. Since he had come to be their lodger +they had not had to touch their rent money. + +Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and +so to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and +wife lay awake till dawn. + +The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he felt +curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes. + +Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven +o'clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the +blind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the +way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, +curiously still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage. +As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already +lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being pushed +through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful +sleep. + +He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, +shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper +wide open on the table, and bent over it. + +As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression +of intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he +had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet +was not there. + + +CHAPTER XXII + +Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit +the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea. + +While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: + +"Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" Quickly he hurried in +response to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my dear? I +won't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly, rather +foolishly. + +She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face. + +"What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously. + +"I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. "But you was +so cross last night that I simply didn't dare tell you about it." + +"Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice. + +"I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her +birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice bit of money, and +she gave each of us waiters a sovereign." + +Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her +eyes. + +"What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly. "You didn't +say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about +it yesterday." + +"Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner." + +"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?" +said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting's +round face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing +if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit - especially now that +they were doing so well! + +"Daisy'll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly. +"It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all +she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, 'twould +be cruel - cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and +that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that +even you would see the justice o' that!" + +But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. + +Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling +now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, +his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill - ill and wizened. +He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything. +She had never been one to grouse about herself. + +"The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed +genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn't +the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now +was it? And yet he must'a been out a long time if what he said +was true." + +"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the +crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day - +that they do! But go along now; I want to get up." + +He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire +and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. + +Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with +a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible +thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his +head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No +doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled - that was what had happened; +though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against +a dead animal. + +Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for one to be +always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It +made one go dotty - that's what it did. + +And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a +loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before +he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, +Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and +shawl. + +"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't you +trouble." + +He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. + +She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the +telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said. +"If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she tore +the envelope open - "Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's +only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this +morning. Then you'll have to go." + +She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said. +"There it is, Bunting. You just read it." + +"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged. - +Chandler." + +"I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. +"I thought Joe's hours was as regular as clockwork - that nothing +could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose +it'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock? It may have +left off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again just +now. I'm pretty tired this morning." + +"You start about twelve," said his wife quickly. + +"That'll give plenty of time." + +The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a +letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a +little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at +any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting +often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there +came no sounds at all from overhead. + +Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more +cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a +pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, +before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +"Daisy will be surprised to see you - not to say disappointed!" she +observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at +the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made +him stay on a little longer. "There's no such great hurry as that," +she said good-temperedly. "It'll do quite well if you're there by +half-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't help +with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard." + +But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and +his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, +less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming +and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously +along through the slush. + +Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a +knock at the door - a now very familiar ring and knock. "Joe thinks +Daisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to herself. + +Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's voice. "Don't +be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not exactly scared, +she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to +represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, +with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his +seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. + +"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. "But I thought +I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got +my telegram all right? I couldn't send no other kind of message." + +"She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone long after her." +Then, struck by a look in his eyes, "Joe, what's the matter?" she +asked quickly. + +There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, +while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very +pale. + +"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no business to say +anything about it - but I will tell you !" + +He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind +him. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered. "But this time +no one is to know anything about it - not for the present, I mean," +he corrected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got a clue - +and a good clue, too, this time." + +"But where - and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting. + +"Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the +present" - he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. "The +poor soul' was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by +chance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his +way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd be able to get an +ambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I +'spect he'll get promotion for that!" + +"What about the clue?" asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. "You said +there was a clue?" + +"Well, I don't rightly understand about the clue myself. All I +knows is it's got something to do with a public-house, 'The Hammer +and Tongs,' which isn't far off there. They feels sure The Avenger +was in the bar just on closing - time." + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural +the police should suspect a public-house loafer. "Then that's why you +wasn't able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?" + +He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll all be in the last +editions of the evening newspapers - it can't be kep' out. There'd be +too much of a row if 'twas!" + +"Are you going off to that public-house now?" she asked. + +"Yes, I am. I've got a awk'ard job - to try and worm something out +of the barmaid." + +"Something out of the barmaid?" repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. +"Why, whatever for?" + +He came and stood close to her. "They think 'twas a gentleman," he +whispered. + +"A gentleman?" + +Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. "Whatever +makes them think such a silly thing as that?" + +"Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with a +leather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass of +milk. And what d'you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! +He wouldn't take no change - just made the girl a present of it! +That's why the young woman what served him seems quite unwilling to +give him away. She won't tell now what he was like. She doesn't +know what he's wanted for, and we don't want her to know just yet. +That's one reason why nothing's being said public about it. But +there! I really must be going now. My time'll be up at three +o'clock. I thought of coming in on the way back, and asking you for +a cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," but there was no +welcome in her tired voice. + +She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to her +kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Bunting +and Daisy might be home, and they'd want something, too. Margaret +always had breakfast even when "the family" were away, unnaturally +early. + +As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of all +thought. But it is very difficult to do that when one is in a state +of torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler what +they supposed that man who had gone into the public-house was really +like. It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that inquisitive +young chap had never met face to face. + +At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang - a quiet little tinkle. But when +she went up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room. + +Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the cloth +on the table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps coming +down the stairs, and her quick ears detected the slight whirring +sound which showed that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had +already lit the stove; that meant that he would carry out some +elaborate experiment this afternoon. + +"Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very quiet and +still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known +it quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A +very pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in +the Marylebone Road." + +"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day - too quiet to my +thinking. 'Tain't natural-like." + +The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air. + +"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, +hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window +and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?" + +And his landlady obeyed him. + +"It's only Bunting, sir - Bunting and his daughter." + +"Oh! Is that all?" + +Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She +had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that +first day when she had been showing him her rooms. + +Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if +aware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face +up towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at the +lodger, whose face she could only dimly discern. + +"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. +And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. +Bunting very much aback. + +"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little read +nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, +for youth, for innocence." + +"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfast +will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now." + +He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child +rebuked might have done., + +And then his landlady Left him. + +"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right. +And Daisy's a lucky girl - that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her +five shillings." + +But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought +to do. + +"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little +disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was +that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time +went on and he didn't come." + +"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly. + +"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and +fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?" + +"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along, +child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself +useful." + +And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her +stepmother didn't want her to hear. + +"I've something to tell you, Bunting." + +"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?" + +"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want +anyone to know about it - not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over +and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again." + +Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the +mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much +concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it. + +There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a +great effort to appear unconcerned. + +"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?" + +She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!" +she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror +in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum." + +And he acquiesced. + +"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away +the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried +upstairs. + +Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. +"I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? +I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I +saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, +but I should like to do so now. + +She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly, +"the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun." + +Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed. +"You can tell him that I don't want it back again." + +On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third +of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in +rather large characters: + +"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic +reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which +was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his +double murder ten days ago." + +She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. + +"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffled +voice from the upper landing. + +She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper back +again, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out of +the room. + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, +listening and waiting - Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; +Daisy for the knock which would herald Joe Chandler. + +And about four there came the now familiar sound. + +Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the +front door she whispered, "We haven't said anything to Daisy yet. +Young girls can't keep secrets." + +Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked the low character +he had assumed to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, +and tired out. + +Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of +welcome, when she saw how cleverly he was disguised. + +"I never!" she exclaimed. "What a difference it do make, to be +sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. Chandler." + +And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much +that he quite cheered up. Bunting had been very dull and quiet +all that afternoon. + +"It won't take me ten minutes to make myself respectable again," +said the young man rather ruefully. + +His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came +to the conclusion that he had been unsuccessful - that he had failed, +that is, in getting any information worth having. And though, in a +sense, they all had a pleasant tea together, there was an air of +constraint, even of discomfort, over the little party. + +Bunting felt it hard that he couldn't ask the questions that were +trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during +the last month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, +but now it seemed almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of +half suspense. There was one important fact he longed to know, +and at last came his opportunity of doing so, for Joe Chandler rose +to leave, and this time it was Bunting who followed him out into +the hall. + +"Where did it happen?" he whispered. "Just tell me that, Joe?" + +"Primrose Hill," said the other briefly. "You'll know all about it +in a minute or two, for it'll be all in the last editions of the +evening papers. That's what's been arranged." + +"No arrest I suppose?" + +Chandler shook his head despondently. "No," he said, "I'm inclined +to think the Yard was on a wrong tack altogether this time. But one +can only do one's best. I don't know if Mrs. Bunting told you I'd +got to question a barmaid about a man who was in her place just +before closing-time. Well, she's said all she knew, and it's as +clear as daylight to me that the eccentric old gent she talks about +was only a harmless luny. He gave her a sovereign just because she +told him she was a teetotaller!" He laughed ruefully. + +Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. "Well, that's a queer +thing for a barmaid to be!" he exclaimed. "She's niece to the people +what keeps the public," explained Chandler; and then he went out of +the front door with a cheerful "So long!" + +When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy had disappeared. +She had gone downstairs with the tray. "Where's my girl?" he said +irritably. + +"She's just taken the tray downstairs." + +He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called out sharply, +"Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down there?" + +"Yes, father," came her eager, happy voice. + +"Better come up out of that cold kitchen." + +He turned and came back to his wife. "Ellen, is the lodger in? I +haven't heard him moving about. Now mind what I says, please! I +don't want Daisy to be mixed up with him." + +"Mr. Sleuth don't seem very well to-day," answered Mrs. Bunting +quietly. "'Tain't likely I should let Daisy have anything to do +with him. Why, she's never even seen him. 'Tain't likely I should +allow her to begin waiting on him now." + +But though she was surprised and a little irritated by the tone in +which Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of the truth illumined her mind. +So accustomed had she become to bearing alone the burden of her awful +secret, that it would have required far more than a cross word or +two, far more than the fact that Bunting looked ill and tired, for +her to have come to suspect that her secret was now shared by another, +and that other her husband. + +Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trembled at the +thought of her house being invaded by the police, but that was only +because she had always credited the police with supernatural powers +of detection. That they should come to know the awful fact she kept +hidden in her breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a +natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly suspect it appeared +beyond the range of possibility. + +And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering +over the fire - saying nothing, doing nothing. + +"Why, father, ain't you well?" the girl asked more than once. + +And, looking up, he would answer, "Yes, I'm well enough, nay girl, +but I feels cold. It's awful cold. I never did feel anything like +the cold we've got just now." + + +At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside. + +"The Avenger again!" "Another horrible crime!" "Extra speshul +edition!" - such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through +the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room. + +Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy's cheeks grew +pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled. + +"Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D'you hear that?" she exclaimed +childishly, and even clapped her hands. "I do wish Mr. Chandler +had been here. He would 'a been startled!" + +"Don't, Daisy!" and Bunting frowned. + +Then, getting up, he stretched himself. "It's fair getting on my +mind," he said, "these horrible things happening. I'd like to get +right away from London, just as far as I could - that I would!" + +"Up to John-o'-Groat's?" said Daisy, laughing. And then, "Why, +father, ain't you going out to get a paper?" + +"Yes, I suppose I must." + +Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, +he put on his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, +and walked down the flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped +out on the pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys +now stood. + +The boy nearest to him only had the Sun - a late edition of the paper +he had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a +ha'penny rag of which he already knew the main contents. But there +was nothing else to do. + +Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was +bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked +down at the big headlines. For Bunting had been very unfair to the +enterprise of the editor of his favourite evening paper. This +special edition was full of new matter - new matter concerning +The Avenger. + +First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement +that The Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had +chosen quite a new locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising +ground known to Londoners as Primrose Hill. + +"The police." so Bunting read, "are very reserved as to the +circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger's +latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess +several really important clues, and that one of them is concerned +with the half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to reproduce +an outline to-day. (See over page.)" + +And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline +he had already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting +to be a facsimile of the imprint left by The Avenger's rubber sole. + +He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the +space which should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, +sinking feeling of terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had +been tracked by the marks their boots or shoes had made at or near +the scenes of their misdoings. + +Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial +kind was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already +visualised early this very afternoon the little row with which he +dealt each morning - first came his wife's strong, serviceable +boots, then his own two pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and +next to his own Mr. Sleuth's strong, hardly worn, and expensive +buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high-heeled pair +of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for +her trip to London, had ended the row. The girl had worn these +thin shoes persistently, in defiance of Ellen's reproof and advice, +and he, Bunting, had only once had to clean her more sensible +country pair, and that only because the others had become wet though +the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to Scotland Yard. + +Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going +in again, of hearing his wife's sarcastic comments, of parrying +Daisy's eager questions, had become intolerable. So he walked +slowly, trying to put off the evil moment when he would have to tell +them what was in his paper. + +The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite +the house. It was rather to the right of it. And when, having +crossed over the roadway, he walked along the pavement towards his +own gate, he heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side +of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard from the pavement. + +Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward +to drive out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had +trouble, before the cold weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter +there. But to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick +with suspense and fear. + +Was it possible that their place was being watched - already? He +thought it only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited +the police with almost supernatural powers, especially since he +had paid that visit to Scotland Yard. + +But to Bunting's amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who +suddenly loomed up in the dim light. + +Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form +had been quite concealed till he stepped forward from behind the +low wall on to the flagged path leading to the front door. + +The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked +along, the new boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of +hard nail-studded heels rang out on the flat-stones of the narrow +path. + +Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was +his lodger had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. +Sleuth had evidently been out to buy himself another pair of new +boots, and then be had gone inside the gate and had put them on, +placing his old footgear in the paper in which the new pair had +been wrapped. + +The ex-butler waited - waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. +Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had +time to get well away, upstairs. + +Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in +the door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and +coat up in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out +to him. Then he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, +he said sullenly: "There it is! You can see it all for yourself - +not that there's very much to see," and groped his way to the fire. + +His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. "Whatever have you done to +yourself?" she exclaimed. "You're ill - that's what it is, Bunting. +You got a chill last night!" + +"I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered. "'Twasn't last night, +though; 'twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. +Margaret keeps that housekeeper's room o' hers like a hothouse - +that's what she does. 'Twas going out from there into the biting +wind, that's what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in +such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, +can stand the life - being out in all weathers like he is." + +Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what +was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. + +"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm," +said his wife testily. "But if you felt so bad, whatever was you +out so long for, Bunting? I thought you'd gone away somewhere! +D'you mean you only went to get the paper?" + +"I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp," he +muttered apologetically. + +"That was a silly thing to do!" + +"Perhaps it was," he admitted meekly. + +Daisy had taken up the paper. "Well, they don't say much," she +said disappointedly. "Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. +Chandler 'll be in soon again. If so, he'll tell us more about it." + +"A young girl like you oughtn't to want to know anything about +murders," said her stepmother severely. "Joe won't think any the +better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I +was you, Daisy, I shouldn't say nothing about it if he does come in + - which I fair tell you I hope he won't. I've seen enough of that +young chap to-day." + +"He didn't come in for long - not to-day," said Daisy, her lip +trembling. + +"I can tell you one thing that'll surprise you, my dear" - Mrs. +Bunting looked significantly at her step-daughter. She also wanted +to get away from that dread news - which yet was no news. + +"Yes?" said Daisy, rather defiantly. "What is it, Ellen?" + +"Maybe you'll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning. +He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that +you shouldn't be told anything about it." + +"Never!" cried Daisy, much mortified. + +"Yes," went on her stepmother ruthlessly. "You just ask your father +over there if it isn't true." + +"'Tain't a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings," +said Bunting heavily. + +"If I was Joe," went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage, +"I shouldn't want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in +to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that +poor young chap is set upon - mostly, I admit, by your father," she +looked at her husband severely. "But you does your share, too, +Daisy! You asks him this, you asks him that - he's fair puzzled +sometimes. It don't do to be so inquisitive." + +****** + +And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting's part +when young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was +said of the new Avenger murder. + +Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though Daisy said a +word, it was but a word. And Joe Chandler thought he had never +spent a pleasanter evening in his life - for it was he and Daisy +who talked all the time, their elders remaining for the most part +silent. + +Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Margaret. She +described the long, dull hours and the queer jobs her aunt set her +to do - the washing up of all the fine drawing-room china in a big +basin lined with flannel, and how terrified she (Daisy) had been +lest there should come even one teeny little chip to any of it. +Then she went on to relate some of the funny things Aunt Margaret +had told her about "the family." + +There came a really comic tale, which hugely interested and delighted +Chandler. This was of how Aunt Margaret's lady had been taken in by +an impostor - an impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping +out of her carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the doorstep. +Aunt Margaret's lady, being a soft one, had insisted on the man +coming into the hall, where he had been given all kinds of +restoratives. When the man had at last gone off, it was found that +he had "wolfed" young master's best walking-stick, one with a fine +tortoise-shell top to it. Thus had Aunt Margaret proved to her lady +that the man had been shamming, and her lady had been very angry - +near had a fit herself! + +"There's a lot of that about," said Chandler, laughing. +"Incorrigible rogues and vagabonds - that's what those sort of people +are!" + +And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an exceptionally +clever swindler whom he himself had brought to book. He was very +proud of that job, it had formed a white stone in his career as a +detective. And even Mrs. Bunting was quite interested to hear about +it. + +Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth's bell rang. For +awhile no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife. + +"Did you hear that?" he said. "I think, Ellen, that was the lodger's +bell." + +She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. + +"I rang," said Mr. Sleuth weakly, "to tell you I don't require any +supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump +of sugar in it. That is all I require - nothing more. I feel very +very far from well" - and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on +his face. "And then I thought your husband would like his paper +back again, Mrs. Bunting." + +Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze +of which she was quite unconscious, answered, "Oh, no, sir! +Bunting don't require that paper now. He read it all through." +Something impelled her to add, ruthlessly, "He's got another paper +by now, sir. You may have heard them come shouting outside. Would +you like me to bring you up that other paper, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. "No," he said querulously. "I much +regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it +disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it - +there never is in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers +years ago, and I much regret that I broke though my rule to-day." + +As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more +conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in +his landlady's presence. He went over to the fireplace and +deliberately turned his back on her. + +She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of +sugar he had asked for. + +Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the +Book. + +When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting +merrily. She did not notice that the merriment was confined to the +two young people. + +"Well?" said Daisy pertly. "How about the lodger, Ellen? Is he +all right?" + +"Yes," she said stiffly. "Of course he is!" + +"'He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself - awful +lonely-like, I call it," said the girl. + +But her, stepmother remained silent. + +"Whatever does he do with himself all day?" persisted Daisy. + +"Just now he's reading the Bible," Mrs. Bunting answered, shortly +and dryly. + +"Well, I never! That's a funny thing for a gentleman to do!" + +And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed - a long hearty peal +of amusement. + +"There's nothing to laugh at," said Mrs. Bunting sharply. "I should +feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected with the +Bible." + +And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time +that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he +answered very humbly, "I beg pardon. I know I oughtn't to have +laughed at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy +said it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a +queer card, Mrs. Bunting." + +"He's no queerer than many people I could mention," she said quickly; +and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed +of aching fear and suspense. + +The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he +should pursue, and, according to his mood and to the state of his +mind at any particular moment, he would waver between various +widely-differing lines of action. + +He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the +most awful thing about it all was that he wasn't sure. If only he +could have been sure, he might have made up his mind exactly what +it was he ought to do. + +But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was +vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting's point of view, +almost any alternative would have been preferable to that which to +some, nay, perhaps to most, householders would have seemed the only +thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners of Bunting's +class have an uneasy fear of the law. To his mind it would be ruin +for him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly in such a terrible +affair. No one concerned in the business would give them and their +future a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, and, +above all, it would make it quite impossible for them ever to get +again into a good joint situation. It was that for which Bunting, +in his secret soul, now longed with all his heart. + +No, some other way than going to the police must be found - and he +racked his slow brain to find it. + +The worst of it was that every hour that went by made his future +course more difficult and more delicate, and increased the awful +weight on his conscience. + +If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite sure! And +then he would tell himself that, after all, he had very little to +go upon; only suspicion - suspicion, and a secret, horrible +certainty that his suspicion was justified. + +And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution which he knew +to be indefensible from every point of view; he began to hope, that +is, in the depths of his heart, that the ledger would again go out +one evening on his horrible business and be caught - red-handed. + +But far from going out on any business, horrible or other, Mr. +Sleuth now never went out at all. He kept upstairs, and often spent +quite a considerable part of his day in bed. He still felt, so he +assured Mrs. Bunting, very far from well. He had never thrown off +the chill he had caught on that bitter night he and his landlord +had met on their several ways home. + +Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication to Daisy's +father. The detective spent every waking hour that he was not on +duty with the Buntings; and Bunting, who at one time had liked him +so well and so cordially, now became mortally afraid of him. + +But though the young man talked of little else than The Avenger, +and though on one evening he described at immense length the +eccentric-looking gent who had given the barmaid a sovereign, +picturing Mr. Sleuth with such awful accuracy that both Bunting and +Mrs. Bunting secretly and separately turned sick when they listened +to him, he never showed the slightest interest in their lodger. + +At last there came a morning when Bunting and Chandler held a strange +conversation about The Avenger. The young fellow had come in earlier +than usual, and just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were +starting out to do some shopping. The girl would fain have stopped +behind, but her stepmother had given her a very peculiar, disagreeable +look, daring her, so to speak, to be so forward, and Daisy had gone +on with a flushed, angry look on her pretty face. + +And then, as young Chandler stepped through into the sitting-room, +it suddenly struck Bunting that the young man looked unlike himself + - indeed, to the ex-butler's apprehension there was something almost +threatening in Chandler's attitude. + +"I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting," he began abruptly, falteringly. +"And I'm glad to have the chance now that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Daisy +are out." + +Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words - the accusation of +having sheltered a murderer, the monster whom all the world was +seeking, under his roof. And then he remembered a phrase, a +horrible legal phrase - "Accessory after the fact." Yes, he had +been that, there wasn't any doubt about it! + +"Yes?" he said. "What is it, Joe?" and then the unfortunate man +sat down in his chair. "Yes?" he said again uncertainly; for young +Chandler had now advanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting +fixedly - the other thought threateningly. "Well, out with it, +Joe! Don't keep me in suspense." + +And then a slight smile broke over the young man's face. "I don't +think what I've got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bunting." + +And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything - yes +or no, as the case might be. + +The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long +time to the elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe +Chandler brought out the words, "Well, I suppose you know what it +is I want to talk about. I'm sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look +or two she's lately cast on me. It's your daughter - it's Miss +Daisy." + +And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, 'twixt a sob and a laugh. +"My girl?" he cried. "Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to +talk about? Why, you fair frightened me - that you did!" + +And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as +he stared across it at his daughter's lover, that lover who was +also the embodiment of that now awful thing to him, the law. He +smiled, rather foolishly, at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp +wave of irritation, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. +Daisy's father was an old stupid - that's what he was. + +And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. "As +far as I'm concerned," he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even +a little dignity, "you have my blessing, Joe. You're a very likely +young chap, and I had a true respect for your father." + +"Yes," said Chandler, "that's very kind of you, Mr. Bunting. But +how about her - her herself?" + +Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn't +given herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing. + +"I can't answer for Daisy," he said heavily. "You'll have to ask +her yourself - that's not a job any other man can do for you, my lad." + +"I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by our two selves," +said Chandler, with some heat. "You don't seem to understand, Mr. +Bunting, that I never do see Miss Daisy alone," he repeated. "I +hear now that she's going away Monday, and I've only once had the +chance of a walk with her. Mrs. Bunting's very particular, not to +say pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bunting - " + +"That's a fault on the right side, that is - with a young girl," +said Bunting thoughtfully. + +And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as regarded other young +chaps Mrs. Bunting could not be too particular. + +"She's been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has," went on Bunting, +with some pride. "That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of her +sight." + +"I was coming to the old aunt," said Chandler heavily. "Mrs. +Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that +old woman the whole of her natural life - now is that right? That's +what I wants to ask you, Mr. Bunting, - is that right?" + +"I'll say a word to Ellen, don't you fear," said Bunting abstractedly. + +His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap, +to his now constant anxious preoccupation. "You come along +to-morrow," he said, "and I'll see you gets your walk with Daisy. +It's only right you and she should have a chance of seeing one +another without old folk being by; else how's the girl to tell +whether she likes you or not! For the matter of that, you hardly +knows her, Joe - " He looked at the young man consideringly. + +Chandler shook his head impatiently. "I knows her quite as well as +I wants to know her," he said. "I made up my mind the very first +time I see'd her, Mr. Bunting." + +"No! Did you really?" said Bunting. "Well, come to think of it, +I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. +But I hope you'll never want no second, Chandler," + +"God forbid!" said the young man under his breath. And then he +asked, rather longingly, "D'you think they'll be out long now, Mr. +Bunting?" + +And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. "Sit down, sit +down; do!" he said hastily. "I don't believe they'll be very long. +They've only got a little bit of shopping to do." + +And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, "And +how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you're +all just waiting for the next time?" + +"Aye - that's about the figure of it." Chandler's voice had also +changed; it was now sombre, menacing. "We're fair tired of it - +beginning to wonder when it'll end, that we are!" + +"Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master's +like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that. + +"Yes," said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion - a savage, +fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that description that +was circulated put us wrong. I don't believe it was the man that +knocked up against that woman in the fog - no, not one bit I don't. +But I wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it's +a sailor - the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight +or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, +again, I says to myself that it's a butcher, a man from the Central +Market. Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat." + +"Then it don't seem to you possible - ?" (Bunting got up and walked +over to the window.) "You don't take any stock, I suppose, in that +idea some of the papers put out, that the man is" - then he +hesitated and brought out, with a gasp - "a gentleman?" + +Chandler looked at him, surprised. "No," he said deliberately. +"I've made up my mind that's quite a wrong tack, though I knows that +some of our fellows - big pots, too - are quite sure that the fellow +what gave the girl the sovereign is the man we're looking for. You +see, Mr. Bunting, if that's the fact - well, it stands to reason the +fellow's an escaped lunatic; and if he's an escaped lunatic he's got +a keeper, and they'd be raising a hue and cry after him; now, +wouldn't they?" + +"You don't think," went on Bunting, lowering his voice, "that he +could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?" + +" D'you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some +West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that +'ud be have come to pass." He smiled as if the notion was a funny +one. + +"Yes, something o' that sort," muttered Bunting. + +"Well, if your idea's correct, Mr.- Bunting - " + +"I never said 'twas my idea," said Bunting, all in a hurry. + +"Well, if that idea's correct then, 'twill make our task more +difficult than ever. Why, 'twould be looking for a needle in a +field of hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! I don't think it's +anything quite so unlikely as that - not myself I don't." He +hesitated. "There's some of us" - he lowered his voice-" that +hopes he'll betake himself off - The Avenger, I mean - to another +big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There'd be plenty of +work for him to do there," and Chandler chuckled at his own grim +joke. + +And then, to both men's secret relief, for Bunting was now +mortally afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and +his doings, they heard Mrs. Bunting's key in the lock. + +Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young +Chandler was still there. She had feared that when they got home +he would be gone, the more so that Ellen, just as if she was doing +it on purpose, had lingered aggravatingly long over each small +purchase. + +"Here's Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk," +blurted out Bunting. + +"My mother says as how she'd like you to come to tea, over at +Richmond," said Chandler awkwardly, "I just come in to see whether +we could fix it up, Miss Daisy." And Daisy looked imploringly at +her stepmother. + +"D'you mean now - this minute?" asked Mrs. Bunting tartly. + +"No, o' course not" - Bunting broke in hastily. "How you do go on, +Ellen!" + +"What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?" +asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically. + +Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day + - in fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to +see Daisy at all. But he had talked her round. + +"How about Saturday?" suggested Bunting. "That's Daisy's' birthday. +'Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she's +going back to Old Aunt on Monday." + +"I can't go Saturday," said Chandler disconsolately. "I'm on duty +Saturday." + +"Well, then, let it be Sunday," said Bunting firmly. And his wife +looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her +presence. + +"What do you say, Miss Daisy?" said Chandler. + +"Sunday would be very nice," said Daisy demurely. And then, as the +young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy +ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute. + +Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing +of Mrs. Bunting's whispered remark: "When I was a young woman folk +didn't gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to +go to church together, decent-like - " + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Daisy's eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave +her what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth +birthday - a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which +Bunting had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy - +it seemed a long, long time ago now. + +Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but +she was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to +trouble much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generally +had the good sense not to interfere between her husband and his +child. + +In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy +himself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the +last four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed on +his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite +pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden +fruit. + +His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his +nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. +But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him +feel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found himself +starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke +to him suddenly. + +Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting +didn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only +one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly +slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going +out. + +In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above +all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his +acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that +they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his +mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the +knowledge - no, not knowledge, rather the - the suspicion - that +dwelt within him. + +But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing +for human companionship - companionship, that is, other than that +of his wife and of his daughter. + +This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, +populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgeware Road. There were more +people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the +neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The +ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generally +bought his tobacco. + +Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two +fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief and surprise +the man made no allusion to the subject of which all the +neighbourhood must still be talking. + +And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and +before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, +Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that +Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shop +just opposite. + +Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across +the road. + +"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and left my little +girl alone in the house with the lodger? + +Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I thought you was +indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come out +for, without first making sure I'd stay in?" + +Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in +exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew. + +They turned and scurried down the crowded street. "Don't run," he +said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. +People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run." + +He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear +and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. + +At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in +front of his wife. + +After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know how he was +feeling. + +He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment +with his latchkey. + +Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice, +"Daisy, my dear! where are you?" + +"Here I am, father. What is it?" + +"She's all right " Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She's +all right Ellen." + +He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. "It +did give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly, "Don't frighten +the girl, Ellen." + +Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring +herself in the glass. + +"Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round, "I've seen the +lodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, though, to be sure, he does +look a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn't like to go up; and so +he came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nice +little chat - that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and he +asked me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him this +afternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of course, +I could see he was 'centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily. +'And who be you?' he says, threatening-like. And I says to him, +'I'm Mr. Bunting's daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunate +girl ' - that's what he says, Ellen - 'to 'ave such a nice +step-mother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look such +a good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit of the Prayer +Book. 'Keep innocency,' he says, wagging his head at me. Lor'! +It made me feel as if I was with Old Aunt again." + +"I won't have you going out with the lodger - that's flat." + +Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his forehead +with one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the +little packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had +forgotten to pay. + +Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat +on my birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn't a very good day - +at least, so I'd heard - for Madame Tussaud's. Then he said we +could go early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners." +She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He particularly +said you was to come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, +Ellen; if I was father, I'd feel quite jealous!" + +Her last words were cut across by a, tap-tap on the door. + +Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it +possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door +open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had +crept in behind them? + +Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it +was only Mr. Sleuth - Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall +hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but +he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape. + +"I heard you come in " - he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, +whistling, hesitating voice - "and so I've come down to ask you if +you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's now. I have +never seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the place +all my life." + +As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden +doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to +Mr. Sleuth's landlord. + +Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered +gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting +had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be! + +He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, +staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and +cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy +was already putting on her hat and coat. + +"Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed +to his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. "Well?" + +"Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said dully. + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Madame Tussaud's had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. +In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there +part of their afternoon-out. + +The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of +the waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for +"self and lady." But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been +inside the place since she had come to live almost next door, as it +were, to the big building. + +They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after +the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the +first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of +those curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so strangely death +in life, seemed to surprise and affright him. + +Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger's hesitation and unease. + +"Oh, Ellen," she cried, "do let us begin by going into the Chamber +of Horrors! I've never been in there. Old Aunt made father promise +he wouldn't take me the only time I've ever been here. But now that +I'm eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never +know." + +Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over +his worn, gaunt face. + +"Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that's a +good idea, Miss Bunting. I've always wanted to see the Chamber of +Horrors." + +They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were +then kept, and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where +waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. + +Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband's +old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting +the public to the Chamber of Horrors. + +"Well, you are a stranger," the man observed genially. "I do believe +that this is the very first time I've seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, +since you was married!" + +"Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my husband's daughter, +Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this" - she +hesitated a moment - "is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth." + +But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her +stepmother's side, joined him. + +Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. +Bunting put down three sixpences. + +"Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can't go into the Chamber of +Horrors just yet. But you won't have to wait more than four or +five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It's this way, you see; our boss is +in there, showing a party round." He lowered his voice. "It's +Sir John Burney - I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?" + +"No," she answered indifferently, "I don't know that I ever heard +of him." + +She felt slightly - oh, very sightly - uneasy about Daisy. She +would have liked her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and +sound, but Mr. Sleuth was now taking the girl down to the other +end of the room. + +"Well, I hope you never will know him - not in any personal sense, +Mrs. Bunting." The man chuckled. "He's the Commissioner of Police + - the new one - that's what Sir John Burney is. One of the +gentlemen he's showing round our place is the Paris Police boss - +whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John's. The +Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there are several +other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, Mrs. Bunting; that's +our experience here. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors ' - +that's what they say the minute they gets into this here building!" + +Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred to Mr. Hopkins +that she was very wan and tired; she used to look better in the old +days, when she was still in service, before Bunting married her. + +"Yes," she said; "that's just what my stepdaughter said just now. +'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors' - that's exactly what she +did say when we got upstairs." + +****** + +A group of people, all talking and laughing together; were advancing, +from within the wooden barrier, toward the turnstile. + +Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them +was the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be +brought into personal contact; she thought she could pick him out +among the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome gentleman, with +a military appearance. + +Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. +"Monsieur Barberoux is quite right," he was saying in a loud, +cheerful voice, "our English law is too kind to the criminal, +especially to the murderer. If we conducted our trials in the +French fashion, the place we have just left would be very much +fuller than it is to-day. A man of whose guilt we are absolutely +assured is oftener than not acquitted, and then the public taunt +us with 'another undiscovered crime!"' + +"D'you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? +Take the man who has been committing all these awful murders this +last month? I suppose there's no doubt he'll be hanged - if he's +ever caught, that is!" + +Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could hear every word +that was said. + +The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. "Well, no." +He spoke very deliberately. "I doubt if that particular murderer +ever will be hanged." + +"You mean that you'll never catch him?" the girl spoke with a touch +of airy impertinence in her clear voice. + +"I think we shall end by catching him - because" - he waited a moment, +then added in a lower voice - "now don't give me away to a newspaper +fellow, Miss Rose - because now I think we do know who the murderer +in question is - " + +Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and +incredulity. + +"Then why don't you catch him?" cried the girl indignantly. + +"I didn't say we knew where he was; I only said we knew who he was, +or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that I personally have a very +strong suspicion of his identity." + +Sir John's French colleague looked up quickly. "De Leipsic and +Liverpool man?" he said interrogatively. + +The other nodded. "Yes, I suppose you've had the case turned up?" + +Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject +from his own mind, and from that of his auditors, he went on: + +"Four murders of the kind were committed eight years ago - two in +Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, in Liverpool, - and there were +certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear +they were committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, +fortunately for us, red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of +his last victim, for in Liverpool the murder was committed in a +house. I myself saw the unhappy man - I say unhappy, for there is +no doubt at all that he was mad " - he hesitated, and added in a +lower tone-" suffering from an acute form of religious mania. +I myself saw him, as I say, at some length. But now comes the really +interesting point. I have just been informed that a month ago this +criminal lunatic, as we must of course regard him, made his escape +from the asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole +thing with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and we should +probably have caught him long ago, were it not that he managed, when +on his way out of the place, to annex a considerable sum of money +in gold, with which the wages of the asylum staff were about to be +paid. It is owing to that fact that his escape was. very wrongly, +concealed - " + +He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, and a moment +later the party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, +Sir John Burney leading the +way. + +Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt - so she +expressed it to her husband later - as if she had been turned to +stone. + +Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the time nor the power +to warn her lodger of his danger, for Daisy and her companion were +now coming down the room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of +Police. In another moment Mrs. Bunting's lodger and Sir John Burney +were face to face. + +Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible change over +his pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and +terror. + +But, to Mrs. Bunting's relief - yes, to her inexpressible relief + - Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. They passed Mr. Sleuth +and the girl by his side, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that +there was anyone else in the room hut themselves. + +"Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting," said the turnstile-keeper; "you and your +friends will have the place all to yourselves for a bit." From an +official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that +gallantly addressed pretty Daisy Bunting: "It seems strange that a +young lady like you should want to go in and see all those 'orrible +frights," he said jestingly. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?" + +The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth's lips. + +His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. + +"A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting." The lodger's face was still +distorted with fear and passion. "Do not think to escape the +consequences of your hideous treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, +and you betrayed me! Put I am protected by a higher power, for +I still have much to do." Then, his voice sinking to a whisper, he +hissed out "Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a +two-edged sword. Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps +take hold on hell." + +Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, dreadful words, +he was looking round, glancing this way and that, seeking a way of +escape. + +At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed above a +curtain. "Emergency Exit" was written there. Mrs. Bunting thought +he was going to make a dash for the place; but Mr. Sleuth did +something very different. Leaving his landlady's side, he walked +over to the turnstile, he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and +then touched the man on the arm. "I feel ill," he said, speaking +very rapidly; "very ill indeed! It is the atmosphere of this place. +I want you to let me out by the quickest way. It would be a pity +for me to faint here - especially with ladies about." + +His left hand shot out and placed what he had been fumbling for in +his pocket on the other's bare palm. "I see there's an emergency +exit over there. Would it be possible for me to get out that way?" + +"Well, yes, sir; I think so." + +The man hesitated; he felt a slight, a very sight, feeling of +misgiving. He looked at Daisy, flushed and smiling, happy and +unconcerned, and then at Mrs. Bunting. She was very pale; but +surely her lodger's sudden seizure was enough to make her feel +worried. Hopkins felt the half -sovereign pleasantly tickling his +palm. The Paris Prefect of Police had given him only half-a-crown + - mean, shabby foreigner! + +"Yes, sir; I can let you out that way," he said at last, "and p'raps +when you're standing out in the air, on the iron balcony, you'll feel +better. But then, you know, sir, you'll have to come round to the +front if you wants to come in again, for those emergency doors only +open outward." + +"Yes, yes," said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. "I quite understand! If I +feel better I'll come in by the front way, and pay another shilling + - that's only fair." + +"You needn't do that if you'll just explain what happened here." + +The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put his shoulder +against the door. It burst open, and the light, for a moment, +blinded Mr. Sleuth. + +He passed his hand over his eyes. "Thank you," he muttered, "thank +you. I shall get all right out there." + +An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, of which the +door opened into a side street. + +Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did feel very ill - +ill and dazed. How pleasant it would be to take a flying leap over +the balcony railing and find rest, eternal rest, below. + +But no - he thrust the thought the temptation, from him. Again a +convulsive look of rage came over his face. He had remembered his +landlady. How could the woman whom he had treated so generously have +betrayed him to his arch-enemy? - to the official, that is, who had +entered into a conspiracy years ago to have him confined - him, an +absolutely sane man with a great avenging work to do in the world - +in a lunatic asylum. + +He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, falling-to behind +him, blotted out the tall, thin figure from the little group of +people who had watched him disappear. + +Even Daisy felt a little scared. "He did look bad, didn't he, now?" +she turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. + +"Yes, that he did, poor gentleman - your lodger, too?" he looked +sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. + +She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Yes," she repeated dully, +"my lodger." + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her pretty stepdaughter +to step through into the Chamber of Horrors. "I think we ought to +go straight home," said Mr. Sleuth's landlady decidedly. And Daisy +meekly assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a little scared by +the lodger's sudden disappearance. Perhaps this unwonted feeling of +hers was induced by the look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on +her step-mother's face. + +Slowly they made their way out of the building, and when they got +home it was Daisy who described the strange way Mr. Sleuth had been +taken. + +"I don't suppose he'll be long before he comes "home," said Bunting +heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive look at his wife. She +looked as if stricken in a vital part; he saw from her face that +there was something wrong - very wrong indeed. + +The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill at ease. Daisy +knew there was no chance that young Chandler would come in to-day. + +About six o'clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She lit the gas in +Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room and looked about her with a fearful glance. +Somehow everything seemed to speak to her of the lodger, there lay +her Bible and his Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly +as he had left chew, when he had come downstairs and suggested that +ill-starred expedition to his landlord's daughter. She took few +steps forward, listening the while anxiously for the familiar sound +of the click in the door which would tell her that the lodger had +come back, and then she went over to the window and looked out. + +What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, homeless, +friendless, and, as she suspected with a pang, with but very little +money on him! + +Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger's bedroom and opened the +drawer of the looking-glass. + +Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he +had taken his money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he +had enough on his person to secure a good night's lodging, and then +suddenly she remembered that which brought relief to her mind. The +lodger had given something to that Hopkins fellow - either a sovereign +or half a sovereign, she wasn't sure which. + +The memory of Mr. Sleuth's cruel words to her, of his threat, did +not disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake - all a mistake. +Far from betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him - kept his awful +secret as she could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly +suspected, the horrible fact with which Sir John Burney's words had +made her acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no +temporary aberration, but that he was, and had been for years, a +madman, a homicidal maniac. + +In her ears there still rang the Frenchman's half careless yet +confident question, "De Leipsic and Liverpool man?" + +Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room, +and taking a black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the +leaves of the Bible. Then she opened the Book, and looked at the +page the pin had marked: - + +"My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . . +There is none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my +curtains." + +At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and +as she opened the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her +stepmother. + +"I'll go down and start getting the lodger's supper ready for you," +said the girl good-naturedly. "He's certain to come in when he gets +hungry. But he did look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad - +that he did!" + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy +to go down. + +"Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she said sombrely, and +then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which +came over her husband's face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, +of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, +"That's to say, I don't suppose he will." + +And Bunting's face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, +the look it had worn the last few days, returned. + +"What makes you think he mayn't come back?" he muttered. + +"Too long to tell you now," she said. "Wait till the child's gone +to bed." + +And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. + +And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where +she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her +husband to follow her upstairs. + +Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the +door. And about this they had a few sharp whispered words. + +"You're never going to shut him out?" she expostulated angrily, +beneath her breath. + +"I'm not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps +walking in any minute." + +"Mr. Sleuth won't hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt +me," and she gave a half sob. + +Bunting stared at her. "What do you mean?" he said roughly. +"Come upstairs and tell me what you mean." + +And then, in what had been the lodger's sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting +told her husband exactly what it was that had happened. + +He listened in heavy silence. + +"So you see," she said at last, "you see, Bunting, that 'twas me +that was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for +his actions. I never thought he was, for my part." + +And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. "Depends on what you call +responsible - " he began argumentatively. + +But she would have none of that. "I heard the gentleman say myself +that he was a lunatic," she said fiercely. And then, dropping, her +voice, "A religious maniac - that's what he called him." + +"Well, he never seemed so to me," said Bunting stoutly. "He simply +seemed to me 'centric - that's all he did. Not a bit madder than +many I could tell you of." He was walking round the room restlessly, +but he stopped short at last. "And what d'you think we ought to do +now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. "I don't think we ought +to do nothing," she said. "Why should we?" + +And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion +that irritated her. + +"If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he +would get it! And his money, too? I hate to feel it's in there." + +"Don't you make any mistake - he'll come back for that," said Bunting, +with decision. + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. "Now," she said, +"you go off up to bed. It's no use us sitting up any longer." + +And Bunting acquiesced. + +She ran down and got him a bedroom candle - there was no gas in the +little back bedroom upstairs. And then she watched him go slowly up. + +Suddenly he turned and came down again. "Ellen," he said, in an +urgent whisper, "if I was you I'd take the chain off the door, and +I'd lock myself in - that's what I'm going to do. Then he can sneak +in and take his dirty money away. + +Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. Slowly she went +downstairs, and there she carried out half of Bunting's advice. +She took, that is, the chain off the front door. But she did not +go to bed, neither did she lock herself in. She sat up all night, +waiting. At half-past seven she made herself a cup of tea, and +then she went into her bedroom. + +Daisy opened her eyes. + +"Why, Ellen," she said, "I suppose I was that tired, and slept so +sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up - funny, +wasn't it?" + +"Young people don't sleep as light as do old folk's Mrs. Bunting +said sententiously. + +"Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he's upstairs now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head. "It looks as if 'twould be a fine +day for you down at Richmond," she observed in a kindly tone. + +And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. + +****** + +That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler +that their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting +had thought carefully over what they would say, and so well did +they carry out their programme, or, what is more likely, so full +was young Chandler of the long happy day he and Daisy had spent +together, that he took their news very calmly. + +"Gone away, has he?" he observed casually. "Well, I hope he paid +up all right?" + +"Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Bunting hastily. "No trouble of that sort." + +And Bunting said shamefacedly, "Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an +honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such +a poor, gentle chap - not the sort o' man one likes to think of as +wandering about by himself." + +"You always said he was 'centric," said Joe thoughtfully. + +"Yes, he was that," said Bunting slowly. "Regular right-down queer. +Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch," and, as he tapped his +head significantly, both young people burst out laughing. + +"Would you like a description of him circulated?" asked Joe +good-naturedly. + +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another. + +"No, I don't think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. 'Twould upset +him awfully, you see." + +And Joe acquiesced. "You'd be surprised at the number o' people +who disappears and are never heard of again" he said cheerfully. +And then he got up, very reluctantly. + +Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into +the passage, and shut the sitting-room door behind her. + +When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting +in his easy chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round +his neck. + +Then she bent down her head. "Father," she said, "I've a bit of +news for you!" + +"Yes, my dear?" + +"Father, I'm engaged! Aren't you surprised?" + +"Well, what do you think?" said Bunting fondly. Then he turned +round and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss. + +"What'll Old Aunt say, I wonder?" he whispered. + +"Don't you worry about Old Aunt," exclaimed his wife suddenly. +"I'll manage Old Aunt! I'll go down and see her. She and I have +always got on pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, Daisy." + +"Yes," said Daisy a little wonderingly. "I know you have, Ellen." + +****** + +Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many +nights had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click +of the lock which she at once hoped and feared would herald her +lodger's return. + +As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the "Avenger" +murders stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when +a gardener, working in the Regent's Park, found a newspaper in which +was wrapped, together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, +a long, peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though of considerable +interest to the police, was not chronicled in any newspaper, but +about the same time a picturesque little paragraph went the round +of the press concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been +anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about "Old Aunt," +and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in a +more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to +do. She only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks +leave a house in charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to +follow - a remark which Daisy resented much more than did her Joe. + + +Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old +lady, by whom they are feared as well as respected, and whom they +make very comfortable. + + + + + +The Project Gutenberg Etext The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + diff --git a/old/tldgr10.zip b/old/tldgr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d88ff5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tldgr10.zip diff --git a/old/tldgr11.txt b/old/tldgr11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c9f72a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tldgr11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10138 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Lodger + +Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes + +Release Date: December, 1999 [EBook #2014] +[This file was last updated on November 21, 2003] + +Edition: 11 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + + + + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + + + + +The Lodger + +by Marie Belloc Lowndes + + + + +"Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, +and mine acquaintance into darkness." + PSALM lxxxviii. 18 + + + + +CHAPTER I + +Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning, +carefully-banked-up fire. + +The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house +standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare, +was exceptionally clean and well-cared-for. A casual stranger, +more particularly one of a Superior class to their own, on suddenly +opening the door of that sitting-room; would have thought that Mr. +and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of +comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep +leather arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance +what he had been for many years of his life--a self-respecting +man-servant. + +On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed +chair, the marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they +were there all the same--in her neat black stuff dress, and in +her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as +a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid. + +But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn +English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. +Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time--how +long ago it now seemed!--both husband and wife had been proud of +their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was +strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been +bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. + +Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, +drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, +and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. +A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which +covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat +forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair +had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband +to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid +thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had +tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at +it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve +shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping +their arm-chair. + +But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, +much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the +walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded +photographs--photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former +employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had +separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not +unhappy servitude. + +But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than +usually deceitful with regard to these un-fortunate people. In +spite of their good furniture--that substantial outward sign of +respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall +into trouble try to dispose of--they were almost at the end of +their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were +beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober +man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago +by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting--prim, prudent, careful woman +as she was in her way--had realised what this must mean to him. +So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had +crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia. + +Bunting had been touched--touched as he had not been for years by +any woman's thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced +themselves into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in +their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart. + +Fortunately he never guessed--how could he have guessed, with his +slow, normal, rather dull mind?--that his poor Ellen had since +more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha'penny, for they +were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell +on the safe tableland of security--those, that is, who are sure of +making a respectable, if not a happy, living--and the submerged +multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the +conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised, +struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison. + +Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they +belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to +so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours +ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they +belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk +whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving. + +There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought +to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this +woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, +Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two +days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, +and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort +with a cruel, sharp rebuff. + +As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, +they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but +one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This +was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting +had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone +into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too +fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective. + +When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they +both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap +to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to--quite +exciting at times. But now poor Bunting didn't want to hear that +sort of stories--stories of people being cleverly "nabbed," or +stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from Chandler's +point of view, richly deserved. + +But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing +his calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him +--nay, more, he had done that which showed him to have a good and +feeling heart. He had offered his father's old acquaintance a loan, +and Bunting, at last, had taken 30s. Very little of that money +now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few coppers in his pocket; +and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that and the rent they would have to +pay in five weeks, was all they had left. Everything of the light, +portable sort that would fetch money had been said. Mrs. Bunting +had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put her feet in +such a place, and she declared she never would--she would rather +starve first. + +But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual +disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting +valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been +given to him after the death of his first master, a master he had +nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. +There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a large mourning +ring, both gifts of former employers. + +When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure +from the insecure--when they see themselves creeping closer and +closer to its dread edge--they are apt, however loquacious by +nature, to fall into long silences. Bunting had always been a +talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but +then she had always been a silent woman, and that was perhaps one +reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment +he had seen her. + +It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as +butler, and he had been shown, by the man whose place he was to +take, into the dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he +had discovered Ellen Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port +wine which her then mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning. +And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he +had watched her carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into +the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, "That is the woman for +me!" + +But now her stillness, her--her dumbness, had got on the +unfortunate man's nerves. He no longer felt like going into the +various little shops, close by, patronised by him in more prosperous +days, and Mrs. Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases +which still had to be made every day or two, if they were to be +saved from actually starving to death. + +Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there +came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting +outside--boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening +papers. + +Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily +paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And +the paper was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants are +great readers of newspapers. + +As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask +curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him. + +It was a shame--a damned shame--that he shouldn't know what was +happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing +news of what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those +shouts, those hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really +exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for +the moment his own intimate, gnawing troubles. + +He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to +listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused +babel of hoarse shouts, the one clear word "Murder!" + +Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some +sort of connected order. Yes, that was it--"Horrible Murder! +Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting remembered vaguely another murder +which had been committed near St. Pancras--that of an old lady by +her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was +still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among +the class to which he had belonged. + +The newsboys--for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual +thing in the Marylebone Road--were coming nearer and nearer; now +they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they +were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he +could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly "The Avenger! +The Avenger at his work again!" broke on his ear. + +During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had +been committed in London and within a comparatively small area. + +The first had aroused no special interest--even the second had only +been awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a +small paragraph. + +Then had come the third--and with that a wave of keen excitement, +for pinned to the dress of the victim--a drunken woman--had been +found a three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red +ink, and in printed characters, the words, + +"THE AVENGER" + +It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to +investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world +of men and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister +mysteries, that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes; +and before that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into +the public mind there took place yet another murder, and again the +murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some +obscure and terrible lust for vengeance possessed him. + +Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the +man who left their ha'porth of milk at the door each morning had +spoken to Bunting about them that very day. + +****** + +Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild +excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of +weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him. +He felt he could have shaken her! + +Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had +come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had +said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that +she didn't like hearing about such horrid things. + +It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of +pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to +the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories +of immorality or of physical violence. In the old, happy days, +when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper +daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some +exciting "case" or "mystery" which was affording him pleasant mental +relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen. + +But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she +felt. + +Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards +the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his +close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which +a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent. + +But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders +just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, +bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy. + +Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into +the dark hall--they had given up lighting the gas there some time +ago--and opened the front door. + +Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron +gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. +The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he +remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. + +Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, +being sorely tempted--fell. "Give me a Sun," he said roughly, "Sun +or Echo!" + +But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. "Only +penny papers left," he gasped. "What'll yer 'ave, sir?" + +With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny +out of his pocket and took a paper--it was the Evening Standard-- +from the boy's hand. + +Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, +cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful +anticipation. + +Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass +a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, +miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments +of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, +with careworn, troubled Ellen. + +A hot wave of unease almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen +would never have spent that penny on herself--he knew that well +enough--and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so--so drizzly, +he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the +street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread +the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance +would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a +paper, and that well he knew it! + +Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar +voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, "What on earth are you doing +out there, Bunting? Come in--do! You'll catch your death of cold! +I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!" +Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays. + +He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. "I +went out to get a paper," he said sullenly. + +After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money +as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now +both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him--not on Ellen--by +that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done +all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, +so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring. + +He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew +she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and +contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a +very mild, oath--Ellen had very early made it clear she would +have no swearing in her presence--he lit the hall gas full-flare. + +"How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card?" +he shouted angrily. + +And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the +gas, the oblong card, though not the word "Apartments" printed on +it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned +fanlight above the front door. + +Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, +and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little +banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire +for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made +him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, +Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. + +A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. She was not +used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly +upset, was the mildest of men. + +She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible +touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. + +But her hands trembled--they trembled with excitement, with +self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful--dreadful to +have to worry about a penny! But they had come to the point when +one has to worry about pennies. Strange that her husband didn't +realise that. + +Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen +to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by +now, a little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, +and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. + +But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have +liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, +irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the +door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and +--shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably +by the now brightly burning fire, with the Evening Standard spread +out before him--she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her +hands against her temples. + +Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so--so broken as now. Where +was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting +woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading +poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age +which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter +service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed +cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs. +Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any +lodger she might get would require, but that was all. + +Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For +it had been her doing. Bunting bad been like butter in her hands. + +Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. +There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still +pretty well; and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and +that had meant ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of +other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment +which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in +debt--in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a +good-natured former employer. + +After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have +done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up +their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over, with +the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house +in the Marylebone Road. + +In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, +impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is +the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately +take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both +lived in houses overlooking Regent's Park. It had seemed a wise +plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting, +who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection +which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private +parties. + +But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. +Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and +a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. + +And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had +one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had +not asked his wife's permission to do this, as so good a husband +ought to have done. He had just gone out and done it. And she had +not had the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the +money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that +she had bought that last packet of tobacco. + +And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, +there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, +uncertain double knock. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment +listening in the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line +of light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. + +And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double +knock; not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any +good. Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. +No; this must be some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at +all hours, and asked--whining or threatening--for money. + +Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and women +--especially women--drawn from that nameless, mysterious class +made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every +great city. But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the +passage unlit at night she had been very little troubled with that +kind of visitors, those human bats which are attracted by any kind +of light but leave alone those who live in darkness. + +She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting's place +to go to the front door, but she knew far better than he did how +to deal with difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she +would have liked him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed +in his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the bedroom door +opening was to look up and say, "Didn't you hear a knock?" + +Without answering his question she went out into the hall. + +Slowly she opened the front door. + +On the top of the thee steps which led up to the door, there stood +the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an +old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, +perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. +Bunting's trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as +he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with +whom her former employment had brought her in contact. + +"Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?" he asked, and there was +something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. + +"Yes, sir," she said uncertainly--it was a long, long time since +anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they +could think of taking into their respectable house. + +Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger +walked past her, and so into the hall. + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a +narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong +brown leather. + +"I am looking for some quiet rooms," he said; then he repeated the +words, "quiet rooms," in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered +them he looked nervously round him. + +Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully +furnished, and was very clean. + +There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger's weary +feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which +matched in colour the flock-paper on the walls. + +A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior +lodging-house keeper. + +"You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir," she said gently. "And just +now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband +and me, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too +good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a +lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which +recalled to the poor Woman her happy, far-off days of youth and +of security. + +"That sounds very suitable," he said. "Four rooms? Well, perhaps +I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see +all four before I make my choice." + +How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the +gas! But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed +them by. + +She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation +that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom +she already in her mind described as "the lodger," who turned and +rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it. + +"Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry you should have +had the trouble." + +For a moment their eyes met. "It's not safe to leave a front door +open in London," he said, rather sharply. "I hope you do not often +do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in." + +Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken +courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. + +"I assure you, sir, I never lave my front door open," she answered +hastily. "You needn't be at all afraid of that!" + +And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the +sound of Bunting coughing--it was just a little, hard cough, but +Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started violently. + +"Who's that?" he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. +"Whatever was that?" + +"Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes +ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose." + +"Your husband--?" he looked at her intently, suspiciously. "What +--what, may I ask, is your husband's occupation?" + +Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's +occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do +for her to show offence. "He goes out waiting," she said stiffly. +"He was a gentleman's servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you +should you require him to do so." + +And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. + +At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to +herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a +sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door +of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier. + +This, front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little +over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green +carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table +which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the +corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, +old-fashioned chiffonnier. + +On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits +of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, +clipped from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of +these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of +elegance and refinement. + +As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that +she had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the +room a thorough turn-out. + +It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been +left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been +scared into going away by Bunting's rough threats of the police. +But now it was in apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, +of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white +curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied +if this gentleman really took the lodgings. + +But what was this--? The stranger was looking round him rather +dubiously. "This is rather--rather too grand for me," he said at +last "I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er--" + +"--Bunting," she said softly. "Bunting, sir." + +And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and +settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, +after all--or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but +perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman--too poor, that is, to +afford the rent of more than one room, say eight or ten shillings +a week; eight or ten shillings a week would be very little use to +her and Bunting, though better than nothing at all. + +"Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?" + +"No," he said, "no. I think I should like to see what you have +farther up the house, Mrs.--," and then, as if making a prodigious +mental effort, he brought out her name, "Bunting," with a kind of +gasp. + +The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the +drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact +that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had +been taken over their arrangement; in fact, they bad been left in much +the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. + +For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel +sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features +are a sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete +pattern, was fed by a tiresome, shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +It had been the property of the people from whom the Buntings had +taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no +monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they +had left behind. + +What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as +everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a +bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry +that she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. + +To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sensitive, +hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. "Capital! +Capital!" he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he +held at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a +quick, nervous movement. + +"This is just what I have been looking for." He walked with long, +eager strides towards the gas stove. "First-rate--quite first-rate! +Exactly what I wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs.--er-- +Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of +experiments, and I often require the--ah, well, the presence of +great heat." + +He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the +stove. "This, too, will be useful--exceedingly useful, to me," and +he touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing +touch. + +He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare +forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down--wearily. +"I'm tired," he muttered in a low voice, "tired--tired! I've been +walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit +down upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London +streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far +more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Indeed, sir," she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, +she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, +"Then you mean to take my rooms, sir?" + +"This room, certainly," he said, looking round. "This room is +exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last +few days;" and then hastily he added, "I mean this kind of place +is what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would +be surprised if you knew how difficult it is to get anything of +the sort. But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief +--a very, very great relief to me!" + +He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And +then, "Where's my bag?" he asked suddenly, and there came a note of +sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman +standing before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of +fright shoot through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far +away, right down the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a +perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of +the well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like +other people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. "Surely +I had a bag when I came in?" he said in a scared, troubled voice. + +"Here it is, sir," she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it +up and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the +bag was not at all heavy; it was evidently by no means full. + +He took it eagerly from her. "I beg your pardon," he muttered. +"But there is something in that bag which is very precious to me +--something I procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could +never get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. +That must be the excuse for my late agitation." + +"About terms, sir?" she said a little timidly, returning to the +subject which meant so much, so very much to her. + +"About terms?" he echoed. And then there came a pause. "My name +is Sleuth," he said suddenly,--"S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, +Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I could provide you +with a reference--" (he gave her what she described to herself as +a funny, sideways look), "but I should prefer you to dispense with +that, if you don't mind. I am quite willing to pay you--well, shall +we say a month in advance?" + +A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She felt sick with +relief--nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known +till that moment how hungry she was--how eager for--a good meal. +"That would be all right, sir," she murmured. + +"And what are you going to charge me?" There had come a kindly, +almost a friendly note into his voice. "With attendance, mind! I +shall expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if +you can cook, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir," she said. "I am a plain cook. What would you say +to twenty-five shillings a week, sir?" She looked at him +deprecatingly, and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, +"You see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best +of attendance and careful cooking--and my husband, sir--he would +be pleased to valet you." + +"I shouldn't want anything of that sort done for me," said Mr. +Sleuth hastily. "I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used +to waiting on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to +sharing lodgings--" + +She interrupted eagerly, "I could let you have the use of the two +floors for the same price--that is, until we get another lodger. +I shouldn't like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It's +such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir--do your work +and your experiments up here, and then have your meals in the +drawing-room." + +"Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that sounds a good plan. And if I +offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your +not taking another lodger?" + +"Yes," she said quietly. "I'd be very glad only to have you to +wait on, sir." + +"I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? +I don't like to be disturbed while I'm working." + +He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, "I suppose +you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, yes, sir, there's a key--a very nice little key. The people +who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door." +She went over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round +disk had been fitted above the old keyhole. + +He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if +absorbed in thought, "Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will +suit me perfectly. And I'll begin now by paying my first month's +rent in advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is"--he +jerked his head back and stared at his new landlady; for the first +time he smiled, a queer, wry smile--"why, just eight pounds eight +shillings, Mrs. Bunting!" + +He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long +cape-like coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began +putting these down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in +the centre of the room. "Here's five--six--seven--eight--nine +--ten pounds. You'd better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, +for I shall want you to do some shopping for me to-morrow morning. +I met with a misfortune to-day." But the new lodger did not speak +as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. + +"Indeed, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Mrs. Bunting's heart was +going thump--thump--thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy +with relief and joy. + +"Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things +I managed to bring away with me." His voice dropped suddenly. "I +shouldn't have said that," he muttered. "I was a fool to say that!" +Then, more loudly, "Someone said to me, 'You can't go into a +lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn't take you in.' But +you have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I'm grateful for--for the +kind way you have met me--" He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, +and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly +towards her new lodger. + +"I hope I know a gentleman when I see one," she said, with a break +in her staid voice, + +"I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. Bunting." +Again he looked at her appealingly. + +"I expect you'd like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you tell +me what you'd like for supper? We haven't much in the house." + +"Oh, anything'll do," he said hastily. "I don't want you to go out +for me. It's a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a +little bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied." + +"I have a nice sausage," she said hesitatingly. + +It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning +for Bunting's supper; as to herself, she had been going to content +herself with a little bread and cheese. But now--wonderful, almost, +intoxicating thought--she could send Bunting out to get anything +they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort +and good cheer. + +"A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh +meat," he said; "it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, +Mrs. Bunting." + +"Is it indeed, sir?" She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, +"And will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?" + +A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth's +pale face. + +"Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. +I had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer--" + +"So I am, sir, lifelong. And so's Bunting been since we married." +She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such +confidences, that she had made Buntlng abstain very early in their +acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing +that first made her believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense +that he talked to her, in those far-away days of his courting. Glad +she was now that he had taken the pledge as a younger man; but for +that nothing would have kept him from the drink during the bad times +they had gone through. + +And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom +which opened out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. +Bunting's own room just underneath, excepting that everything up +here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better +in quality. + +The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of +content and peace stealing over his worn face. "A haven of rest," +he muttered; and then, "'He bringeth them to their desired haven.' +Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Yes, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone +had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to +set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth's respectability. + +What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one +lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! +Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and +Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the +seaside. + +How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to +London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately +respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible +underworld of men and women who, having, as the phase goes, seen +better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of +petty fraud. + +"I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean +towels," she said, going to the door. + +And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. "Mrs. Bunting "--and as +he spoke he stammered a little--"I--I don't want you to interpret +the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off +your feet for me. I'm accustomed to look after myself." + +And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed--even a +little snubbed. "All right, sir," she said. "I'll only just let +you know when I've your supper ready." + + + +CHAPTER III + +But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy +of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune +which had fallen their way? + +Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. +In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still +her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of +emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling "making a fuss." + +Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment +looking at her husband's bent back, and she realised, with a pang +of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him. + +Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He +put the paper he had been holding down on to the table: "Well," he +said, "well, who was it, then?" + +He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have +answered the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard +murmurs. + +And then in a moment his wife's hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns +fell in a little clinking heap on the table. + +"Look there!" she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her +voice. "Look there, Bunting!" + +And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. + +He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion +that his wile had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this +ten pounds represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that +were so, then it was the beginning of the end. That furniture in +the first-floor front had cost--Ellen had reminded him of the fact +bitterly only yesterday--seventeen pounds nine shillings, and +every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she had +only got ten pounds for it. + +Yet he hadn't the heart to reproach her. + +He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that +troubled, rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought +had happened. + +"We've a new lodger!" she cried. "And--and, Bunting? He's quite +the gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance, at +two guineas a week." + +"No, never!" + +Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, +fascinated by the little heap of gold. "But there's ten sovereigns +here," he said suddenly. + +"Yes, the gentleman said I'd have to buy some things for him +to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he's so well spoken, I really felt +that--I really felt that--" and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step +or two sideways, sat down, and throwing her little black apron over +her face burst into gasping sobs. + +Bunting patted her back timidly. "Ellen?" he said, much moved by her +agitation, "Ellen? Don't take on so, my dear--" + +"I won't," she sobbed, "I--I won't! I'm a fool--I know I am! +But, oh, I didn't think we was ever going to have any luck again!" + +And then she told him--or rather tried to tell him--what the +lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing +she did impress on her husband's mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was +eccentric, as so many clever people are eccentric--that is, in a +harmless way--and that he must be humoured. + +"He says he doesn't want to be waited on much," she said at last +wiping her eyes, "but I can see he will want a good bit of looking +after, all the same, poor gentleman." + +And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound +of a loud ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled +again and again. + +Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. "I think I'd better go up, eh, +Ellen?" he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. +For the matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something +again. + +"Yes," she answered, "you go up! Don't keep him waiting! I wonder +what it is he wants? I said I'd let him know when his supper was +ready." + +A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on +his face. "Whatever d'you think he wanted?" he whispered +mysteriously. And as she said nothing, he went on, "He's asked me +for the loan of a Bible!" + +"Well, I don't see anything so out of the way in that," she said +hastily, "'specially if he don't feel well. I'll take it up to him." + +And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, +Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her +as a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had +lived for several years. + +"He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper," said +Bunting; and, then, "Ellen? He's a queer-looking cove--not like +any gentleman I ever had to do with." + +"He is a gentleman," said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. + +"Oh, yes, that's all right." But still he looked at her doubtfully. +"I asked him if he'd like me to just put away his clothes. But, +Ellen, he said he hadn't got any clothes!" + +"No more he hasn't;" she spoke quickly, defensively. "He had the +misfortune to lose his luggage. He's one dishonest folk 'ud take +advantage of." + +"Yes, one can see that with half an eye," Buntlng agreed. + +And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting +put down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband +to go out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with +a sovereign. "Be as quick as you can," she said, "for I feel a bit +hungry. I'll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth's supper. +He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I'm glad I've never +fallen to bad eggs!" + +"Sleuth," echoed Bunting, staring at her. "What a queer name! +How d'you spell it--S-l-u-t-h?" + +"No," she shot out, "S-l-e--u--t--h." + +"Oh," he said doubtfully. + +"He said, 'Think of a hound and you'll never forget my name,'" +and Mrs. Bunting smiled. + +When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: "We'll now be able +to pay young Chandler back some o' that thirty shillings. I am +glad." She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. + +And then each went about his and her business--Bunting out into +the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. + +The lodger's tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and +daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. + +Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly +remembered Mr. Sleuth's request for a Bible. Putting the tray down +in the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; +but when back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it +was worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she +could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and +taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. + +But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth's +landlady opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped +the tray. She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy +thud to the ground. + +The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the +early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, +with their faces to the wall! + +For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the +tray down on the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It +troubled her that the Book should have fallen to the ground; but +really she hadn't been able to help it--it was mercy that the +tray hadn't fallen, too. + +Mr. Sleuth got up. "I--I have taken the liberty to arrange the +room as I should wish it to be," he said awkwardly. "You see, +Mrs.--er--Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women's eyes +followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave +me quite an eerie feeling." + +The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the +table. She made no answer to her lodger's remark, for the good +reason that she did not know what to say. + +Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a +long pause, he spoke again. + +"I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting," he spoke with some agitation. +"As a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about +me for a long time." And then, at last his landlady answered him, +in a composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. +"I quite understand, sir. And when Bunting comes in he shall take +the pictures all down. We have plenty of space in our own rooms +for them." + +"Thank you--thank you very much." + +Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. + +"And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I understood you wanted +the loan of it?" + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; and then, rousing +himself, he said, "Yes, yes, I do. There is no reading like the Book. +There is something there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of +body too--" + +"Very true, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting, having laid out what really +looked a very appetising little meal, turned round and quietly shut +the door. + +She went down straight into her sitting-room and waited there for +Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen to clear up. And as she +did so there came to her a comfortable recollection, an incident of +her long-past youth, in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had +maided a dear old lady. + +The old lady had a favourite nephew--a bright, jolly young gentleman, +who was learning to paint animals in Paris. And one morning Mr. +Algernon--that was his rather peculiar Christian name--had had the +impudence to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings +done by the famous Mr. Landseer! + +Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as if they had only +occurred yesterday, and yet she had not thought of them for years. + +It was quite early; she had come down--for in those days maids +weren't thought so much of as they are now, and she slept with the +upper housemaid, and it was the upper housemaid's duty to be down +very early--and, there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. +Algernon engaged in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, his +aunt thought all the world of those pictures, and Ellen had felt +quite concerned, for it doesn't do for a young gentleman to put +himself wrong with a kind aunt. + +"Oh, sir," she had exclaimed in dismay, "whatever are you doing?" +And even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had +answered, "I am doing my duty, fair Helen"--he had always called +her "fair Helen" when no one was listening. "How can I draw ordinary +animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all the +time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?" That was +what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what +he repeated in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when +that dear old lady had come downstairs. In fact he had declared, +quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted by Mr. Landseer +put his eye out! + +But his aunt had been very much annoyed--in fact, she had made him +turn the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he +just had to put up with what he called "those half-human monsters." +Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth's +odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her +long-gone youth. It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so +strange as he appeared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did +not tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told herself +that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the +pictures in the drawing-room herself. + +But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's landlady +went upstairs to dear away, and when on the staircase she heard the +sound of--was it talking, in the drawing-room? Startled, she +waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then +she realised that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. +There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on +her listening ears: + +"A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth in wait as for +a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men." + +She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, +and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, +sing-song voice, "Her house is the way to hell, going down to +the chambers of death." + +It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she summoned up +courage, knocked, and walked in. + +"I'd better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said. And Mr. Sleuth +nodded. + +Then he got up and dosed the Book. "I think I'll go to bed now," +he said. "I am very, very tired. I've had a long and a very +weary day, Mrs. Bunting." + +After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed +up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. +Sleuth. Each left an unsightly mark on the wall--but that, after +all, could not be helped. + +Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried +them down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had +felt for a very, very long time. + +For just one moment she could not think why she felt so different +--and then she suddenly remembered. + +How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just over her head, +lay, in the well-found bed she had bought with such satisfaction at +an auction held in a Baker Street house, a lodger who was paying two +guineas a week! Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth would +be "a permanency." In any case, it wouldn't be her fault if he +wasn't. As to his--his queerness, well, there's always something +funny in everybody. But after she had got up, and as the morning +wore itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there +came no sound at all from the new lodger's rooms. At twelve, +however, the drawing-room bell rang. Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. +She was painfully anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His +coming had only been in the nick of time to save them from terrible +disaster. + +She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was sitting at the +round table which occupied the middle of the sitting-room, and his +landlady's large Bible lay open before him. + +As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was troubled to see +how tired and worn he seemed. + +"You did not happen," he asked, "to have a Concordance, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She shook her head; she had no idea what a Concordance could be, +but she was quite sure that she had nothing of the sort about. + +And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what it was he +desired her to buy for him. She had supposed the bag he had +brought with him to contain certain little necessaries of +civilised life--such articles, for instance, as a comb and brush, +a set of razors, a toothbrush, to say nothing of a couple of +nightshirts--but no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth +required all these things to be bought now. + +After having cooked him a nice breakfast Mrs. Bunting hurried +out to purchase the things of which he was in urgent need. + +How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in her purse +again--not only someone else's' money, but money she was now in +the very act of earning so agreeably. + +Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber's shop close by. +It was there she purchased the brush and comb and the razors. It +was a funny, rather smelly little place, and she hurried as much as +she could, the more so that the foreigner who served her insisted +on telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this +Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours before, and +in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. + +The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn't want to think of +anything painful or disagreeable on such a day as this. + +Then she came back and showed the lodger her various purchases. Mr. +Sleuth was pleased with everything, and thanked her most courteously. +But when she suggested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked +quite put out. + +"Please wait till this evening," he said hastily. "It is my custom +to stay at home all day. I only care to walk about the streets when +the lights are lit. You must bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem +a little, just a little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed +to. And I must ask you to understand that I must not be disturbed +when thinking out my problems--" He broke off short, sighed, then +added solemnly, "for mine are the great problems of life and death." + +And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. In spite of her +prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth's landlady was a true woman +--she had, that is, an infinite patience with masculine vagaries +and oddities. + + +When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth's landlady met with a +surprise; but it was quite a pleasant surprise. While she had +been upstairs, talking to the lodger, Bunting's young friend, Joe +Chandler, the detective, had come in, and as she walked into the +sitting-room she saw that her husband was pushing half a sovereign +across the table towards Joe. + +Joe Chandler's fair, good-natured face was full of satisfaction: +not at seeing his money again, mark you, but at the news Bunting +had evidently been telling him--that news of the sudden wonderful +change in their fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. + +"Mr. Sleuth don't want me to do his bedroom till he's gone out!" +she exclaimed. And then she sat down for a bit of a rest. + +It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating his good +breakfast? and there was no need to think of him for the present. +In a few minutes she would be going down to make her own and +Bunting's dinner, and she told Joe Chandler that he might as well +stop and have a bite with them. + +Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunting was in a mood +which seldom surprised her--a mood to be pleased with anything +and everything. Nay, more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler +about the last of those awful Avenger murders, she even listened +with a certain languid interest to all he had to say. + +In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that +very day three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery +which was now beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London, +West and East, North and South. Bunting had read out little bits +about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself +Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. + +"They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They do say, Joe, that +the police have a clue they won't say nothing about?" He looked +expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was +attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police +invested the young man with a kind of sinister glory--especially +just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amazing and +terrifying the town. + +"Them who says that says wrong," answered Chandler slowly, and a +look of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face. +"'Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a clue." + +And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, Joe?" she said, +smiling indulgently; the young man's keenness about his work pleased +her. And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took +his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. + +"Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day I'm on this +business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard's nettled--that's +what it is, and we're all on our mettle--that we are. I was right +down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty in the street +where the last one happened--" + +"No!" said Bunting incredulously. "You don't mean there was a +policeman there, within a few yards?" + +That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper. + +Chandler nodded. "That's exactly what I do mean, Mr. Bunting! The +man is near off his head, so I'm told. He did hear a yell, so he +says, but he took no notice--there are a good few yells in that +part o' London, as you can guess. People always quarrelling and +rowing at one another in such low parts." + +"Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes +his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly. + +Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those +three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims' skirts, +on which was roughly written in red ink and in printed characters +the words "The Avenger." + +His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his +elbows on the table, and stared across expectantly at the young man. + +"Yes, I have," said Joe briefly. + +"A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting laughed; the notion +struck him as downright comic. + +But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make a joke about," +she said reprovingly. + +And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said feelingly. "I'll +never forget what I've been made to see over this job. And as for +that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting--or, rather, those grey bits of +paper"--he corrected himself hastily--"you know they've three of +them now at the Yard--well, they gives me the horrors!" + +And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I oughtn't to be +wasting my time in pleasant company--" + +"Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs. Bunting +solicitously. + +But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I had a bite +before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you know. A +lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't leave us +much time for lazing about, I can tell you." + +When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate +carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London +again soon?" + +Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very +fond of his only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. "No," +he said, "I'm afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, +keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite +put about that week the child was up with us last June." + +"Indeed? Well, so long!" + +After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully, +"Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?" + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly +dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting's +daughter was being managed by that old aunt of hers--an idle, +good-for-nothing way, very different from the fashion in which +she herself had been trained at the Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting +as a little child bad known no other home, no other family than +those provided by good Captain Coram. + +"Joe Chandler's too sensible a young chap to be thinking of girls +yet awhile," she said tartly. + +"No doubt you're right," Bunting agreed. "Times be changed. In my +young days chaps always had time for that. 'Twas just a notion that +came into my head, hearing him asking, anxious-like, after her." + +****** + +About five o'clock, after the street lamps were well alight, Mr. +Sleuth went out, and that same evening there came two parcels +addressed to his landlady. These parcels contained clothes. But +it was quite clear to Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new +clothes. In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good +second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for a real gentleman like +Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had given up all hope of +getting back his lost luggage. + +When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his bag with him, of +that Mrs. Bunting was positive. And yet, though she searched high +and low for it, she could not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept +it. And at last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed +woman, with a good memory, she would have been disposed to think +that the bag had never existed, save in her imagination. + +But no, she could not tell herself that! She remembered exactly +how it had looked when Mr. Sleuth had first stood, a strange, +queer-looking figure of a man, on her doorstep. + +She further remembered how he had put the bag down on the floor of +the top front room, and then, forgetting what he had done, how he +had asked her eagerly, in a tone of angry fear, where the bag was +--only to find it safely lodged at his feet! + +As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag, +for, strange and amazing fact, she never saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again. +But, of course, she soon formed a theory as to its whereabouts. +The brown leather bag which had formed Mr. Sleuth's only luggage +the afternoon of his arrival was almost certainly locked up in the +lower part of the drawing-room chiffonnier. Mr. Sleuth evidently +always carried the key of the little corner cupboard about his +person; Mrs. Bunting had also had a good hunt for that key, but, +as was the case with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never +saw either the one or the other again. + + + +CHAPTER V + +How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped the next few +days. Already life was settling down into a groove. Waiting on +Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. Bunting could manage to do easily, +and without tiring herself. + +It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred to be waited +on only by one person, and that person his landlady. He gave her +very little trouble. Indeed, it did her good having to wait on the +lodger; it even did her good that he was not like other gentlemen; +for the fact occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. The +more so that whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had none of those +tiresome, disagreeable ways with which landladies are only too +familiar, and which seem peculiar only to those human beings who +also happen to be lodgers. To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did +not ask to be called unduly early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen +into the way of lying rather late in the morning, and it was a great +comfort not to have to turn out to make the lodger a cup of tea at +seven, or even half-past seven. Mr. Sleuth seldom required anything +before eleven. + +But odd he certainly was. + +The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth had brought in +a book of which the queer name was Cruden's Concordance. That and +the Bible--Mrs. Bunting had soon discovered that there was a +relation between the two books--seemed to be the lodger's only +reading. He spent hours each day, generally after he had eaten +the breakfast which also served for luncheon, poring over the Old +Testament and over that, strange kind of index to the Book. + +As for the delicate and yet the all-important question of money, +Mr. Sleuth was everything--everything that the most exacting +landlady could have wished. Never had there been a more confiding +or trusting gentleman. On the very first day he had been with them +he had allowed his money--the considerable sum of one hundred and +eighty-four sovereigns--to lie about wrapped up in little pieces +of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing-table. That had quite +upset Mrs. Bunting. She had allowed herself respectfully to point +out to him that what he was doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But +as only answer he had laughed, and she had been startled when the +loud, unusual and discordant sound had issued from his thin lips. + +"I know those I can trust," he had answered, stuttering rather, as +was his way when moved. "And--and I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that +I hardly have to speak to a human being--especially to a woman" +(and he had drawn in his breath with a hissing sound) "before I +know exactly what manner of person is before me." + +It hadn't taken the landlady very long to find out that her lodger +had a queer kind of fear and dislike of women. When she was doing +the staircase and landings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading +aloud to himself passages in the Bible that were very uncomplimentary +to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very great opinion of her sister +woman, so that didn't put her out. Besides, where one's lodger is +concerned, a dislike of women is better than--well, than the other +thing. + +In any case, where would have been the good of worrying about the +lodger's funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric. If he +hadn't been, as Bunting funnily styled it, "just a leetle touched +upstairs," he wouldn't be here, living this strange, solitary life +in lodgings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way +with some of his relatives, or with a friend of his own class. + +There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back--as even the +least imaginative of us are apt to look back to any part of our +own past lives which becomes for any reason poignantly memorable +--wondered how soon it was that she had discovered that her +lodger was given to creeping out of the house at a time when +almost all living things prefer to sleep. + +She brought herself to believe--but I am inclined to doubt whether +she was right in so believing--that the first time she became aware +of this strange nocturnal habit of Mr. Sleuth's happened to be +during the night which preceded the day on which she had observed a +very curious circumstance. This very curious circumstance was the +complete disappearance of one of Mr. Sleuth's three suits of clothes. + +It always passes my comprehension how people can remember, over any +length of time, not every moment of certain happenings, for that is +natural enough, but the day, the hour, the minute when these +happenings took place! Much as she thought about it afterwards, +even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind whether it was during +the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth's stay under her roof +that she became aware that he had gone out at two in the morning and +had only come in at five. + +But that there did come such a night is certain--as certain as is +the fact that her discovery coincided with various occurrences +which were destined to remain retrospectively memorable. + +****** + +It was intensely dark, intensely quiet--the darkest quietest hour +of the night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting was awakened from a deep, +dreamless sleep by sounds at once unexpected and familiar. She +knew at once what those sounds were. They were those made by Mr. +Sleuth, first coming down the stairs, and walking on tiptoe--she +was sure it was on tiptoe--past her door, and finally softly +shutting the front door behind him. + +Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impossible to go to +sleep again. There she lay wide awake, afraid to move lest Bunting +should waken up too, till she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, +creep back into the house and so up to bed. + +Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the morning she +felt very tired, so tired indeed, that she had been very glad when +Bunting good-naturedly suggested that he should go out and do their +little bit of marketing. + +The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in the matter of +catering it was not altogether an easy matter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, +and that though he always tried to appear pleased. This perfect +lodger had one serious fault from the point of view of those who +keep lodgings. Strange to say, he was a vegetarian. He would not +eat meat in any form. He sometimes, however, condescended to a +chicken, and when he did so condescend he generously intimated that +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were welcome to a share in it. + +Now to-day--this day of which the happenings were to linger in Mrs. +Bunting's mind so very long, and to remain so very vivid, it had +been arranged that Mr. Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, +while what he left was to be "done up" to serve for his simple supper. + +Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an hour, for he was +a gregarious soul, and liked to have a gossip in the shops he +frequented, Mrs. Bunting rose and dressed in a leisurely manner; +then she went and "did" her front sitting-room. + +She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after a broken +night, and it was a comfort to her to know that Mr. Sleuth was not +likely to ring before twelve. + +But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged through the +quiet house. She knew it for the front door bell. + +Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened one of those +tiresome people who come round for old, bottles and such-like +fal-lals. + +She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then her face cleared, +for it was that good young chap, Joe Chandler, who stood waiting +outside. + +He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked over-quickly +through the moist, foggy air. + +"Why, Joe?" said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. "Come in--do! Bunting's +out, but he won't be very long now. You've been quite a stranger +these last few days." + +"Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting--" + +She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Then, +suddenly she remembered. Why, of course, Joe was on a big job just +now--the job of trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had +alluded to the fact again and again when reading out to her little +bits from the halfpenny evening paper he was taking again. + +She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good thing Bunting +had insisted on lighting the fire before he went out, for now the +room was nice and warm--and it was just horrible outside. She had +felt a chill go right through her as she had stood, even for that +second, at the front door. + +And she hadn't been alone to feel it, for, "I say, it is jolly to +be in here, out of that awful cold!" exclaimed Chandler, sitting +down heavily in Bunting's easy chair. + +And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the young man was tired, +as well as cold. He was pale, almost pallid under his usual healthy, +tanned complexion--the complexion of the man who lives much out of +doors. + +"Wouldn't you like me just to make you a cup of tea?" she said +solicitously. + +"Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful for one, Mrs. +Bunting!" Then he looked round, and again he said her name, "Mrs. +Bunting--?" + +He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. "Yes, +what is it, Joe?" she asked. And then, in sudden terror, "You've +never come to tell me that anything's happened to Bunting? He's +not had an accident?" + +"Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But--but, Mrs. +Bunting, there's been another of them!" + +His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with +unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, eyes. + +"Another of them?" She looked at him, bewildered--at a loss. +And then what he meant flashed across her--"another of them" +meant another of these strange, mysterious, awful murders. + +But her relief for the moment was so great--for she really had +thought for a second that he had come to give her ill news of +Bunting--that the feeling that she did experience on hearing +this piece of news was actually pleasurable, though she would +have been much shocked had that fact been brought to her notice. + +Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested +in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination +of the whole of London's nether-world. Even her refined mind had +busied itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem +so frequently presented to it by Bunting--for Bunting, now that they +were no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in +"The Avenger" and his doings. + +She took the kettle off the gas-ring. "It's a pity Bunting isn't +here," she said, drawing in her breath. "He'd a-liked so much to +hear you tell all about it, Joe." + +As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. + +But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. "Why, +you do look bad!" she exclaimed. + +And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad--very bad indeed. + +"I can't help it," he said, with a kind of gasp. "It was your +saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn +queer. You see, this time I was one of the first there, and it +fairly turned me sick--that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. +Bunting! Don't talk of it." + +He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. + +She looked at him with sympathetic interest. "Why, Joe," she said, +"I never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, +that anything could upset you like that." + +"This isn't like anything there's ever been before," he said. "And +then--then--oh, Mrs. Bunting, 'twas I that discovered the piece of +paper this time." + +"Then it is true," she cried eagerly. "It is The Avenger's bit of +paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in that +practical joker." + +"I did," said Chandler reluctantly. "You see, there are some queer +fellows even--even--" (he lowered his voice, and looked round him +as if the walls had ears)--"even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and +these murders have fair got on our nerves." + +"No, never!" she said. "D'you think that a Bobby might do a thing +like that?" + +He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn't worth answering. +Then, "It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while +the poor soul was still warm,"--he shuddered--"that brought me out +West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince +Albert Terrace, and I had to go and tell him all about it. They +never offered me a bit or a sup--I think they might have done that, +don't you, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Yes," she said absently. "Yes, I do think so." + +"But, there, I don't know that I ought to say that," went on Chandler. +"He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to +me while I was telling him." + +"Have a bit of something now?" she said suddenly. + +"Oh, no, I couldn't eat anything," he said hastily. "I don't feel +as if I could ever eat anything any more." + +"That'll only make you ill." Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, +for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite +out of the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him. + +"I expect you're right," he said. "And I've a goodish heavy day +in front of me. Been up since four, too--" + +"Four?" she said. "Was it then they found--" she hesitated a +moment, and then said, "it?" + +He nodded. "It was just a chance I was near by. If I'd been half +a minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have +knocked up against that--that monster. But two or three people +do think they saw him slinking away." + +"What was he like?" she asked curiously. + +"Well, that's hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful +fog. But there's one thing they all agree about. He was carrying +a bag--" + +"A bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. "Whatever sort of +bag might it have been, Joe?" + +There had come across her--just right in her middle, like--such a +strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering. + +She was at a loss to account for it, + +"Just a hand-bag," said Joe Chandler vaguely. "A woman I spoke to +--cross-examining her, like--who was positive she had seen him, +said, 'Just a tall, thin shadow--that's what he was, a tall, thin +shadow of a man--with a bag."' + +"With a bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. "How very strange +and peculiar--" + +"Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does +the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. We've always wondered how +he hid it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you +know." + +"Do they, indeed?" Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, wondering +way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the +lodger had done with his bag. It was possible--in fact, when one +came to think of it, it was very probable--that he had just lost +it, being so forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone +out, as she knew he was fond of doing, into the Regent's Park. + +"There'll be a description circulated in an hour or two," went on +Chandler. "Perhaps that'll help catch him. There isn't a London +man or woman, I don't suppose, who wouldn't give a good bit to lay +that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now." + +"Won't you wait a bit longer for Bunting?" she said hesitatingly. + +"No, I can't do that. But I'll come in, maybe, either this evening +or to-morrow, and tell you any more that's happened. Thanks kindly +for the tea. It's made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Well, you've had enough to unman you, Joe." + +"Aye, that I have," he said heavily. + +A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had +quite a little tiff--the first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth +became their lodger. + +It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting +was angry that Mrs. Bunting hadn't got more details of the horrible +occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler. + +"You don't mean to say, Ellen, that you can't even tell me where it +happened?" he said indignantly. "I suppose you put Chandler off +--that's what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, +excepting to tell us all about it?" + +"He came to have something to eat and drink," snapped out Mrs. +Bunting. "That's what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. +He could hardly speak of it at all--he felt so bad. In fact, he +didn't say a word about it until he'd come right into the room and +sat down. He told me quite enough!" + +"Didn't he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had +written his name was square or three-cornered?" demanded Bunting. + +"No; he did not. And that isn't the sort of thing I should have +cared to ask him." + +"The more fool you!" And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys +were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful +discovery which had been made that morning--that of The Avenger's +fifth murder. Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took +the things he had brought in down to the kitchen. + +The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened +Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadn't been in the kitchen ten minutes +before his bell rang. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Mr. Sleuth's bell rang again. + +Mr. Sleuth's breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since +he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at +once. But when there came the second imperative tinkle--for +electric hells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned house-- +she made up her mind to go upstairs. + +As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, +sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wile stepping heavily +under the load of the well-laden tray. + +"Wait a minute!" he called out. "I'll help you, Ellen," and he came +out and took the tray from her. + +She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room +floor landing. + +There she stopped him. "Here," she whispered quickly, "you give me +that, Bunting. The lodger won't like your going in to him." And +then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she +added in a rather acid tone, "You might open the door for me, at +any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on +my hands?" + +She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised--rather +put out. Ellen wasn't exactly what you'd call a lively, jolly woman, +but when things were going well--as now--she was generally equable +enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had +spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder. + +However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, +and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked +into the room. + +And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, +of lightness of heart. + +As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible. + +Somehow--she could not have told you why, she would not willingly +have told herself--she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking +different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the same--in fact, +as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up +his thin, pallid face. + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting," he said genially, "I overslept myself this +morning, but I feel all the better for the rest." + +"I'm glad of that, sir," she answered, in a low voice. "One of the +ladies I once lived with used to say, 'Rest is an old-fashioned +remedy, but it's the best remedy of all." + +Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden's Concordance off +the table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady +laying the cloth. + +Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the +morning. "I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you +outside the door just now?" + +"Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray." + +"I'm afraid I give you a good deal of trouble," he said hesitatingly. + +But she answered quickly, "Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was +only saying yesterday that we've never had a lodger that gave us as +little trouble as you do, sir." + +"I'm glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar." + +He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of +denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and +truthful woman. It never occurred to her to question his statement. +Mr. Sleuth's habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at +night, or rather in the early morning, for instance? So she remained +silent. + +After she had laid the lodger's breakfast on the table she prepared +to leave the room. "I suppose I'm not to do your room till you goes +out, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. "No, no!" he said. "I never +want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. +Bunting. But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a +somewhat elaborate experiment--upstairs. If I go out at all" he +waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly "--I shall wait +till night-time to do so." And then, coming back to the matter in +hand, he added hastily, "Perhaps you could do my room when I go +upstairs, about five o'clock--if that time is convenient to you, +that is?" + +"Oh, yes, sir! That'll do nicely!" + +Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself +wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face--even in her +inmost heart--the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken +her. She only repeated to herself again and again, "I've got upset +--that's what I've done," and then she spoke aloud, "I must get +myself a dose at the chemist's next time I'm out. That's what I +must do." + +And just as she murmured the word "do," there came a loud double +knock on the front door. + +It was only the postman's knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar +visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was +nervous, that's what was the matter with her,--so she told herself +angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must +have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All +gentlefolk have. But when she picked the small envelope off the +hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husband's daughter. + +"Bunting!" she called out sharply. "Here's a letter for you." + +She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there +was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading +a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting +felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing +nothing--in fact, doing worse than nothing--wasting his time +reading all about those horrid crimes. + +She sighed--a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into +idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she +prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man +when they had first made acquaintance. . . + +She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, +that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland +Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of +port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a +good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking +fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had +appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as +butler! + +To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past +rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat. + +Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed +the door softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various +little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to +cook. And all the time she was down there she fixed her mind +obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting. +She wondered what she'd better do to get him into good ways again. + +Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A +week ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if +nothing could save them from disaster. But everything was now +changed! + +Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor +of that registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed +hands. It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an +occasional job--for the matter of that he could now take up a +fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that +it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has acquired +those ways. + +When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of +what she had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid +it very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table. + +"Ellen?" he cried eagerly, "here's news! Daisy's coming to-morrow! +There's scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she'd better +come away for a few days. So, you see, she'll be here for her +birthday. Eighteen, that's what she be on the nineteenth! It do +make me feel old--that it do!" + +Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. "I can't have the girl here just +now," she said shortly. "I've just as much to do as I can manage. +The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for." + +"Rubbish!" he said sharply. "I'll help you with the lodger. It's +your own fault you haven't had help with him before. Of course, +Daisy must come here. Whatever other place could the girl go to?" + +Bunting felt pugnacious--so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted. +But as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction +vanished. Ellen's face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill +--ill and horribly tired. It was very aggravating of her to go and +behave like this--just when they were beginning to get on nicely +again. + +"For the matter of that," he said suddenly, "Daisy'll be able to help +you with the work, Ellen, and she'll brisk us both up a bit." + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily at the table. +And then she said languidly, "You might as well show me the girl's +letter." + +He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself. + +"DEAR FATHER (it ran)--I hope this finds you as well at it leaves +me. Mrs. Puddle's youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks +I had better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few +days. Please tell Ellen I won't give her no trouble. I'll start +at ten if I don't hear nothing.--Your loving daughter, + + +"Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here," Mrs. Bunting slowly. +"It'll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life." + +And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content +himself. + +****** + +Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. +Sleuth's landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She +remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room. + +He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things +about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. +No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the +various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first +two days he had been there, were carefully arranged in the chest +of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he +had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes +with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first +day that he never wished them to go down to be cleaned. + +A funny idea--a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after +midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were +glad to be at home, snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself +admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman. + +After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the +sitting-room and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept +quite as nice as she would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting +longed to give the drawing-room something of a good turn out; but +Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself +was in his bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. +Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he only used +it when making his mysterious experiments, and never during the +day-time. + +And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with +longing eyes--she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture +a slight shake. If only the doors would fly open, as the locked +doors of old cupboards sometimes do, even after they have been +securely fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more +comfortable somehow she would feel! + +But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. + +****** + +About eight o'clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just +for a few minutes' chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the +morning, but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting +listened in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself, while +he and Bunting talked. + +"Yes," he said, "I'm as right as a trivet now! I've had a good rest +--laid down all this afternoon. You see, the Yard thinks there's +going to be something on to-night. He's always done them in pairs." + +"So he has," exclaimed Hunting wonderingly. "So he has! Now, I +never thought o' that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster'll be +on the job again to-night?" + +Chandler nodded. "Yes. And I think there's a very good chance of +his being caught too--" + +"I suppose there'll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?" + +"I should think there will be! How many of our men d'you think +there'll be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?" + +Bunting shook his head. "I don't know," he said helplessly. + +"I mean extra," suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice. + +"A thousand?" ventured Bunting. + +"Five thousand, Mr. Bunting." + +"Never!" exclaimed Bunting, amazed. + +And even Mrs. Bunting echoed "Never!" incredulously. + +"Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!" +Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. "Just +listen to this: + +"'The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to +the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any +surprise at the information that a popular attack has been organised +on the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even +talk of an indignation mass meeting.' + +"What d'you think of that? That's not a pleasant thing for a +gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?" + +"Well, it does seem queer that the police can't catch him, now +doesn't it?" said Bunting argumentatively. + +"I don't think it's queer at all," said young Chandler crossly. +"Now you just listen again! Here's a bit of the truth for once-- +in a newspaper." And slowly he read out: + +"'The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind +man's buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes +bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through +the slums of a great city."' + +"Whatever does that mean?" said Bunting. "Your hands aren't tied, +and your eyes aren't bandaged, Joe?" + +"It's metaphorical-like that it's intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven't +got the same facilities--no, not a quarter of them--that the +French 'tecs have." + +And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: "What was that +word, Joe--'perpetrators'? I mean that first bit you read out." + +"Yes," he said, turning to her eagerly. + +"Then do they think there's more than one of them?" she said, and +a look of relief came over her thin face. + +"There's some of our chaps thinks it's a gang," said Chandler. +"They say it can't be the work of one man." + +"What do you think, Joe?" + +"Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don't know what to think. I'm fair puzzled." + +He got up. "Don't you come to the door. I'll shut it all right. +So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps." As he had done the other +evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's visitor stopped at the door. "Any +news of Miss Daisy?" he asked casually. + +"Yes; she's coming to-morrow," said her father. "They've got scarlet +fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks she'd better clear out." + + +The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting +found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, +the half-hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old +church close by. + +And then, just as she was dozing off--it must have been about one +o'clock--she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been +expecting to hear, that of the lodger's stealthy footsteps coming +down the stairs just outside her room. + +He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly. + +But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him +come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep. + +Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder +still, it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going +out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been +pushed through the letter-box. + +But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into +her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning +up against the wall to steady herself, for she was trembling with +cold and fatigue, she opened the paper. + +Yes, there was the heading she sought: + +"The AVENGER Murders" + +But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed: + +"Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report +concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, +and, indeed, staggering not only London, but the whole civilised +world, and which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating +teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the last of these +dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator, +or perpetrators, has been obtained, though several arrests were made +in the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested +were able to prove a satisfactory alibi." + +And then, a little lower down + +"The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that +even a stranger to London would know that something very unusual +was in the air. As for the place where the murder was committed +last night--" + +"Last night!" thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised +that "last night," in this connection, meant the night before last. + +She began the sentence again: + +"As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all +approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds +of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of +traces of the tragedy." + +Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its +original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the +mat where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going +back into bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. + +"Anything the matter?" Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. +"Anything the matter, Ellen?" + +She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange +gladness, "No, nothing, Bunting--nothing the matter! Go to sleep +again, my dear." + +They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting +rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's coming, and even Daisy's +stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl +about the house to help her a bit. + +About ten o'clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought +back with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy's dinner, and +three mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the +sauce. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. + +It brought Daisy--pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy--a +sight to gladden any father's heart. + +"Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad," she +cried out joyously. + +There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's Cross, as all +the world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, +but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that +he had done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all. + +While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, +walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was +awaiting her. + +As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, 'twas a mere +peck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, with startling suddenness, +loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they +sounded strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roar +of traffic in the Edgware Road. + +"What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "Why, whatever's +that?" + +The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying out that 'orrible +affair at King's Cross. He's done for two of 'em this time! That's +what I meant when I said I might 'a got a better fare. I wouldn't +say nothink before little missy there, but folk 'ave been coming +from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, +too--but there, there's nothing to see now!" + +"What? Another woman murdered last night?" + +Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand +constables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen? + +The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, I tell yer-- +within a few yards of one another. He 'ave--got a nerve--But, +of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the drink!" + +"Have they caught him?" asked Bunting perfunctorily. + +"Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave happened hours +and hours ago--they was both stone cold. One each end of a little +passage what ain't used no more. That's why they didn't find 'em +before." + +The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer--two news vendors +trying to outshout each other. + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled exultingly. +"The Avenger again!" + +And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all in his hand, +ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for +a halfpenny paper. + +He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with +young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He +hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it, +as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily +been out. + +As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy's voice-- +high, voluble, excited--giving her stepmother a long account of +the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's neighbours had +thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. + +But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there +came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's voice, and he heard +her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!" +and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window--do." + +"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross--a clue at last!" yelled +the newspaper-boys triumphantly. + +And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, +and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an +ecstasy of mirth. + +"Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?" + +Daisy looked quite scared. + +"She's in 'sterics--that's what it is," he said shortly. +"I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!" + +Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous--that's what she +was, to be so easily upset. + +The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either +that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical +effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all +over, but mentally composed. + +"I'll go up," she skid a little chokingly. "As for you, child, +just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of pork +roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the +sauce." + +As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made +of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the +banister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself, +she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments +on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom. "I'm not well," +he called out querulously; "I think I've caught a chill. I should +be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put it +outside my door, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Very well, sir." + +Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer and +giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his +cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring. + +During their midday dinner the husband and wile had a little +discussion as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been settled +that a bed should be made up for her in the top back room, but +Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. "I think 'twould be +better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to +sleep upstairs." + +Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellen +was probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, +after all, they didn't know much about the lodger, though he seemed +a respectable gentleman enough. + +Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make +herself useful to her stepmother. "I'll wash up; don't you bother to +come downstairs," she said cheerfully. + +Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him a +furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about. + +"Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last. + +"Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But I've put it away. +I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're that nervous." + +Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as +usual--he evidently meant just what he said and no more. + +"I thought they was shouting something in the street--I mean just +before I was took bad." + +It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather +furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, +of hysterics--call it what you might--had been due to the shouting +outside. She was not the only woman in London who had got the +Avenger murders on her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lot +of women were afraid to go out alone. Was it possible that the +curious way she had been taken just now had had nothing to do with +the shouts and excitement outside? + +"Don't you know what it was they were calling out?" he asked slowly. + +Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a very +great deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did not know what +those dreadful cries had portended. But when it came to the point +she found she could not do so. + +"Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and there. There's +been another murder, hasn't there?" + +"Two other murders," he said soberly. + +"Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale--a sallow +greenish-white--that Bunting thought she was again going queer. + +"Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a care! I can't +think what's come over, you about these murders. Turn your mind +away from them, do! We needn't talk about them--not so much, +that is--" + +"But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically. + +The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table, +the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the +door. + +Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and +disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure +looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully, +Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands--she +had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has never +done rough work--grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive +movement. + +Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," he said +to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! That would be +a to-do just now." + +"Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. "Can't you see +I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!" + +"There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. "There's +precious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what brought +Daisy told me--" + +"Well?" + +"What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, and they'd +both been drinking heavily, poor creatures." + +"Was it where the others was done?" she asked looking at her husband +fearfully. + +"No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. It was a good bit +farther West--in fact, not so very far from here. Near King's Cross +--that's how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to have +been done in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as he +thought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he added +hastily. "There, that's enough for the present! We shall soon be +hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure to +come in some time to-day." + +"Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" said Mrs. +Bunting slowly. + +She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more +upright. + +"No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful and no mistake +about it. But wait a minute--" he turned and took up the paper +which he had laid aside, on a chair. "Yes they says here that they +has a clue." + +"A clue, Bunting?" Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away +voice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the +table. + +But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paper +close up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable +satisfaction: + +"'It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last +believe they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the +arrest of the--'" and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed +round the table. + +His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the +floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay there +in what appeared to be a dead faint. And Bunting, scared out of +his wits, opened the door and screamed out, "Daisy! Daisy! Come +up, child. Ellen's took bad again." + +And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource +which even at this anxious moment roused her fond father's +admiration. + +"Get a wet sponge, Dad--quick!" she cried, "a sponge,--and, if +you've got such a thing, a drop o' brandy. I'll see after her!" +And then, after he had got the little medicine flask, "I can't think +what's wrong with Ellen," said Daisy wonderingly. "She seemed quite +all right when I first came in. She was listening, interested-like, +to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly--well, you saw how +she was took, father? 'Taint like Ellen this, is now?" + +"No," he whispered. "No, 'taint. But you see, child, we've been +going through a pretty bad time--worse nor I should ever have let +you know of, my dear. Ellen's just feeling it now--that's what it +is. She didn't say nothing, for Ellen's a good plucked one, but +it's told on her--it's told on her!" + +And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and +instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was +all right. + +She hadn't really been quite "off." It would have been better for +her if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she +couldn't stand up--more, that she must fall down. Bunting's words +touched a most unwonted chord in the poor woman's heart, and the +eyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not thought her +husband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starving +and waiting. + +But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her +such betrayal betokened "foolishness," and so all she said was, +"There's no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. +I never was right off, Daisy." + +Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly +poured a little brandy. "I wouldn't touch such stuff--no, not if +I was dying!" she exclaimed. + +Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of +the table, on to her feet. "Go down again to the kitchen, child"; +but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice. + +"You haven't been eating properly, Ellen--that's what's the matter +with you," said Bunting suddenly. "Now I come to think of it, you +haven't eat half enough these last two days. I always did say--in +old days many a time I telled you--that a woman couldn't live on +air. But there, you never believed me!" + +Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, +pretty face. "I'd no idea you'd had such a bad time, father," she +said feelingly. "Why didn't you let me know about it? I might have +got something out of Old Aunt." + +"We didn't want anything of that sort," said her stepmother hastily. +"But of course--well, I expect I'm still feeling the worry now. I +don't seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, of--of--" +she restrained herself; another moment and the word "starving" would +have left her lips. + +"But everything's all right now," said Bunting eagerly, "all right, +thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is." + +"Yes," repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. "Yes, +we're all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it's all along of +Mr. Sleuth." + +She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. "I'm just a little +tottery still," she muttered. + +And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a +whisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, "Don't you +think Ellen ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her +something that would pull her round." + +"I won't see no doctor!" said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. "I +saw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten +months did my poor missis have. Just determined on having 'em she +was! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit +sooner." + +"She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen," began Bunting +aggressively. + +Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress +died. They might have been married some months before they were +married but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it. + +His wife smile wanly. "We won't have no words about that," she said, +and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. "Daisy? +If you won't go down to the kitchen again, then I must"--she turned +to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room. + +"I think the child grows prettier every minute," said Bunting fondly. + +"Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep," said his +wife. She was beginning to feel better. "But still, I do agree, +Bunting, that Daisy's well enough. And she seems more willing, too." + +"I say, we mustn't forget the lodger's dinner," Bunting spoke +uneasily. "It's a bit of fish to-day, isn't it? Hadn't I better +just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, as +you're not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?" + +"I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's luncheon," she said +quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger's +dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth +had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot +her lodger was a gentleman. + +"After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I can manage +all right. Don't you worry," she added after a long pause. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later +than usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs +with far heartier an appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice +slice of roast pork downstairs. + +"I hope you're feeling a little better, sir," Mrs. Bunting had forced +herself to say when she first took in his tray. + +And he had answered plaintively, querulously, "No, I can't say I +feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired--very tired. And as I +lay in bed I seemed to hear so many sounds--so much crying and +shouting. I trust the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy +thoroughfare, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"Oh, no, sir, I don't think that. We're generally reckoned very +quiet indeed, sir." + +She waited a moment--try as she would, she could not allude to what +those unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. "I expect you've +got a chill, sir," she said suddenly. "If I was you, I shouldn't +go out this afternoon; I'd just stay quietly indoors. There's a lot +of rough people about--" Perhaps there was an undercurrent of +warning, of painful pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated +in some way to the brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and +an uneasy, watchful look came into his luminous grey eyes. + +"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think I'll take your +advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss +to know what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of +Books." + +"Then you're not afraid about your eyes, sir?" said Mrs. Bunting +curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted +her to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about +him downstairs. It seemed to banish the terror which filled her +soul--aye, and her body, too--at other times. When she was with +him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so reasonable, so--so grateful. + +Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely +wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentric--so much +must be admitted. But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric +folk, eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long career +as useful maid. + +Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced +woman, she had never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on +certain things she had learnt as to the aberrations of which human +nature is capable--even well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human +nature--as exemplified in some of the households where she had +served. It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now became morbid +or--or hysterical. + +So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she +had talked during the first few days of Mr. Sleuth's stay in her +house, that she exclaimed, "Well, sir, I'll be up again to clear +away in about half an hour. And if you'll forgive me for saying so, +I hope you will stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather +--that's what it is! If there's any little thing you want, me or +Bunting can go out and get it." + +****** + +It must have been about four o'clock when there came a ring at the +front door. + +The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up +--she really was saving her stepmother a good bit of trouble--and +the girl was now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Aunt's +pernickety ways. + +"Whoever can that be?" said Bunting, looking up. "It's too early +for Joe Chandler, surely." + +"I'll go," said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her chair. +"I'll go! We don't want no strangers in here." + +And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, +"A clue? What clue?" + +But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from +her. "Why, Joe? We never thought 'twas you! But you're very +welcome, I'm sure. Come in." + +And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, +fair young face. + +"I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to know--" he began, +in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. +She didn't want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler +might be going to say. + +"Don't talk so loud," she said a little sharply. "The lodger is +not very well to-day. He's had a cold," she added hastily, "and +during the last two or three days he hasn't been able to go out." + +She wondered at her temerity, her--her hypocrisy, and that moment, +those few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Bunting's life. It was +the first time she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was +one of those women--there are many, many such--to whom there is +a whole world of difference between the suppression of the truth +and the utterance of an untruth. + +But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. "Has Miss Daisy arrived?" +he asked, in a lower voice. + +She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father +and daughter were sitting. + +"Well?" said Bunting, starting up. "Well, Joe? Now you can tell +us all about that mysterious clue I suppose it'd be too good news +to expect you to tell us they've caught him?" + +"No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If they'd caught +him," said Joe ruefully, "well, I don't suppose I should be here, +Mr. Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. +And--well, they've found his weapon!" + +"No?" cried Bunting excitedly. "You don't say so! Whatever sort +of a thing is it? And are they sure 'tis his?" + +"Well, 'tain't sure, but it seems to be likely." + +Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. +But she was still standing with her back against the door, looking +at the group in front of her. None of them were thinking of her +--she thanked God for that! She could hear everything that was +said without joining in the talk and excitement. + +"Listen to this!" cried Joe Chandler exultantly. "'Tain't given +out yet--not for the public, that is--but we was all given it by +eight o'clock this morning. Quick work that eh?" He read out: + + + "WANTED + + A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height + approximately 5 ft. '8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or + whiskers. Wearing a black diagonal coat hard felt hat, high + white collar, and tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very + respectable appearance." + + +Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of +unutterable relief. + +"There's the chap!" said Joe Chandler triumphantly. "And now, Miss +Daisy"--he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little +tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice--"if you knows of any +nice, likely young fellow that answers to that description--well, +you've only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hundred +pounds." + +"Five hundred pounds!" cried Daisy and her father simultaneously. + +"Yes. That's what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private +bloke--nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred +from taking that reward, worse luck. And it's too bad, for we has +all the trouble, after all" + +"Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?" said Bunting. "I'd +like to con it over to myself." + +Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. + +A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. "Well, it's +clear enough, isn't it?" + +"Yes. And there's hundreds--nay, thousands--of young fellows +that might be a description of," said Chandler sarcastically. "As +a pal of mine said this morning, 'There isn't a chap will like to +carry a newspaper parcel after this.' And it won't do to have a +respectable appearance--eh?" + +Daisy's voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly +appreciated Mr. Chandler's witticism. + +"Why on earth didn't the people who saw him try and catch him?" +asked Bunting suddenly. + +And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, "Yes, Joe--that seems +odd, don't it?" + +Joe Chandler coughed. "Well, it's this way," he said. "No one +person did see all that. The man who's described here is just made +up from the description of two different folk who think they saw +him. You see, the murders must have taken place--well, now, let +me see--perhaps at two o'clock this last time. Two o'clock-- +that's the idea. Well, at such a time as that not many people are +about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one woman declares she +saw a young chap walking away from the spot where 'twas done; and +another one--but that was a good bit later--says The Avenger +passed by her. It's mostly her they're following in this 'ere +description. And then the boss who has charge of that sort of +thing looked up what other people had said--I mean when the other +crimes was committed. That's how he made up this 'Wanted."' + +"Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?" said +Bunting slowly, disappointedly. + +"Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description +fits him all right," said Chandler; but he also spoke in a +hesitating voice. + +"You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?" observed Bunting +insinuatingly. + +He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on--in fact, +that she even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She +had come up close to them, and now looked quite her old self again. + +"Yes. They believe they've found the weapon what he does his awful +deeds with," said Chandler. "At any rate, within a hundred yards +of that little dark passage where they found the bodies--one at +each end, that was--there was discovered this morning a very +peculiar kind o' knife--'keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger'-- +that's the exact words the boss used when he was describing it to +a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that clue than of +the other--I mean than of the description people gave of the chap +who walked quickly by with a newspaper parcel. But now there's a +pretty job in front of us. Every shop where they sell or might a' +sold, such a thing as that knife, including every eating-house in +the East End, has got to be called at!" + +"Whatever for?" asked Daisy. + +"Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling +about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the +time. But, Mr. Bunting"--Chandler's voice changed; it became +businesslike, official--"they're not going to say anything about +that--not in newspapers--till to-morrow, so don't you go and +tell anybody. You see, we don't want to frighten the fellow off. +If he knew they'd got his knife--well, he might just make himself +scarce, and they don't want that! If it's discovered that any knife +of that kind was sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways +are known, then--then--" + +"What'll happen then?" said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer. + +"Well, then, nothing'll be put about it in the papers at all," said +Chandler deliberately. "The only objec' of letting the public know +about it would be if nothink was found--I mean if the search of +the shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try +and find out someone--some private person-like, who's watched that +knife in the criminal's possession. It's there the reward--the +five hundred pounds will come in." + +"Oh, I'd give anything to see that knife!" exclaimed Daisy, clasping +her hands together. + +"You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!" cried her stepmother passionately. + +They all looked round at her, surprised. + +"Come, come, Ellen!" said Bunting reprovingly. + +"Well, it is a horrible idea!" said his wife sullenly. "To go and +sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds." + +But Daisy was offended. "Of course I'd like to see it!" she cried +defiantly. "I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. +Chandler said that! I only said I'd like to see the knife." + +Chandler looked at her soothingly. "Well, the day may come when +you will see it," he said slowly. + +A great idea had come into his mind. + +"No! What makes you think that?" + +"If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our +Black Museum at the Yard, you'll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. +They keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this +weapon should lead to the conviction of The Avenger--well, then, +that knife 'ull be there, and you'll see' it!" + +"The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your +place for?" asked Daisy wonderingly. "I thought there was only the +British Museum--" + +And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, +laughed aloud. + +"You are a goosey girl!" said her father fondly. "Why, there's a +lot of museums in London; the town's thick with 'em. Ask Ellen +there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when we was +courting--if the weather was bad." + +"But our museum's the one that would interest Miss Daisy," broke in +Chandler eagerly. "It's a regular Chamber of 'Orrors!" + +"Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before," said Bunting +excitedly. "D'you really mean that there's a museum where they +keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives +murders have been committed with?" + +"Knives?" cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of +attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even +Mrs. Bunting looked at him expectantly. "Much more than knives, Mr. +Bunting! Why, they've got there, in little bottles, the real poison +what people have been done away with." + +"And can you go there whenever you like?" asked Daisy wonderingly. +She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable +privileges are attached to the position of a detective member of +the London Police Force. + +"Well, I suppose I could--" Joe smiled. "Anyway I can certainly +get leave to take a friend there." He looked meaningly at Daisy, +and Daisy looked eagerly at him. + +But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? +Ellen was so prim, so--so irritatingly proper. But what was this +father was saying? "D'you really mean that, Joe?" + +"Yes, of course I do!" + +"Well, then, look here! If it isn't asking too much of a favour, I +should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don't +want to wait till The Avenger's caught "--Bunting smiled broadly. +"I'd be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum +o' yours. Ellen, there,"--he looked across at his wife--"don't +agree with me about such things. Yet I don't think I'm a +bloodthirsty man! But I'm just terribly interested in all that sort +of thing--always have been. I used to positively envy the butler +in that Balham Mystery!" + +Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man--it was a look +which contained and carried a great many things backwards and +forwards, such as--"Now, isn't it funny that your father should +want to go to such a place? But still, I can't help it if he does +want to go, so we must put up with his company, though it would +have been much nicer for us to go just by our two selves." And +then Daisy's look answered quite as plainly, though perhaps Joe +didn't read her glance quite as clearly as she had read his: "Yes, +it is tiresome. But father means well; and 'twill be very pleasant +going there, even if he does come too." + +"Well, what d'you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? I'd +call for you here about--shall we say half-past two?--and just +take you and Miss Daisy down to the Yard. 'Twouldn't take very +long; we could go all the way by bus, right down to Westminster +Bridge." He looked round at his hostess: "Wouldn't you join us, +Mrs. Bunting? 'Tis truly a wonderful interesting place." + +But his hostess shook her head decidedly. "'Twould turn me sick," +she exclaimed, "to see the bottle of poison what had done away with +the life of some poor creature! + +"And as for knives--!" a look of real horror, of startled fear, +crept over her pale face. + +"There, there!" said Bunting hastily. "Live and let live--that's +what I always say. Ellen ain't on in this turn. She can just +stay at home and mind the cat--I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!" + +"I won't have Mr. Sleuth laughed at," said Mrs. Bunting darkly. +"But there! I'm sure it's very kind of you, Joe, to think of giving +Bunting and Daisy such a rare treat "--she spoke sarcastically, but +none of the three who heard her understood that. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the +stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart +of that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, +Daisy Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of +Romance. Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up +to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a +new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, +quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this +was the first time a lift had come her way. + +With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler +marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. + +Daisy clung to her father's arm, a little bewildered, a little +oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was +stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful place where she +found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of great rooms full +of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling--or so she supposed +--the mysteries of crime. + +They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped +short. "Look in there," he said, in a low voice, addressing the +father rather than the daughter, "that's the Finger-Print Room. +We've records here of over two hundred thousand men's and women's +finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we've got +the print of a man's five finger-tips, well, he's done for--if he +ever does anything else, that is. Once we've got that bit of him +registered he can't never escape us--no, not if he tries ever so. +But though there's nigh on a quarter of a million records in there, +yet it don't take--well, not half an hour, for them to tell +whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful +thought, ain't it?" + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a +troubled look came over his stolid face. "Wonderful, but also a +very fearful thought for the poor wretches as has got their +finger-prints in, Joe." + +Joe laughed. "Agreed!" he said. "And the cleverer ones knows that +only too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was +here safe, managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just +so as to make a blurred impression--you takes my meaning? But +there, at the end of six weeks the skin grew all right again, and +in exactly the same little creases as before!" + +"Poor devil!" said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came +over Daisy's bright eager face. + +They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they +came to a half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than +that of the Finger-Print Identification Room. + +"If you'll glance in there," said Joe briefly, "you'll see how we +finds out all about any man whose finger-tips has given him away, so +to speak. It's here we keeps an account of what he's done, his +previous convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where I told +you, and his record in there--just connected by a number." + +"Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was +longing to get on--to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe +and her father were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the +matter of that not worth taking the trouble to understand. However, +she had not long to wait. + +A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on +very friendly terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, +unlocking a common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of +three through into the Black Museum. + +For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment +and surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they +called the Science Room in the public library of the town where she +lived with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up with +plain glass cases fixed at a height from the floor which enabled +their contents to be looked at closely. + +She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The +exhibits shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, +the sort of things one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in +an untidy house--old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what +looked like a child's broken lantern, even a box of pills. . . + +As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking +objects; bits of old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and +leather, and so on. + +It was really rather disappointing. + +Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf +just below the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the +great room look so light and shadowless, was a row of life-size +white plaster heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. +There were about a dozen of these, not more--and they had such odd, +staring, helpless, real-looking faces. + +"Whatever's those?" asked Bunting in a low voice. + +Daisy clung a thought closer to her father's arm. Even she guessed +that these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of +those men and women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains +that the murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death. + +"All hanged!" said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. "Casts +taken after death." + +Bunting smiled nervously. "They don't look dead somehow.. They +looks more as if they were listening," he said. + +"That's the fault of Jack Ketch," said the man facetiously. "It's +his idea--that of knotting his' patient's necktie under the left +ear! That's what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom he has +to act valet on just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a +bit to one side. You look here--?" + +Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed +with his' finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each +neck; running from this indentation was a curious little furrow, +well ridged above, showing how tightly Jack Ketch's necktie had been +drawn when its wearer was hurried through the gates of eternity. + +"They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or--or hurt," said +Bunting wonderingly. + +He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring +faces. + +But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, +"Well, a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his +plans brought to naught--and knowing he's only got a second to live +--now wouldn't he?" + +"Yes, I suppose he would," said Bunting slowly. + +Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere +of the place was beginning to tell on her. She now began to +understand that the shabby little objects lying there in the glass +case close to her were each and all links in the chain of evidence +which, in almost every case, had brought some guilty man or woman +to the gallows. + +"We had a yellow gentleman here the other day," observed the guardian +suddenly; "one of those Brahmins--so they calls themselves. Well, +you'd a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He +declared--what was the word he used?"--he turned to Chandler. + +"He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, +mind you--queer to say, he left them out--exuded evil, that was +the word he used! Exuded--squeezed out it means. He said that +being here made him feel very bad. And twasn't all nonsense either. +He turned quite green under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him +out quick. He didn't feel better till he'd got right to the other +end of the passage!" + +"There now! Who'd ever think of that?" said Bunting. "I should say +that man 'ud got something on his conscience, wouldn't you?" + +"Well, I needn't stay now," said Joe's good-natured friend. "You +show your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place nearly as +well as I do, don't you?" + +He smiled at Joe's visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed +that he could not tear himself away after all. + +"Look here," he said to Bunting. "In this here little case are the +tools of Charles Peace. I expect you've heard of him." + +"I should think I have!" cried Bunting eagerly. + +"Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of +all. Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he +would have been, had he been put in the way of it. Here's his +ladder; you see it folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little +bundle--just like a bundle of old sticks any man might have been +seen carrying about London in those days without attracting any +attention. Why, it probably helped him to look like an honest +working man time and time again, for on being arrested he declared +most solemnly he'd always carried that ladder openly under his arm." + +"The daring of that!" cried Bunting. + +"Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could reach from the +ground to the second storey of any old house. And, oh! how clever +he was! Just open one section, and you see the other sections open +automatically; so Peace could stand on the ground and force the +thing quietly up to any window he wished to reach. Then he'd go +away again, having done his job, with a mere bundle of old wood +under his arm! My word, he was artful! I wonder if you've heard +the tale of how Peace once lost a finger. Well, he guessed the +constables were instructed to look out for a man missing a finger; +so what did he do?" + +"Put on a false finger," suggested Bunting. + +"No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do without a hand +altogether. Here's his false stump: you see, it's made of wood +--wood and black felt? Well, that just held his hand nicely. +Why, we considers that one of the most ingenious contrivances in +the whole museum." + +Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. With Chandler +in delighted attendance, she bad moved away to the farther end of +the great room, and now she was bending over yet another glass case. +"Whatever are those little bottles for?" she asked wonderingly. + +There were five small phials, filled with varying quantities of +cloudy liquids. + +"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what they are. There's +enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to do for you and me +--aye, and for your father as well, I should say." + +"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said Daisy, smiling. +Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little +bottles only brought a pleasant thrill. + +"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was. +Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was +really going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband. +She'd got a bit tired of him, I suspect." + +"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with," +said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they +began to laugh aloud in unison. + +"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?" asked Chandler, +becoming suddenly serious. + +"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. "That was the +wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother. +They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she won't let me go +to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father take me there +last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow +I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!" + +"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of relics of Mrs. +Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that's at Madame +Tussaud's--at least so they claim, I can't say. Now here's something +just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that man's jacket +there?!" + +"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed, +frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had +been taken queer. + +"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and by mistake he +went and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one +of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't seem much of a +clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you +that that other bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged +the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all three buttons +was different!" + +Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which +had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked, pointing to a +piece of dirty-looking stuff. + +"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a horrible thing +--that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried with a woman-- +buried in the ground, I mean--after her husband had cut her up and +tried, to burn her. Twas that bit o' shirt that brought him to the +gallows." + +"I considers your museum's a very horrid place!" said Daisy +pettishly, turning away. + +She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly +lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room. + +But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types +of infernal machines. "Beautiful little works of art some of them +are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree. + +"Come along--do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've seen about +enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it 'ud give me +the horrors. I don't want to have no nightmares to-night. It's +dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the world. +Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without +knowing it, mightn't we?" + +"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I don't suppose +you'll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone +who's committed a murder--not one in a million does that. Why, +even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!" + +But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every +moment of the time. Just now he was studying intently the various +photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially +was he pleased to see those connected with a famous and still +mysterious case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, +and in which the servant of the man who died had played a +considerable part--not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery. + +"I suppose a good many murderers get off?" he said musingly. + +And Joe Chandler's friend nodded. "I should think they did!" he +exclaimed. "There's no such thing as justice here in England. +'Tis odds on the murderer every time. 'Tisn't one in ten that +come to the end he should do--to the gallows, that is." + +"And what d'you think about what's going on now--I mean about +those Avenger murders?" + +Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already +moving towards the door. + +"I don't believe he'll ever be caught," said the other +confidentially. "In some ways 'tis a lot more of a job to catch a +madman than 'tis to run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of +course--leastways to my thinking--The Avenger is a madman--one +of the cunning, quiet sort. Have you heard about the letter?" his +voice dropped lower. + + "No," said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. "What letter d'you +mean?" + +"Well, there's a letter--it'll be in this museum some day--which +came just before that last double event. 'Twas signed 'The Avenger,' +in just the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always +leaves behind him. Mind you, it don't follow that it actually was The +Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, +and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it." + +"And where was it posted?" asked Bunting. "That might be a bit of a +clue, you know." + +"Oh, no," said the other. "They always goes a very long way to +post anything--criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But +this particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office." + +"What? Close to us?" said Bunting. "Goodness! dreadful!" + +"Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don't suppose +The Avenger's in any way peculiar-looking--in fact we know he ain't." + +"Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?" asked +Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Our description was made up from what she said," answered the other +cautiously. "But, there, you can't tell! In a case like that it's +groping--groping in the dark all the time--and it's just a lucky +accident if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it's upsetting +us all very much here. You can't wonder at that!" + +"No, indeed," said Bunting quickly. "I give you my word, I've hardly +thought of anything else for the last month." + +Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage +she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was +saying. + +He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother +lived, at Richmond--that it was a nice little house, close to the +park. He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there +one afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and +how nice it would be. + +"I don't see why Ellen shouldn't let me," the girl said rebelliously. +"But she's that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen--a regular +old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I'm staying with them, +father don't like for me to do anything that Ellen don't approve of. +But she's got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her--?" +She looked at him, and he nodded sagely. + +"Don't you be afraid," he said confidently. "I'll get round Mrs. +Bunting. But, Miss Daisy"--he grew very red--"I'd just like to +ask you a question--no offence meant--" + +"Yes?" said Daisy a little breathlessly. "There's father close to +us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?" + +"Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you've never +walked out with any young fellow?" + +Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her +cheek. "No," she said sadly. "No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not." +In a burst of candour she added, "You see, I never had the chance!" + +And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. + + + +CHAPTER X + +By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found +herself for close on an hour quite alone in the house during her +husband's and Daisy's jaunt with young Chandler. + +Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on this +particular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was +falling, he suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, +and his landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. + +As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the +drawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two +rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, +that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room she +wanted to do--as to engage in a vague search for--she hardly knew +for what. + +During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always +had a deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who +read their employers' private letters, and who furtively peeped +into desks and cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of +discovering family skeletons. + +But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to +do herself what she had once so scorned others for doing. + +Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He +was a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, +under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had early +undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of +washing he required done, with her own and Bunting's. Luckily he +wore soft shirts. + +At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with +this tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at +it herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting's +shirts. Everything else she managed to do herself. + +From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the +dressing-table. + +Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he +generally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned +looking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulled +out the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there; +she only glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver. +The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes +he required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost, +making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely +comforted Mrs. Bunting. + +Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a +little way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap +of paper. And at last, when more or less giving up the search, as +she came and went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting door +wide open, her mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as +to the lodger's past life. + +Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible +sort of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct +as have other people of his class. He was queer about the drink--one +might say almost crazy on the subject--but there, as to that, he +wasn't the only one! She. Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a +lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the +question of drink and drunkards--She looked round the neat +drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place +where anything could be kept concealed--that place was the +substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea +suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought of before. + +After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenly +bring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to the +corner where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of her +not very great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece +of furniture. + +As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,--something rolling +about on the second shelf, something which had not been there before +Mr. Sleuth's arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier +backwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice--satisfied, yet strangely +troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which the +disappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away by +its owner. + +Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Buntlng's mind. +She hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted inside +the cupboard. A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier +must become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some +dark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the bottom of the little +cupboard door. + +She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red, +on her finger. + +Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. In +fact the colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over. + +It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset--that was all! How +could she have thought it was anything else? + +It was the more silly of her--so she told herself in scornful +condemnation--because she knew that the lodger used red ink. +Certain pages of Cruden's Concordance were covered with notes written +in Mr. Sleuth's peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some places +you couldn't see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarks +and notes of interrogation. + +Mr Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in the +chiffonnier--that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done; +and it was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to know +things she would be none the better, none the happier, for knowing, +that this accident had taken place. + +She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallen +on the green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily told +herself, foolishly upset she went once more into the back room. + +It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She would +have expected him to have made that one of his first purchases--the +more so that paper is so very cheap, especially that rather +dirty-looking grey Silurian paper. Mrs. Buntlng had once lived with +a lady who always used two kinds of notepaper, white for her friends +and equals, grey for those whom she called "common people." She, +Ellen Green, as she then was, had always resented the fact. 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. 21 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. "Taking advantage of your being out I went up to +dust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind the +chiffonnier it tilted. I'm afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that +was inside may have got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, +sir. But I hope there's no harm done. I wiped it up as well as +I could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked." + +Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance. +But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid now +than she had felt before he came in. Then she had been so +frightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to the +pavement, for company. + +"Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there." + +She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger's brow +cleared. + +"I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went on, "for I have +seen you marking that book of yours--I mean the book you read +together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you +another bottle, sir?" + +"No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will at once proceed +upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you I +shall ring." + +He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room bell +did ring. + +At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier was +wide open, and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle of +red ink which had turned over and now lay in a red pool of its own +making on the lower shelf. + +"I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps I +was ill-advised to keep my ink in there." + +"Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a drop or two fell +out on to the carpet, and they don't show, as you see, sir, for it's +a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well." + +Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long pause, "I think +not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the ink +remaining in the bottle will do quite well, especially if I add a +little water, or better still, a little tea, to what already +remains in the bottle. I only require it to mark up passages which +happen to be of peculiar interest in my Concordance--a work, Mrs. +Bunting, which I should have taken great pleasure in compiling +myself had not this--ah--this gentleman called Cruden, been before." + +****** + +Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter in +her manner than usual that evening. She listened to all they had +to say about their interesting visit to the Black Museum, and did +not snub either of them--no, not even when Bunting told of the +dreadful, haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged. + +But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked her +a question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she had +not heard the last few words he had been saying. + +"A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. But she shook her +head. + +Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came back +dressed up in a blue-and-white check silk gown. + +"My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy. I've never seen +you wearing that before." + +"And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed Mrs. Bunting +sarcastically. And then, "I suppose this dressing up means that +you're expecting someone. I should have thought both of you must +have seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that +young chap does his work--that I do! He never seems too busy to +come and waste an hour or two here." + +But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. And +even Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlike +herself. She went about her cooking and the various little things +she had to do even more silently than was her wont. + +Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was the +storm of dread, of sombre, anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense, +which shook her soul, and which so far affected her poor, ailing +body that often she felt as if she could not force herself to +accomplish her simple round of daily work. + +After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a penny +evening paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather' rueful +smile, that he had read so much of that nasty little print this +last week or two that his eyes hurt him. + +"Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy eagerly, and he +handed her the paper. + +Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock +echoed through the house. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no +longer "Chandler," as he had mostly used to do. + +Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. +She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her. + +To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel +which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty +horde with right on their side. And she was always expecting that +first single spy who would herald the battalion against whom her +only weapon would be her woman's wit and cunning. + +But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her +face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look +it assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and +stepdaughter. + +"Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door open behind +her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had +bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold to-night." + +A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news. + +Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? +Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the +sooner where he was now. + +Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the +double murder which had been committed early in the morning of +the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the thousands of +men belonging to the Metropolitan Police--to say nothing of the +smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force-- +were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that +there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with +horror, breeds contempt. + +But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something +happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest +this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the +more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering +severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the +huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent +speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary. + +But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little +house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle +of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a +moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an +unsatisfactory, job. He secretly agreed with one of his pals who +had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last double +crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a needle in a rick o' hay +than this--bloke!" + +And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now--after +nine long, empty days had gone by? + +Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. +Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. +Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the +father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented +domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight. + +Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her +stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left +side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable +arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude--as +it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought +a pang to Mrs. Bunting--which showed that age was beginning to +creep over the listener. + +One of Daisy's duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of +reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her +accomplishment. + +Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy bad been asking, +"Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had answered quickly, +"Aye, do, my dear." + +He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the +door, he had only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming +so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves. + +Daisy read out:' + +"The Avenger: A--" + +And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. +Bravely, however, she went on. "A the-o-ry." + +"Go in--do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. "Why should +we stay out here in the cold? It's ridiculous." + +"I don't want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered Chandler back, +rather hoarsely. + +"Well, you'll hear it all the better in the room. Don't think +she'll stop because of you, bless you! There's nothing shy about +our Daisy!" + +The young man resented the tart, short tone. "Poor little girl!" +he said to himself tenderly. "That's what it is having a stepmother, +instead of a proper mother." But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then +he was pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright +blush came over her pretty face. + +"Joe begs you won't stop yet awhile. Go on with your reading," +commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. "Now, Joe, you can go and sit over +there, close to Daisy, and then you won't miss a word." + +There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed +that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went +and sat on a chair just behind Daisy. From there he could note with +reverent delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards from +the nape of her slender neck. + +"The AVENGER: A THE-O-RY" + +began Daisy again, clearing her throat. + +"DEAR Sir--I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think +there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable +that The Avenger--to give him the name by which he apparently +wishes to be known--comprises in his own person the peculiarities +of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson's now famous hero. + +"The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, +pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of +London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the +husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and +is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his +widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he +has become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, +occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy +nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out +of the house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes +his way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area. +Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like +gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home +again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once +more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, +esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and +acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene +of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal +lunatic. + +"I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that +I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to +the part of London where these murders have been actually committed. +I am quite sure from all that has come out--and we must remember +that full information is never given to the newspapers--The Avenger +should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London +--Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly--" + +Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the +word "Gab-o-ri-you," said she. + +"What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly. + +And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French chap what wrote +detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of them are, too!" + +"Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, +I take it?" said Bunting. + +"Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's written that silly +letter just signed that name for fun." + +"It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. "I +wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish." + +"Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman!" cried Daisy, in +an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how-to-do!" + +"There may be something in the notion," said her father thoughtfully. +"After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute he must +be somewhere a-hiding of himself." + +"Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting scornfully. + +She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. 'Twould soon be time +for the lodger's supper. + +She hurried on: "But what I do say is that--that--he has nothing +to do with the West End. Why, they say it's a sailor from the Docks +--that's a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I'm fair +sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. +The Avenger this--The Avenger that--" + +"I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night," said Bunting +cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything new?" + +"I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in excitedly. +She read out: + + +"BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED" + + +"Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her +tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!" + +Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. "Why, 'twould be +a very good idea, if 'twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. +But, there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers' shops, +to say nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o' that sort?" + +But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking ear there +seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her +fresh young voice. + +"Hark to this," she said: + +"A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn +was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious +instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and +hanged." + +"La, now! Who'd ever have thought of such a thing?" Bunting +exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do have some useful +hints in sometimes, Joe." + +But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds ain't no use," he +said; "no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the +suggestions that the last few days have brought in--well, all I +can say is our work would be cut out for us--not but what it's +cut out for us now, if it comes to that!" He sighed ruefully. He +was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this +pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on +for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would presently have +to do, into the cold and foggy night! + +Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There +was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, +even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where +he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to +taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than that one of +his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the young fellow +had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had +spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent +speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan +Police, but also against the Home Secretary. + +But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the +possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading +just yet. + +"Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another letter, father!" + + +"PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES. + + +"DEAR Sir--During the last day or two several of the more +Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, +whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. +It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however +nomad he may be in his habits--" + +"Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy interrupted herself, and +looked round at her little audience. + +"I've always declared the fellow had all his senses about him," +observed Bunting confidently. + +Daisy went on, quite satisfied: + +"--however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat +where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person +who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information +in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory +after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My +suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. +The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. +Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly +difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for +English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence." + +"There's something worth listening to in that letter," said Joe, +leaning forward. + +Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as +she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he +was saying. + +"Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively. + +"Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in +a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone--a woman his +mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. +But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!" + +"I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a reward," said +Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. + +"Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler confidently. "You'd +only be doing what it's the plain duty of everyone--everyone, that +is, who's a good citizen. And you'd be getting something for doing +it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty." + +"A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common +informer," went on Bunting obstinately. "And no man 'ud care to be +called that! It's different for you, Joe," he added hastily. "It's +your job to catch those who've done anything wrong. And a man'd be +a fool who'd take refuge--like with you. He'd be walking into the +lion's mouth--" Bunting laughed. + +And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: "If I'd done anything I +wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," she said. + +And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you did you needn't +be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!" + +And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, +sitting with towed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience +and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain. + +"Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting quickly. + +"Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like," answered the poor +woman heavily. "It's over now. Don't mind me." + +"But I don't believe--no, that I don't--that there's anybody in +the world who knows who The Avenger is," went on Chandler quickly. +"It stands to reason that anybody'd give him up--in their own +interest, if not in anyone else's. Who'd shelter such a creature? +Why, 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house along with one!" + +"Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for the wicked things +he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at Chandler +with eager, anxious eyes. + +"I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough to hang!" said +Chandler deliberately. "After all the trouble he's been giving us, too!" + +"Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said Bunting. + +"Not if he's not responsible," said his wife sharply. "I never +heard of anything so cruel--that I never did! If the man's a +madman, he ought to be in an asylum--that's where he ought to be." + +"Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. +"Contrary isn't the word for her! But there, I've noticed the last +few days that she seemed to be taking that monster's part. That's +what comes of being a born total abstainer." + +Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What nonsense you do talk!" +she said angrily. "Not but what it's a good thing if these murders +have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. England's drink +is England's shame--I'll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, +get up, do! Put down that paper. We've heard quite enough. You can +be laying the cloth while I goes down the kitchen." + +"Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's supper," called out +Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring--" he turned to Chandler. +"For one thing, he's often out about this time." + +"Not often--just now and again, when he wants to buy' something," +snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I hadn't forgot his supper. He +never do want it before eight o'clock." + +"Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's eager voice +broke in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was +now laying the cloth. + +"Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You +have your work cut out looking after things down here--that's where +I wants you to help me." + +Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be doing nothing +while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, looking across at Mrs. +Bunting, "I'd forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?" + +"Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman," said Bunting. +"He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth." + +His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy laughed. +"You'll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I've never seen this +wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she does! If I +was father I'd be jealous!" + +Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too funny. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can't always do +just what one wants to do--not in this world, at any rate!" + +Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, +though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She +was standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she +spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in +her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which +they were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other +would have to bow. + +There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, +"I don't see why I should go if I don't want to!" she cried. +"You'll allow I've been useful to you, Ellen? 'Tisn't even as if +you was quite well." + +"I am quite well--perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and +she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her +stepdaughter. + +"'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and father." There +were tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at +his wife. + +An invitation had come to Daisy--an invitation from her own dead +mother's sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave +Square. "The family" had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and +Aunt Margaret--Daisy was her godchild--had begged that her niece +might come and spend two or three days with her. + +But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was +like in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt +Margaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modern +employer is always sighing. While "the family" were away it was +her joy--she regarded it as a privilege--to wash sixty-seven pieces +of very valuable china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room; +she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. +These were the two duties with which she intended her young niece +to assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened at the prospect. + +But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an +hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret +was not one to be trifled with. + +Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the +very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go--that there +was no doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But +discuss it they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. +But that, as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set +on her own view. + +"What the child says is true," he observed. "It isn't as if you +was quite well. You've been took bad twice in the last few days +--you can't deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn't I just take a bus +and go over and see Margaret? I'd tell her just how it is. She'd +understand, bless you!" + +"I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried Mrs. Bunting, +speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. +"Haven't I a right to be ill, haven't I a right to be took bad, +aye, and to feel all right again--same as other people?" + +Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh, Ellen!" she cried; +"do say that you can't spare me! I don't want to go across to that +horrid old dungeon of a place." + +"Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm fair tired of +you both! There'll come a day, Daisy, when you'll know, like me, +that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and when +your Aunt Margaret's left her savings to somebody else just because +you wouldn't spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you'll +know what it's like to go without--you'll know what a fool you +were, and that nothing can't alter it any more!" + +And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it +snatched from her. + +"Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does matter--a +terrible deal-though I never thought to hear Ellen say 'twas the +only thing that mattered. But 'twould be foolish--very, very +foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It'll only be +two days after all--two days isn't a very long time." + +But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She had already +rushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her +childish tears of disappointment--the childish tears which came +because she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman's natural +instinct for building her own human nest. + +Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange +young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police. + +"Who'd ever have thought she'd have minded as much as that!" +Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart +was misgiving him. + +"It's plain enough why she's become so fond of us all of a sudden," +said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her +uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, "as plain as +the nose on your face, my man." + +"What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit slow, Ellen, but +I really don't know what you'd be at?" + +"Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe +Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only +foolishness then, but I've come round to your view--that's all." + +Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of +coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome +Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested +in the Avenger murders that he hadn't thought of Joe in any other +connection--not this time, at any rate. + +"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an unwonted tone of +excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting's voice. + +His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly +smile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I've never been one +to prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don't mind +telling you, Bunting--Daisy'll have plenty o' time to get tired +of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!" + +"Well, she might do worse," said Bunting ruminatingly. "He's as +steady as God makes them, and he's already earning thirty-two +shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt'd like the notion? +I don't see her parting with Daisy before she must." + +"I wouldn't let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing +as that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not for millions of gold!" +And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a +very different tune now to what she'd sung a few minutes ago, when +she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square. + +"If she still seems upset while she's having her dinner," said his +wife suddenly, "well, you just wait till I've gone out for something, +and then you just say to her, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' +--just that, and nothing more! She'll take it from you. And I +shouldn't be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot." + +"For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn't +go over and see her there," said Bunting hesitatingly. + +"Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. "Plenty of +reason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to +know any of her secrets. I've only seen that woman once, but I know +exactly the sort Margaret is. She's just waiting for Old Aunt to +drop off and then she'll want to have Daisy herself--to wait on +her, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young +fellow what stood in her way." + +She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day clock which +had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. +It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and +had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth's +arrival. + +"I've time to go out with that telegram," she said briskly--somehow +she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days-- +"and then it'll be done. It's no good having more words about it, +and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait till the +child comes upstairs again." + +She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather +wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as "the child" +--in fact, he could only remember her having done so once before, +and that was a long time ago. They had been talking over their +future life together, and she had said, very solemnly, "Bunting, +I promise I will do my duty--as much as lies in my power, that +is--by the child." + +But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. +As not infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to +do, that particular duty had been taken over by someone else who +had no mind to let it go. + +"What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked Bunting, rather +nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them +that Ellen had offered to go out in the morning. + +She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, +she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so +--strange, and, to herself, very comfortable and pleasant. + +"Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door and say I'll be +back in a few minutes--that I had to go out with a message. He's +quite a reasonable gentleman." She went into the back room to put +on her bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold--getting colder +every minute. + +As she stood, buttoning her gloves--she wouldn't have gone out +untidy for the world--Bunting suddenly came across to her. "Give +us a kiss, old girl," he said. And his wife turned up her face. + +"One 'ud think it was catching!" she said, but there was a lilt in +her voice. + +"So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that old cook get +married just after us? She'd never 'a thought of it if it hadn't +been for you!" + +But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. +Sleuth revenged himself for his landlady's temporary forgetfulness. + +During the last two days the lodger had been queer, odder than usual, +unlike himself, or, rather, very much as he had been some ten days +ago, just before that double murder had taken place. + +The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadful +place to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs. +Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead, restlessly +walking up and down his sitting-room. And later, when she took up +his supper, she had listened a moment outside the door, while he +read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in--terrible texts +telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge. + +Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with the +curious personality of her lodger, that she did not look where she +was going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up against her. + +She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young person +muttered a word of apology;--then she again fell into deep thought. + +It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the +problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She, +Ellen, was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after +all it wasn't wonderful that she had been snappy. This last night +she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake listening +--and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake listening for a +sound that never comes. + +The house had remained so still you could have heard a pin drop. Mr. +Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. +Had he stirred his landlady was bound to have heard him, for his bed +was, as we know, just above hers. No, during those long hours of +darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had fallen on +Mrs. Bunting's ears. + +And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determined +effort to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of her thoughts. + +It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his hand, for, as Joe +had said only last evening, it was full time that he should again +turn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. +Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre +a bright blinding light--but the shadow had no form or definite +substance. Sometimes he looked like one thing, sometimes like +another . . . + +Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the street +where there was a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to the +left she stopped short for a minute. + +There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebuke +and even self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women, +should have longed to hear that another murder had been committed +last night! + +Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all through +breakfast hoping to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes, +and more or less during the long discussion which had followed on +the receipt of Margaret's letter she had been hoping--hoping +against hope--that those dreadful triumphant shouts of the +newspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone Road. +And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when he +had expressed, not disappointment exactly--but, well, surprise, +that nothing had happened last night. + +Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think how +afraid she had been of that young man! She was no longer afraid of +him, or hardly at all. He was dotty--that's what was the matter +with him, dotty with love for rosy-checked, blue-eyed little Daisy. +Anything might now go on, right under Joe Chandler's very nose--but, +bless you, he'd never see it! Last summer, when this affair, this +nonsense of young Chandler and Daisy had begun, she had had very +little patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way Joe +had gone on then, the tiresome way he would be always dropping in, +had been one reason (though not the most important reason of all) +why she had felt so terribly put about at the idea of the girl +coming again. But now? Well, now she had become quite tolerant, +quite kindly--at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was concerned. + +She wondered why. + +Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for a +couple of days. In fact 'twould be a very good thing, for then he'd +think of Daisy--think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absence +does make the heart grow fonder--at first, at any rate. Mrs. +Bunting was well aware of that. During the long course of hers +and Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated for about three +months, and it was that three months which had made up her mind for +her. She had got so used to Bunting that she couldn't do without +him, and she had felt--oddest fact of all--acutely, miserably +jealous. But she hadn't let him know that--no fear! + +Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job--that would never do, But +what a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn't like some of +those detective chaps that are written about in stories--the sort +of chaps that know everything, see everything, guess everything +--even where there isn't anything to see, or know, or guess! + +Why, to take only one little fact--Joe Chandler had never shown +the slightest curiosity about their lodger. . .. + +Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurried +quickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her. + +She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman +without a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed to +manage other people's affairs, had even written out the words: "Will +be with you to tea.--DAISY." + +It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anything +horrible was going to happen in the next two or three days--it was +just as well Daisy shouldn't be at home. Not that there was any real +danger that anything would happen,--Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. + +By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentally +counting up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine, +or was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by +now, if--as that writer in the newspaper had suggested--he was a +quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, whatever vengeance +he had to wreak, must be satisfied? + +She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for the lodger to ring +before she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr. +Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed into +the house. Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. There +came the sound of voices--of voices she thought she did not know-- +in the sitting-room. + +She opened the door, and' then drew a long breath. It was only Joe +Chandler--Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stopped +rather guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heard +Chandler utter the words: "That don't mean nothing! I'll just run +out and send another saying you won't come, Miss Daisy." + +And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting's face. There +had fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shouts +which betokened that something had happened last night--something +which made it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying +down the Marylebone Road. + +"Well?" she said a little breathlessly. "Well, Joe? I suppose +you've brought us news? I suppose there's been another?" + +He looked at her, surprised. "No, that there hasn't, Mrs. Bunting +--not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you're thinking of those +newspaper chaps? They've got to cry out something," he grinned. +"You wouldn't 'a thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They're just +shouting out that there's been an arrest; but we don't take no +stock of that. It's a Scotchman what gave himself up last night +at Dorking. He'd been drinking, and was a-pitying of himself. +Why, since this business began, there's been about twenty arrests, +but they've all come to nothing." + +"Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed," said Bunting +jokingly. "Come to think of it, it's high time The Avenger was at +work again." He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned to +young Chandler: "Well, you'll be glad when its all over, my lad." + +"Glad in a way," said Chandler unwillingly. "But one 'ud have liked +to have caught him. One doesn't like to know such a creature's at +large, now, does one?" + +Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. "I must just go +and see about Mr. Sleuth's breakfast," she said in a weary, +dispirited voice, and left them there. + +She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plot +which had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance of +success; Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out another +telegram contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy's stepmother +shrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself wouldn't care to +do such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere +in her pretty little head. If it ever became her fate to live as +a married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the right +side of Aunt Margaret. + +And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother's heart became +very soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact, +there was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth's two eggs. Feeling +suddenly more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took +the tray upstairs. + +"As it was rather late, I didn't wait for you to ring, sir," she +said. + +And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was +studying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book. +"Quite right, Mrs. Bunting--quite right! I have been pondering +over the command, 'Work while it is yet light.'" + +"Yes, sir?" she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over her +heart. "Yes, sir?" + +"'The spirit is willing, but the flesh--the flesh is weak,'" said +Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy, sigh. + +"You studies too hard, and too long--that's what's ailing you, sir," +said Mr. Sleuth's landlady suddenly. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had +been settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler +was going to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He +could carry Daisy's modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead +of walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station +to Victoria--that would land them very near Belgrave Square. + +But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn't had a walk, she +declared, for a long, long time--and then she blushed rosy red, +and even her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was very +nice looking, not at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to +go about the London streets by herself. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, +watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. + +A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had +come a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining, rather +lamely, that it was the fog which had brought him so soon. + +"If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, 'twouldn't have been +possible to walk a yard," he explained, and they had accepted, +silently, his explanation. + +"I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that?" Bunting looked +deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once +that he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was +like an old hen with her last chicken. + +"She's safer than she would be, with you or me. She couldn't have +a smarter young fellow to look after her." + +"It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner," said Bunting. "It's +always worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe I'd 'a taken +her by the Underground Railway to Victoria--that 'ud been the best +way, considering the weather 'tis." + +"They don't think anything of the weather, bless you!" said his +wife. "They'll walk and walk as long as there's a glimmer left for +'em to steer by. Daisy's just been pining to have a walk with that +young chap. I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they both +were when you was so set on going along with them to that horrid +place." + +"D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked upset. "I understood +Joe to say he liked my company." + +"Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect he liked it just +about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go +out with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how +the woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her." + +"But I'm Daisy's father; and an old friend of Chandler," said Bunting +remonstratingly. "I'm quite different from that cook. She was +nothing to us, and we was nothing to her." + +"She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt," observed +his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled, a little +foolishly. + +By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting-room, and +a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. +Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. +The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and +she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very +unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You might +just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, only +that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. "No, that I won't! +He's a very quiet gentleman; but he knows exactly what he likes, +and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him. Why, even your +father's hardly seen him." + +But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr. +Sleuth. + +There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her +stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence young +Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken +to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to +her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe +Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be human nature +--at any rate, not girlish human nature--not to do so, even if +Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret. + +Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, +would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a +good thing. + +When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. +Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 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. . . . + +Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than +usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it +later than it was. + +When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, and just one +piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don't +feel like having anything else this afternoon." + +"It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice +than usual. "No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir. And then it +isn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it?" + +"No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting." + +She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, +as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp +dismay. + +Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long +Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, +ready for him to put on. + +"You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly. +"Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!" + +Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a +scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between +the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way--to erect +between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living +barrier. + +"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and he +looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, +slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed +for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right +hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been +on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him. + +"It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered, +"but--but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do +not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I--I +cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are +watched--spied upon." + +She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, sir," she +said, with considerable dignity. "I've done my best to satisfy +you--" + +"You have--you have!" he spoke in a distressed, apologetic tone. +"But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing +what I wish to do--indeed, what I have to do. For years I have +been misunderstood--persecuted"--he waited a moment, then in +a hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not tell me that +you are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid I'll ever be +that, sir. I only spoke as I did because--well, sir, because I +thought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out this +afternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so near +Christmas." + +He walked across to the window and looked out. "The fog is clearing +somewhat; Mrs. Bunting," but there was no relief in his voice, rather +was there disappointment and dread. + +Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. +The fog was lifting--rolling off in that sudden, mysterious way in +which local fogs sometimes do lift in London. + +He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversation has made me +forget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you +would just leave out a glass of milk and some bread-and-butter for +me this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for +after my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through +a very difficult experiment." + +"Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. + +But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it +had drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing +Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting she did a very odd thing +--a thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. She +pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass let +into the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" she +moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" + +But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming +intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery +never occurred to Mrs. Bunting. + +In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that +a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The +timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human +being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not +revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost +be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayer +has been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for revenge. So +far, perhaps because she is subject rather than citizen, her duty +as a component part of civilised society weighs but lightly on +woman's shoulders. + +And then--and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become +attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his +sad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals, and when +this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased--pleased and vaguely +touched. In between those--those dreadful events outside, which +filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, +she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. + +Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over +the strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have +lived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She did not +even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters; friends she +knew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he was, he had +evidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind +of life, till--till now. + +What had made him alter all of a sudden--if, that is, he had +altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully +with herself; and, what was more, and very terribly, to the point, +having altered, why should he not in time go back to what he +evidently had been--that is, a blameless, quiet gentleman? + +If only he would! If only he would! + +As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these +thoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning speed through +her brain. + +She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day--that +there had never been, in the history of the world, so strange a +murderer as The Avenger had proved himself to be. + +She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, fascinated, +on Joe's words, as he had told them of other famous series of +murders which had taken place in the past, not only in England but +abroad--especially abroad. + +One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, +respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order +to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale +of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, +living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers +who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any +valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or +murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in +almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. + +At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she +went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. + +"The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. "I hope +that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it." + +But the other shook his head silently. "No such luck!" he said +briefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I +expect 'twill soon be just as heavy here as 'twas half an hour ago!" + +She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. +"Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she observed. + +"There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking +of asking if you wouldn't like to go along there with me." + +"No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at home." + +She was listening--listening for the sounds which would betoken +that the lodger was coming downstairs. + +At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his rubber-soled +shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact +when the front door shut to. + +"That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on his wife, +startled. "Why, the poor gentleman'll come to harm--that he will! +One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn't +taken any of his money out with him." + +"'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog," said Mrs. +Bunting sombrely. + +Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true words. And then +she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bunting had taken +what she said. + +But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. "We +don't get the good old fogs we used to get--not what people used +to call 'London particulars.' I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. +Crowley--I've often told you about her, Ellen?" + +Mrs. Bunting nodded. + +Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of those he had +liked best--a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often to give her +servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat +they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated +her kind thought. + +"Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic +way, "that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so +long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked +the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. +Fog never kept her from going out--no, that it didn't. She wasn't +a bit afraid. But--" he turned round and looked at his wife-- +"I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a +timid kind of gentleman--" + +He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer him. + +"I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a low voice, "but +he is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes going out when +there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don't +suppose he'll be out long." + +She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon +--that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. + +Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She +got up, and went over to the farthest window. + +The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on +the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering redly; and +shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards +the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops. + +At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to +the cupboard where he kept his little store of books, and took one +out. + +"I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I've +looked at a book. The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, +but now there's nothing in 'em." + +His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days +had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had +very little to say about them that they hadn't said in different +language a dozen times before. + +She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. + +Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so +engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not +had much time for that sort of work. + +It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or--or +the lodger, in it. + +At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric +slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. +Sleuth's return home. + +And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful +wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she +knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any +kind of--well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he +had lived during the last few weeks. + +No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way +as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, +until, perhaps--God, what a horrible thought--a picture published +in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting's +knowledge. + +But if that happened--if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, +she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything. She also +would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the +astounding revelation. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't a night +you would wish a dog to be out in." + +Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and +look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the +evening paper he held in his hand. + +He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his +nice arm-chair. He looked very well--well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting +stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of +resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry +way, very fond of Bunting. + +"You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for +himself all right." + +Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. "I +can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather," he said +impatiently. + +"Well, it's none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?" + +"No, that's true enough. Still, 'twould be a very bad thing for us +if anything happened to him. This lodger's the first bit of luck +we've had for a terrible long time, Ellen." + +Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She +remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious +to be worth answering. Also she was listening, following in +imagination her lodger's quick, singularity quiet progress-- +"stealthy" she called it to herself--through the fog-filled, +lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What +was that Bunting was saying? + +"It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather--no, that +it ain't, not unless they have something to do that won't wait till +to-morrow." The speaker was looking straight into his wife's narrow, +colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate man, and liked to prove +himself right. "I've a good mind to speak to him about it, that +I have! He ought to be told that it isn't safe--not for the sort +of man he is--to be wandering about the streets at night. I read +you out the accidents in Lloyd's--shocking, they were, and all +brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster 'ull soon +be at his work again--" + +"Monster?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. + +She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead. She was +very curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting-room, +or straight upstairs, to that cold experiment-room, as he now always +called it. + +But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up +trying to listen to what was going on above. + +"It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that +in the fog, eh, Ellen?" He spoke as if the notion had a certain +pleasant thrill in it after all. + +"What stuff you do talk!" said Mrs. Bunting sharply. And then she +got up. Her husband's remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn't they +talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time +together? + +Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she moved quietly about +the room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and to-night she +was going to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That +fortunate man, as she was fond of telling him, with mingled contempt +and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, and yet he was rather +fanciful, as gentlemen's servants who have lived in good places +often are. + +Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. +Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, and she would never +have allowed an unrefined word--such a word as "stomach," for +instance, to say nothing of an even plainer term--to pass her +lips, except, of course, to a doctor in a sick-room. + +Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen; +instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading +into her bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back +into the darkness, and stood motionless, listening. + +At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her +listening ears the sound of someone moving softly about in the +room just overhead, that is, in Mr. Sleuth's bedroom. But, try as +she might, it was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was +doing. + +At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little +landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, +that Mr. Sleuth would pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless +room above. He hadn't spent any time up there for quite a long +while-in fact, not for nearly ten days. 'Twas odd he chose to-night, +when it was so foggy, to carry out an experiment. + +She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired-- +strangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical +exertion. + +Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and Bunting luck, +and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that. + +As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first +time, what the lodger's departure would mean. It would almost +certainly mean ruin; just as his staying meant all sorts of good +things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth +stayed on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, it +meant respectability, and, above all, security. + +Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He never received a +letter, and yet he must have some kind of income--so much was +clear. She supposed he went and drew his money, in sovereigns, out +of a bank as he required it. + +Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away from Mr. +Sleuth. + +The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she assured herself that +there would come a time when The Avenger, whoever he was, must feel +satiated; when he would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. + +To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger seemed so +pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady +--indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish +to leave such nice lodgings. + +****** + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort, and shook +off her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the +handle of the door giving into the passage she turned it, and then, +with light, firm steps, she went down into the kitchen. + +When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by +her care, if not into a pleasant, then, at any rate, into a very +clean place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still +white walls the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron +and bright steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one +pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here, in +the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. +Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that +kind of business. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for +what she consumed after she had consumed it. + +Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she +turned up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle. + +Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying-pan on the +stove, and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, +to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting +gentleman than the lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, +so--so peculiar. + +She thought of the bag--that bag which had rumbled about so +queerly in the chiffonnier. Something seemed to tell her that +tonight the lodger had taken that bag out with him. + +And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently +from her mind, and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. +Sleuth's income, and of how little trouble he gave. Of course, +the lodger was eccentric, otherwise he wouldn't be their lodger +at all--he would be living in quite a different sort of way with +some of his relations, or with a friend in his own class. + +While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, +Mrs. Bunting went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting +it up into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing +everything, as was always her way, with a certain delicate and +cleanly precision. + +And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to +be poured the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled +her, made her feel uncomfortable. + +Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. + +She looked up and listened. + +Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy +night--going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second +time? But no; the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar +footsteps, did not continue down the passage leading to the front +door. + +Instead--Why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen +so intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the +toasting-fork grew quite black. With a start she became aware +that this was so, and she frowned, vexed with herself. That came +of not attending to one's work. + +Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. +He was coming down into the kitchen. + +Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the +kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting's heart began to beat as if in +response. She put out the flame of the gas-ring, unheedful of the +fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. + +Then she turned and faced the door. + +There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door +opened, and revealed, as she had at once known and feared it would +do, the lodger. + +Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid +dressing-gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though +she knew that he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In +his hand was a lighted candle. + +When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in +it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. + +"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn't ring, sir?" + +Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had +no business to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to +let him know that such was her view. + +"No, I--I didn't ring," he stammered awkwardly. "The truth is, I +didn't know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. +My gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot +arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had a +gas-stove. I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to-night for +an important experiment I wish to make." + +Mrs. Bunting's heart was beating quickly--quickly. She felt +horribly troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn't Mr. Sleuth's +experiment wait till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but +there was that in his face that made her at once afraid and pitiful. +It was a wild, eager, imploring look. + +"Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here." + +"It seems most pleasantly warm," he observed, his voice full of +relief, "warm and cosy, after my cold room upstairs." + +Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even +that cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and +more cosy than this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. + +"I'll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it's in +perfect order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house +was to have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might +have set the house on fire." Mrs. Bunting's housewifely instincts +were roused. "For the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in +your bedroom this cold night." + +"By no means--I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire +there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told +you as much." + +Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his +candle still alight, just inside the kitchen door. + +"I shan't be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You +could come down then. I'll have everything quite tidy for you. Is +there anything I can do to help you?" + +"I do not require the use of your kitchen yet--thank you all the +same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later--altogether later-- +after you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much +obliged if you would see that the gas people come to-morrow and +put my stove in order. It might be done while I am out. That the +shilling-in-the-slot machine should go wrong is very unpleasant. +It has upset me greatly." + +"Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter +of that, I could ask him to go up now." + +"No, no, I don't want anything of that sort done to-night. Besides, +he couldn't put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, +and I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite +simple. The machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish +plan, so I always felt it to be." + +Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to +speak, but Mrs. Bunting sympathised with him in this matter. She +had always suspected that those slot machines were as dishonest as +if they were human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up +the shillings! She had had one once, so she knew. + +And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward +and stared at the stove. "Then you haven't got a slot machine?" he +said wonderingly. "I'm very glad of that, for I expect my experiment +will take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you something for +the use of the stove, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't think of charging you anything for that. +We don't use our stove very much, you know, sir. I'm never in the +kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather." + +Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually +in Mr. Sleuth's presence her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps +because his manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. +But still there came over her an eerie feeling, as, with him +preceding her, they made a slow progress to the ground floor. + +Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady good-night, +and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments. + +Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove; +but she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she was +cooking the cheese, she tried to concentrate her mind on what she +was doing, and on the whole she succeeded. But another part of her +mind seemed to be working independently, asking her insistent +questions. + +The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she +caught herself listening--which was absurd, for, of course, she +could not hope to hear what Mr. Sleuth was doing two, if not three, +flights upstairs. She wondered in what the lodger's experiments +consisted. It was odd that she had never been able to discover what +it was he really did with that big gas-stove. All she knew was +that he used a very high degree of heat. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting made +up her mind to keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour +of the night the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry +through his experiment, and, above all, she was anxious to know +how long he would stay there. + +But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she +fell asleep. + +The church clock hard by struck two, and, suddenly Mrs. Bunting +awoke. She felt put out sharply annoyed with herself. How could +she have dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down +and up again hours ago! + +Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a faint acrid +odour in the room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass +her and the snoring man by her side, almost as a vapour might have +done. + +Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the +cold, she quietly crept out of her nice, warm bedclothes, and +crawled along to the bottom of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth's +landlady did a very curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail +and put her face close to the hinge of the door giving into the +hall. Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor was +coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage. + +As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to +give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard +herself saying, "Bunting, get up! There's something strange and +dreadful going on downstairs which we ought to know about." + +But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening with painful +intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she +would do nothing of the sort. + +What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess--a certain +amount of smell--in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not--was he +not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, +where could they ever hope to get another like him? + +Three o'clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps +creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight +up to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he +went to the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he +came past her door, and she thought--but could not be sure--that +he sat down on the stairs. + +At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage +again. Very softly he closed the front door. By then she had +divined why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted +to get the strong, acrid smell of burning--was it of burning wool? +--out of the house. + +But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the +lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get +rid of the horrible odour. + +Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. + +At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and +then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse +voices seemed to be shouting in her ear: "The Avenger close here! +The Avenger close here!" "'Orrible murder off the Edgware Road!" +"The Avenger at his work again"' + +And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered--angered and +impatient. She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this +horrid nightmare! It was because of Bunting--Bunting, who could +think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders, in +which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest. + +Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking +to her about it: + +"Ellen "--so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear--"Ellen, my dear, +I'm just going to get up to get a paper. It's after seven o'clock." + +The shouting--nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet +smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead +with both hands, she sat up and listened. + +It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse-- +reality. + +Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and +let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have +been easier to bear than this awakening. + +She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the +paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then +he came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the +gas-ring in the sitting-room. + +Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had +promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet +broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, +no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge +that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale blue eyes. +This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job. + +When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his +wife lying with her face to the wall. + +"Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, +nay happy, excitement in his voice. + +She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she asked. "Well? +Why don't you tell me about it?" + +"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I thought, Ellen, +you never heard nothing." + +"How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. +Why don't you tell me?" + +"I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly. + +"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the +rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don't +tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?" + +"Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you. The +Avenger's moving West--that's what he's doing. Last time 'twas +King's Cross--now 'tis the Edgware Road. I said he'd come our way, +and he has come our way!" + +"You just go and get me that paper," she commanded. "I wants to +see for myself." + +Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her +silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. + +"Why, whatever's this?" she asked. "This ain't our paper!" + +"'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly. "It's a special early +edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger. Here's the bit +about it"--he showed her the exact spot. But she would have found +it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring +over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear +characters:-- + +"Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger +has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, +and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an +interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were +concentrating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, +he moved swiftly and silently Westward. And, choosing a time when +the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another +human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery. + +"Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had +lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of +happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that +cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing +his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest accident +that the body was discovered as soon as it was--that is, just +after midnight. + +"Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that +the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at +first thought--we were going to say, hoped--that this murder had +nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying +the whole of the civilised world. But no--pinned on the edge of the +dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of +grey paper--the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of +man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his +audacity and daring--so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent +wickedness." + +All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful +intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to +burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his +Ellen's unsympathetic ears. + +At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. + +"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?" +she said irritably. "Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go +away--do!" + +And Bunting went off into the next room. + +After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried +to think of nothing. Nay, more--so strong, so determined was her +will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She +felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does +a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness. + +Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of +her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if +those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; +she wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her +brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret +was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as +that. + +Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes--to-morrow, not +to-day. Well, that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things +Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl +had an excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise, +funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," lent herself to +the cruel gift. + +And then Mrs. Bunting's mind--her poor, weak, tired mind--wandered +off to young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you came to +think of it--which she, Ellen Bunting, didn't often do. There was +Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty +young women, too,--quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times more +artful--and yet there! He passed them all by, had done so ever +since last summer, though you might be sure that they, artful minxes, +by no manner of means passed him by,--without giving them a thought! +As Daisy wasn't here, he would probably keep away to-day. There +was comfort in that thought, too. + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful +turgid flood. If Joe did come in, she must nerve herself to hear +all that--that talk there'd be about The Avenger between him and +Bunting. + +Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she +had just recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, +very, very tired in body and soul. + +She stood for a moment listening--listening, and shivering, for +it was very cold. Considering how early it still was, there +seemed a lot of coming and going in the Marylebone Road. She could +hear the unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and the tightly +fastened windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular +crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene +of The Avenger's last extraordinary crime. + +She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling +from the letter-box on to the floor of the hall, and a moment later +came the sound of Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. +She visualised him coming back, and sitting down with a sigh of +satisfaction by the newly-lit fire. + +Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant +tramping and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume +and in sound as the moments slipped by. + +****** + +When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen everything looked just +as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she +had expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed +room was full of fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were +bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had +been widely opened to the air. She had left them shut. + +Making a "spill" out of a twist of newspaper--she had been taught +the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses--she stooped and +flung open the oven-door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had +expected a fierce heat had been generated there since she had last +used the oven, and through to the stone floor below had fallen a +mass of black, gluey soot. + +Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous +day for her own and Bunting's breakfast upstairs, and broiled them +over the gas-ring in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in +surprised silence. She had never done such a thing before. + +"I couldn't stay down there," she said; "it was so cold and foggy. +I thought I'd make breakfast up here, just for to-day." + +"Yes," he said kindly; "that's quite right, Ellen. I think you've +done quite right, my dear." + +But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the +nice breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea. + +"I'm afraid you're ill, Ellen?" Bunting asked solicitously. + +"No," she said shortly; "I'm not ill at all. Don't be silly! The +thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me, +and put me off my food. Just hark to them now!" + +Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet +and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd; nay, what a mob, must be +hastening busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing +to be seen! + +Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. "I don't want +any of those ghouls in here!" she exclaimed angrily. And then, +"What a lot of idle people there are in the world!" she said. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the +window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; +then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down. + +But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up +he would rise from his chair, and go to the window again. + +"I wish you'd stay still," his wife said at last. And then, a few +minutes later, "Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and go +out?" she exclaimed. + +And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat +and coat and go out. + +As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it +was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, +extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn't +reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had +been that very morning--angry with him because he had gone out +to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had +come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her +to hear about it! + +Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the +kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, +a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned and +did what she had never in her life done before, and what she had +never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. + +But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from +everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She +felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which +mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns. + +Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? +Daisy, at any rate, was company--kind, young, unsuspecting company. +With Daisy she could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort +to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say +nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of +guilt, of shame. She was the man's wedded wife--in his stolid way +he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something +he certainly had a right to know. + +Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful +suspicion--nay, of her almost certainty. + +At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went +upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little +better. + +She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved +by his absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet +she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house. + +And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind +into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what +was going on upstairs. + +What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only +natural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last +night, or rather this morning. + +****** + +Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did +not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal +which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she +went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food. + +Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and +just outside the sitting-room--for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had +got up, that he was there already, waiting for her--she rested the +tray on the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments she +heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice +with which she had become so familiar: + +"'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in +secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, +and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'" + +There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of +her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. +Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer voice: + +"'She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men +have been slain by her.'" And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone +came the words: "'I applied my heart to know, and to search, and +to seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the +wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.'" + +And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, of +spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time +in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and +strangeness, of human life. + +Poor Mr. Sleuth--poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! An +overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and the +loathing, she had been feeling for her lodger. + +She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. + +"Come in, Mrs. Bunting." Mr. Sleuth's voice sounded feebler, more +toneless than usual. + +She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was +not sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round table +on which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of +his bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it +were placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But as his +landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and began +staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying +crowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road. + +"There seem a great many people out today," he observed, without +looking round. + +"Yes, sir, there do." + +Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and +putting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seized +with a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there. + +At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to +look at him. How tired, how worn, he looked, and--how strange! + +Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands +together with a nervous gesture--it was a gesture he only made when +something had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at +him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he +had first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained a +large gas-stove and a convenient sink. + +What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a +play she had once seen--a play to which a young man bad taken her +when she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled +and fascinated her. "Out, out, damned spot!" that was what the tall, +fierce, beautiful lady who had played the part of a queen had said, +twisting her hands together just as the lodger was doing now. + +"It's a fine day," said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and unfolding his +napkin. "The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with +me, Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining, +as it is now, at any rate, trying to shine." He looked at her +inquiringly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. +However, that did not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. + +He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, +taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced +any such feeling for many years past. + +He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. "I +don't feel as if I could eat very much to-day," he said plaintively. +And then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. + +Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat +Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the day before. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?" + +And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. + +"Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly +allowed me to make of your kitchen last night?" he said quietly. +"I tried to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but-- +well, the truth is I was carrying out a very elaborate experiment." + +Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took +the coin. The fingers which for a moment brushed lightly against +her palm were icy cold--cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently +not well. + +As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball +hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's landlady, and +threw blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece of +gold she was holding in her hand. + +****** + +The day went by, as other days had gone by in that quiet household, +but, of course, there was far greater animation outside the little +house than was usually the case. + +Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some +days, the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that part +of the town. + +When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while he +told her of the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. And +then, after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot a +strange look at him. + +"I suppose you went to see the place?" she said. + +And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. + +"Well?" + +"Well, there wasn't anything much to see--not now. But, oh, Ellen, +the daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry +out--which they don't believe she had--it's impossible someone +wouldn't 'a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like +that--in the afternoon, like--he never will be caught. He must +have just got mixed up with all the other people within ten seconds +of what he'd done!" + +During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly--in fact, he +must have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all the +supposed and suggested clues, there was nothing--nothing at all new +to read, less, in fact than ever before. + +The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting +began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less--less +terrified than she had felt through the morning. + +And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the +quietude of the day. + +They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the +papers he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, +thundering, double knock at the door. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. "Why, whoever can that be?" she +said. + +But as Bunting got up she added quickly, "You just sit down again. +I'll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I'll soon send +them to the right-about!" + +And then she left the room, but not before there had come another +loud double knock. + +Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the +person who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark +man, with fierce, black moustaches. And somehow--she could not +have told you why--he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting's mind. + +This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. +For, "I'm here to execute a warrant!" he exclaimed in a theatrical, +hollow tone. + +With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms +as if to bar the way; she turned deadly white--but then, in an +instant the supposed stranger's laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, +familiar sound! + +"There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I'd take you in as well +as all that!" + +It was Joe Chandler--Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he +sometimes, not very often, did dress up in the course of his work. + +Mrs. Bunting began laughing--laughing helplessly, hysterically, +just as she had done on the morning of Daisy's arrival, when the +newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road. + +"What's all this about?" Bunting came out + +Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I didn't mean to +upset her like this," he said, looking foolish; "'twas just my silly +nonsense, Mr. Bunting." And together they helped her into the +sitting-room. + +But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she +threw her black apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically. + +"'I made sure she'd know who I was when I spoke," went on the young +fellow apologetically. "But, there now, I have upset her. I am +sorry!" + +"It don't matter!" she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, +but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and +laughed by turns. "Don't matter one little bit, Joe! 'Twas stupid +of me to be so taken aback. But, there, that murder that's happened +close by, it's just upset me--upset me altogether to-day." + +"Enough to upset anyone--that was," acknowledged the young man +ruefully. "I've only come in for a minute, like. I haven't no +right to come when I'm on duty like this--" + +Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were +still on the table. + +"You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup," said Bunting +hospitably; "and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We're +right in the middle of everything now, ain't we?" He spoke with +evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. + +Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He +waited a moment, and then: "Well I have got one piece of news--not +that I suppose it'll interest you very much." + +They both looked at him--Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her +breast still heaved from time to time. + +"Our Boss has resigned!" said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. + +"No! Not the Commissioner o' Police?" exclaimed Bunting. + +"Yes, he has. He just can't bear what's said about us any longer +--and I don't wonder! He done his best, and so's we all. The +public have just gone daft--in the West End, that is, to-day. As +for the papers, well, they're something cruel--that's what they +are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You'd never believe the +things they asks us to do--and quite serious-like." + +"What d'you mean?" questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to +know. + +"Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-house +investigation--all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to +let the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, +just to see if The Avenger isn't concealed there. Dotty, I calls +it! Why, 'twould take us months and months just to do that one +job in a town like London." + +"I'd like to see them dare come into my house!" said Mrs. Bunting +angrily. + +"It's all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went to +work a different way this time," said Chandler slowly. + +Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and was +eagerly listening. "How d'you mean?" he asked. "I don't take +your meaning, Joe." + +"Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was always saying +how extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiar +time to do his deeds--I mean, the time when no one's about the +streets. Now, doesn't it stand to reason that the fellow, reading +all that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, 'I'll go on +another tack this time'? Just listen to this!" He pulled a strip +of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket: + + +"'AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE AVENGER + + +"'Will the murderer be caught? Yes,' replied Sir John, 'he will +certainly be caught--probably when he commits his next crime. A +whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his +track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community +against him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered that +he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes. + +"'Londoners are now in such a state of nerves--if I may use the +expression, in such a state of funk--that every passer-by, however +innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his +avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and +three in the morning.' + +"I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!" concluded Joe Chandler +wrathfully. + +Just then the lodger's bell rang. + +"Let me go up, my dear," said Bunting. + +His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. + +"No, no," she said hastily. "You stop down here, and talk to Joe. +I'll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a +bit earlier than usual to-day." + +Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton +wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, +and then went in. + +"You did ring, sir?" she said, in her quiet, respectful way. + +And Mr. Sleuth looked up. + +She thought--but, as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have +been just her idea, and nothing else--that for the first time the +lodger looked frightened--frightened and cowed. + +"I heard a noise downstairs," he said fretfully, "and I wanted to +know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I +first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me.". + +"It was just a friend of ours, sir. I'm sorry you were disturbed. +Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting'll be +pleased to do it if you don't like to hear the sound of the knocks." + +"Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such trouble as that." Mr. Sleuth +looked quite relieved. "Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. +Bunting? He made a great deal of noise." + +"Just a young fellow," she said apologetically. "The son of one of +Bunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never did +give such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak to +him about it" + +"Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of +the kind. It was just a passing annoyance--nothing more!" + +She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of +the hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlam +every hour or two throughout that day, But no, Mr. Sleuth made no +allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at +his reading. + +"I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little earlier to-night, +sir?" + +"Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting--just when it's convenient. I +do not wish to put you out in any way." + +She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed the door. + +As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. She sighed +--Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the +lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her +kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came +to her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow. + +Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly +giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought +her, she got up and dressed. + +She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase +required a thorough "doing down," and she did not even wait till +they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. It +made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading +his morning paper--the paper which was again of such absorbing +interest--he called out, "There's no need for so much hurry, Ellen. +Daisy'll be back to-day. Why don't you wait till she's come home to +help you?" + +But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, +his wife's voice came back: "Girls ain't no good at this sort of +work. Don't you worry about me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing an +extra bit of cleaning to-day. I don't like to feel as anyone could +come in and see my place dirty." + +"No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck +him. "Ain't you afraid of waking the lodger?" he called out. + +"Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night," she +answered quickly. "As it is, I study him over-much; it's a long, +long time since I've done this staircase down." + +All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left +the sitting-room door wide open. + +That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn't like to get +up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn't +read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had +never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he +looked up and frowned rather crossly. + +There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellen +was standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing. + +"Come in," he said, "do! Ain't you finished yet?" + +"I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don't tell me nothing. +I'd like to know if there's anything--I mean anything new--in the +paper this morning." + +She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her +unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting +suddenly uneasy. "Come in--do!" he repeated sharply. "You've +done quite enough--and before breakfast, too. 'Tain't necessary. +Come in and shut that door." + +He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him. + +She came in, and did what she had never done before--brought the +broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. + +Then she sat down. + +"I think I'll make breakfast up here," she said. "I--I feel cold, +Bunting." And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of +perspiration were glistening on her forehead. + +He got up. "All right. I'll go down and bring the eggs up. Don't +you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if +you like." + +"No," she said obstinately. "I'd rather do my own work. You just +bring them up here--that'll be all right. To-morrow morning we'll +have Daisy to help see to things." + +"Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair," he suggested +kindly. "You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see'd +such a woman!" + +And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room +with languid steps. + +He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. + +She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took +two steps towards her. + +"I'll show you the most interesting bit" he said eagerly. "It's +the piece headed, 'Our Special Investigator.' You see, they've +started a special investigator of their own, and he's got hold of +a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man +who writes all that--I mean the Special Investigator--was a +famous 'tec in his time, and he's just come back out of his +retirement o' purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You +read what he says--I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he ends by +getting that reward! One can see he just loves the work of +tracking people down." + +"There's nothing to be proud of in such a job," said his wife +listlessly. + +"He'll have something to be proud of if he catches The Avenger!" +cried Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put off +by Ellen's contradictory remarks. "You just notice that bit about +the rubber soles. Now, no one's thought o' that. I'll just tell +Chandler--he don't seem to me to be half awake, that young man +don't." + +"He's quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! +How about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast +even if you don't--" + +Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly +described to himself as "Ellen's snarling voice." + +He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There +was something queer about her, and he couldn't make it out. He +didn't mind it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was +used to that. 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. In his +time he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he +thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first +drawn him to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap as +cordially as he had done when they first came to London. + +But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort +of talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed +reproachfully: "To hear you two, one would think there was no nice, +respectable, quiet people left in the world!" + +But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be +to hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her +own view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had had +her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman +who thought for herself--a clever woman, not an everyday woman by +any manner of means. + +While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, +Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give +Ellen a nice little surprise--to cook an omelette as a French chef +had once taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn't know how +she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but +never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn't +been eating her food properly of late. + +And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be +admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even +noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading +with intense, painful care the column that the great daily paper +they took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective. + +According to this Special Investigator's own account he had +discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the +police and of the official detectives. For instance, owing, he +admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where +the two last murders had been committed very soon after the double +crime had been discovered--in fact within half an hour, and he +had found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavement +imprints of the murderer's right foot. + +The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. +At the same time, he also admitted--for the Special Investigator +was very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the +enterprising paper which had engaged him to probe the awful +mystery--that there were thousands of rubber soles being worn in +London. . . . + +And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, and +there came a wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It was +quite true--that about rubber soles; there were thousands of +rubber soles being worn just now. She felt grateful to the Special +Investigator for having stated the fact so clearly. + +The column ended up with the words: + +"And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten +days ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public +inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery +of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible +to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general +public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same people +have been examined and cross-examined in private by the police, +their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly +confused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubt +that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually +saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double +crime--this being so, to-day's investigation may be of the highest +value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account of +the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements +made during its course." + +Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had +gone on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he +said rather crossly, "Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The +omelette I've cooked for you will be just like leather if you don't +eat it." + +But once his wile had eaten her breakfast--and, to Bunting's +mortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched +--she took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, +until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to +The Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and then +uttered an exclamation under her breath. + +What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for--what at last she had found +--was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that +day. The hour named was a rather odd time--two o'clock in the +afternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting's point of view, it was most +convenient. + +By two o'clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had +his lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have +had their dinner, and--and Daisy wasn't coming home till tea-time. + +She got up out of her husband's chair. "I think you're right," she +said, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about me seeing a doctor, +Bunting.' I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon." + +"Wouldn't you like me to go with you?" he asked. + +"No, that I wouldn't. In fact I wouldn't go at all you was to go +with me." + +"All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my dear; you know +best." + +"I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned." + +Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. "'Twas I said, +long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; 'twas you said you +wouldn't!" he exclaimed pugnaciously. + +"Well, I've never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, +I'm going." + +"Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with a look of real +solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. + +Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there opposite him. Her +shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a +little. She had never looked so bad--not even when they had been +half starving, and dreadfully, dreadfully worked. + +"Yes," she said briefly, "I've a pain in my head, at the back of +my neck. It doesn't often leave me; it gets worse when anything +upsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler." + +"He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!" said Bunting +crossly. "I'd a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, +Ellen, I wonder he took you in--he didn't me!" + +"Well, you had no chance he should--you knew who it was," she said +slowly. + +And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had +already spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and saw +their cleverly disguised visitor. + +"Those big black moustaches," he went on complainingly, "and that +black wig--why, 'twas too ridic'lous--that's what I call it!" + +"Not to anyone who didn't know Joe," she said sharply. + +"Well, I don't know. He didn't look like a real man--nohow. If +he's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever see him looking like +that!" and Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. + +He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last +two days, and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, +unnatural life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe was +earning good money. They wouldn't have long to wait, these two +young people, as a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, +Bunting, and Daisy's mother had had to do, for ever so long before +they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn't +be spliced quite soon--if so the fancy took them. And Bunting +had very little doubt that so the fancy would take Joe, at any rate. + +But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn't be eighteen till the +week after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that +time Old Aunt might be dead, and Daisy might have come into quite +a tidy little bit of money. + +"What are you smiling at?" said his wife sharply. + +And he shook himself. "I--smiling? At nothing that I knows of." +Then he waited a moment. "Well, if you will know, Ellen, I was +just thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is +gone on her, ain't he?" + +"Gone?" And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly +laugh. "Gone, Bunting?" she repeated. "Why, he's out o' sight +--right, out of sight!" + +Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, +twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:-- +"I suppose he'll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or--or +d'you think he'll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?" + +"Inquest? What inquest?" He looked at her puzzled. + +"Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King's +Cross." + +"Oh, no; he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o' +that, I know he's going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night +--just when 'you went up to the lodger." + +"That's just as well." Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable +satisfaction. "Otherwise I suppose you'd ha' had to go. I wouldn't +like the house left--not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be +upset if there came a ring at the door." + +"Oh, I won't leave the house, don't you be afraid, Ellen--not while +you're out" + +"Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting." + +"No fear. Of course, you'll be a long time if it's your idea to see +that doctor at Ealing?" + +He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow +nodding didn't seem as bad as speaking a lie. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, +when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is +entirely novel. + +Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a +witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was +sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. + +In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for +a fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of +those sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the +serenity, the apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household. + +The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned +herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause +for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles +to the strange lady's maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, +and it was during the conversation the two women had had together +that the girl had threatened to take her own life. + +As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going +out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful +affair, and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. + +She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor, +unfortunate creature had been held. + +The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give +evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful +animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women +as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl's fate had +aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those +who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid. + +Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to +Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in +the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with +chairs, but with cake and wine. + +She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had +felt as if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place, +rather than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the +sad business. + +But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had +been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on +the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the +exact words the unhappy girl had used. + +One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by +an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, +low-ceilinged room. "Ought not Miss Ellen Green," so the man had +asked, "to have told someone of the girl's threat? If she had done +so, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself +into the lake?" And she, the witness, had answered, with some +asperity--for by that time the coroner's kind manner had put her +at her ease--that she had not attached any importance to what the +girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman +could be so silly as to drown herself for love! + +****** + +Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was +going to be present this afternoon would be like that country +inquest of long ago. + +It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well +how little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, +had got the whole truth out--the story, that is, of how that +horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first +minute she had set eyes on him, had, taken up with another young +woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited +by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the +dead girl's letters had been read out--piteous, queerly expressed +letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And +the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered +the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a +passage for him to slink out of the crowded room. + +Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting +that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and +somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it. + +She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed +to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess +where she was thinking of going. + +And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head +--no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, +never suspect her of telling him a lie. + +Stop--had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after +the inquest was finished--if there was time, that is. She wondered +uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, +as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely +be very formal--formal and therefore short. + +She herself had one quite definite object--that of hearing the +evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving +the spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowing +blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager +curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter +would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of +people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day +before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a +living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and +where he spent his time between his awful crimes. + +As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her +husband. + +"Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the doctor. You +looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along with +you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Not +by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know." + +"There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first +minute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully +and sadly. + +And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone and clean +forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait +till to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?" + +"I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone +else's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting +really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, "I'll +be all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!" + +As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl +she had put over her long jacket more closely round her. + +She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. +And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden +with poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft. +Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer--as if she +would give the world to tell someone--anyone--what it was that she +suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth. + +But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it +was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the +last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house +unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come +into contact with the lodger. + +When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There +were two ways of getting to St. Pancras--she could go by bus, or +she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before +turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the +early afternoon papers lying on the ground. + +Two words, + + THE AVENGER, + +stared up at her in varying type. + +Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, +Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined +to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes +were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the +close print in the paper Bunting took in. + +Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. + +And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. + +The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be +empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they +were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question +she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. + +"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquests +are held "--she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then +concluded--"in the neighbourhood of King's Cross?" + +The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at +all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest--there are many +such--just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a +widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain +Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face. + +"I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said good-naturedly. +"So you can come along of me. You see there's that big Avenger +inquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to make other +arrangements for--hum, hum--ordinary cases." And as she looked +at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd of people at +The Avenger inquest--a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to +say nothing of the public." + +"That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could +scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, +yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was +going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder +inquest! + +During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened +by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the +stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have +regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a +simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet--and yet that was +just what she was about to do herself. + +"I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she murmured. It was +a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. + +"Ah!" he said reflectively. "A--a relative connected with one of +the two victims' husbands, I presume?" + +And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. + +"Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and then he turned and +looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. + +"Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker's voice. + +And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't seen her for +quite a long time, I suppose?" + +"Never had, seen her. I'm from the country." Something impelled +Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, +"At least, I was." + +"Will he be there?" + +She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was +alluding. + +"I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. "I felt sorry +for the last poor chap--I mean the husband of the last one--he +seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a good wife and a +good mother till she took to the drink." + +"It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting. + +"Aye." he waited a moment. "D'you know anyone about the court?" he +asked. + +She shook her head. + +"Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o' me. You'd never +get in by yourself." + +They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one's charge, of +having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even +now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial +about the whole business. + +"If he knew--if he only knew what I know!" she kept saying over +and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly +form of the police inspector. + +"'Tisn't far--not three minutes," he said suddenly. "Am I walking +too quick for you, ma'am?"' + +"No, not at all. I'm a quick walker." + +And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, +a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking +little door sunk into a high wall. + +"Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. "Make way there! +Make way!" he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the +serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight +of his uniform. + +"Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd never have got +through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner of +means." + +The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves +on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few +men were out there, smoking. + +Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of +the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his watch. +"There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he said. +"There's the mortuary"--he pointed with his thumb to a low room +built out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in and +see them?" he whispered. + +"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked +down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a +nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued +with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it +her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to +one of The Avenger's victims. + +They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men +talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones. + +"I think you'd better sit down' here," he said considerately, and, +leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed +walls--"unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is." + +But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an effort, "Oughtn't +I to go into the court now, if it's likely to be so full?" + +"Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get a proper place. +I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come back in good time +and look after you." + +She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while +they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, +and looked about her. + +Many of the gentlemen--they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats +--standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She picked +out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated +face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely +advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair--the +preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had +great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to +himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a +dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, +and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody. + +How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, +from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious +beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid +place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all +thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality +--that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose +to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away +from them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly +trained minds--aye, and bodies, too--at bay. + +Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her +presence among them. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long +time--it was really about a quarter of an hour--when her official +friend came back. + +"Better come along now," he whispered; "it'll begin soon." + +She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, +and so into the Coroner's Court. + +The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a +chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a +gallery evidently set aside for the general public, for it was now +crammed to its utmost capacity. + +Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces. Had +it not been for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now +following, it was there that she would have had to try and make her +way. And she would have failed. Those people had rushed in the +moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their way in a way +she could never have pushed or fought. + +There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking +women, belonging to every class, but made one by their love of +sensation and their power of forcing their way in where they wanted +to be. But the women were few; the great majority of those standing +there were men--men who were also representative of every class of +Londoner. + +The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three +steps below the surrounding gallery. Just now it was comparatively +clear of people, save for the benches on which sat the men who were +to compose the jury. Some way from these men, huddled together in +a kind of big pew, stood seven people--three women and four men. + +"D'you see the witnesses?" whispered the inspector, pointing these +out to her. He supposed her to know one of them with familiar +knowledge, but, if that were so, she made no sign. + +Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little +platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting +guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would sit. And to +the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also raised +considerably above the jury. + +Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than +the scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that +bright April day, in the village inn. There the coroner had sat on +the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped +forward one by one, and taken their place before him. + +Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely +die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that +curious box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat +the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart. + +But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman +witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the +centre of attention and attraction to the general public. It was +plain each was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress +in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the attention of all +London--it might almost be said of the whole world. + +Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was +which. Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who +had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten +seconds of the double crime being committed? The woman who, aroused +by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed to her window and +seen the murderer's shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog? + +Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most +circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it +was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed. + +Those two women now before her had been interrogated and +cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by +representatives of every newspaper in London. It was from what they +had both said--unluckily their accounts materially differed--that +that official description of The Avenger had been worked up--that +which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow +of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel. + +As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon +companion of the dead. + +Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze +on another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed +through the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the +coroner's high dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, +was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her +place, there had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now +every seat at the table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking +men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, +before him. + +"Them's the reporters," whispered her friend. "They don't like +coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last to go. +At an ordinary inquest there are only two--maybe three--attending, +but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well applied for a +pass to that reporters' table." + +He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. "Now let +me see what I can do for you--" + +Then he beckoned to the coroner's officer: "Perhaps you could put +this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a +relation of the deceased, but doesn't want to be--" He whispered +a word or two, and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at +Mrs. Bunting with interest. "I'll put her just here," he muttered. +"There's no one coming there to-day. You see, there are only seven +witnesses--sometimes we have a lot more than that." + +And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite to where the +seven witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set faces, ready +--aye, more than ready--to play their part. + +For a moment every eye in the court was focused on Mrs. Bunting, but +soon those who had stared so hungrily, so intently, at her, realised +that she had nothing to do with the case. She was evidently there +as a spectator, and, more fortunate than most, she had a "friend at +court," and so was able to sit comfortably, instead of having to +stand in the crowd. + +But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon some of the +important-looking gentlemen she had seen downstairs came into the +court, and were ushered over to her seat while two or three among +them, including the famous writer whose face was so familiar that +it almost seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly acquaintance, +were accommodated at the reporters' table. + +"Gentlemen, the Coroner." + +The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat down again; +over the spectators there fell a sudden silence. + +And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the +first time, that informal little country inquest of long ago. + +First came the "Oyez! Oyez!" the old Norman-French summons to all +whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death +--sudden, unexplained, terrible--of a fellow-being. + +The jury--there were fourteen of them--all stood up again. They +raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words +of their oath. + +Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences 'twixt the coroner +and his officer. + +Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies--he +quickly corrected himself--the body, for, technically speaking, the +inquest just about to be held only concerned one body. + +And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could +be heard through the court, the coroner--a clever-looking gentleman, +though not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to +occupy so important a position on so important a day--gave a little +history, as it were, of the terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes. + +He spoke very dearly, warming to his work as he went on. + +He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of +The Avenger's former victims. "I only went through professional +curiosity," he threw in by way of parenthesis, "little thinking, +gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would +ever be held in my court." + +On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and +though that little was known to every one of his listeners. + +Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her +whisper to another: "Drawing it out all he can; that's what he's +doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!" And then the other +whispered back, so low that she could only just catch the words, +"Aye, aye. But he's a good chap--I knew his father; we were at +school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know--he does +to-day, at any rate." + +****** + +She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which +would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm +them. But the word, the sentence, was never uttered. + +And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did +throw out a hint which might mean anything--or nothing. + +"I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence to-day as +will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has +committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes." + +Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner's firm, +determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any +new evidence--evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was +ignorant? And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart +gave a sudden leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the +witness-box--a policeman who had not been sitting with the other +witnesses. + +But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply +the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like +tones he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, +foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it +slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place +--no, he was making a mistake--that was the place where the other +body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had got rather +mixed up between the two bodies--that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy +Hurtle. + +And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: "For the purpose +of this inquiry," he said, "we must, I think, for a moment consider +the two murders together." + +After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he +proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of +The Avenger's acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood +of sick fear and--and, yes, remorse. + +Up to now she had given very little thought--if, indeed, any thought +--to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had +filled her thoughts,--he and those who were trying to track him down. +But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here to-day. She +wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman's +words had conjured up out of her mind--out of her memory. + +And then there, came an eager stir of excitement and of attention +throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of +the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to +his place. + +Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, +remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that +poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman +had looked so cheerful, so--so well pleased with herself till a +minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round +her as a hunted animal might have done. + +But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his +manner, just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen +Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl. + +After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words +of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. +At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed +to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, +as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, +stifled screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively +jumped out of bed and rushed to her window. + +The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. "Let me +see! Here is the plan. Yes--I think I understand that the house +in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes +were committed?" + +And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face +the alley, but the window of the witness's bedroom faced the alley. + +"A distinction without a difference," said the coroner testily. +"And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when +you looked out." + +There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman +broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. +"I saw 'im!" she cried. "I shall never forget it--no, not till my +dying day!" And she looked round defiantly. + +Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had +had with a person who slept under this woman's room. That person +had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that +night--that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept +lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, +she would have heard if there had been either the scream described +by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed. + +"We quite understand that you think you saw the"--the coroner +hesitated--"the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible +crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. +In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you +say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your +window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like." + +The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured +handkerchief she held in her hand. + +"Let us begin at the beginning," said the coroner patiently. "What +sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from +the passage?" + +"It was just a black 'at" said the witness at last, in a husky, +rather anxious tone. + +"Yes--just a black hat. And a coat--were you able to see what +sort of a coat he was wearing?" + +"'E 'adn't got no coat" she said decidedly. "No coat at all! I +remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was +so cold--everybody as can wears some sort o' coat this weather!" + +A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and +apparently not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here +jumped up and put out his hand. + +"Yes?" the coroner turned to him. + +"I just want to say that this 'ere witness--if her name is Lizzie +Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat--a big, heavy +coat. I've got it here, in this bit of paper." + +"I never said so!" cried the woman passionately. "I was made to +say all those things by the young man what came to me from the +Evening Sun. Just put in what 'e liked in 'is paper, 'e did--not +what I said at all!" + +At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. + +"In future," said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who +had now sat down again, "you must ask any question you wish to ask +through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my +examination of the witness." + +But this interruption, this--this accusation, had utterly upset +the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man +she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall--no, +he was short. He was thin--no, he was a stoutish young man. And +as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an +acrimonious discussion. + +Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had +seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back +--so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that +she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard +who had taken down her first account--in fact, to him she had +declared confidently that the man had carried nothing--nothing at +all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down. + +One fact--if fact it could be called--the coroner did elicit. +Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed +her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. + +"He looked up at you?" repeated the coroner. "You said nothing of +that in your examination." + +"I said nothink because I was scared--nigh scared to death!" + +"If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was +dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?" + +But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his +desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman's story. + +"Dark!" she answered dramatically. "Dark, almost black! If you can +take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look." + +And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the +coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. + +Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. + +This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. +Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse +situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the +crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some +food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, +breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been +drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and +because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. + +Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much +from what this witness had said that the official description of The +Avenger had been composed--that description which had brought such +comfort to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul. + +This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the +newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and +positive. + +"It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with string." + +She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man +to carry such a parcel--that was what had made her notice it. But +when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night +--so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, +though every step was familiar. + +When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears +told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna +Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had +nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that +she admitted reluctantly that "Anny" would have been such a nice, +respectable young woman if it hadn't been for the drink. + +Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that +of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very +respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. +He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn't seen his +wife for two years; he hadn't had news of her for six months. Before +she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and--and yes, +mother. + +Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or +imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered +woman was in the box. He had had later news of his unfortunate +daughter than her husband had had, but of course he could throw no +light at all on her murder or murderer. + +A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the +public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He +had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it +looking cast down, uneasy. + +And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly +unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made +the utmost much to Mrs. Bunting's indignation. But neither coroner +nor jury--and they, after all, were the people who mattered-- +thought a great deal of it. + +There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had +been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, "They are +now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He's been in every big murder case for +the last thirty years. He's sure to have something interesting to +say. It was really to hear him I came." + +But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with +which he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a +stir among the general public, or, rather, among those spectators +who stood near the low wooden door which separated the official +part of the court from the gallery. + +The coroner's officer, with an apologetic air, approached the +coroner, and banded him up an envelope. And again in an instant, +there fell absolute silence on the court. + +Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced +down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up. + +"Mr.--" then he glanced down again. "Mr.--ah--Mr.--is it Cannot?" +he said doubtfully, "may come forward." + +There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned. + +A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, +with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from +the place where he had been standing among the general public, to +the witness-box. + +"This is somewhat out of order, Mr.--er--Cannot," said the +coroner severely. "You should have sent me this note before the +proceedings began. This gentleman," he said, addressing the jury, +"informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to +reveal in connection with our investigation." + +"I have remained silent--I have locked what I knew within my own +breast"--began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, "because I am so +afraid of the Press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, +that my house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. . . . +I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things--the +state of things I imagine--might cause her death--indeed, I hope +she will never read a report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she +has an excellent trained nurse--" + +"You will now take the oath," said the coroner sharply. He already +regretted having allowed this absurd person to have his say. + +Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum which had been +lacking in most of those who had preceded him. + +"I will, address myself to the jury," he began. + +"You will do nothing of the sort," broke in the coroner. "Now, +please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who +is the--the--" + +"The Avenger," put in Mr. Cannot promptly. + +"The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met +him on the very night he committed the murder we are now +investigating?" + +"I do so declare," said Mr. Cannot confidently. "Though in the best +of health myself,"--he beamed round the court, a now amused, +attentive court--"it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to +have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private +affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out +at so undue an hour as one o'clock in the morning--" + +Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into +broad smiles. + +"Yes," went on the witness solemnly, "I was with a sick friend--in +fact, I may say a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. +I will not reveal my exact dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my +notepaper. It is not necessary to reveal it, but you will understand +me when I say that in order to come home I had to pass through a +portion of the Regent's Park; and it was there--to be exact, about +the middle of Prince's Terrace--when a very peculiar-looking +individual stopped and accosted me." + +Mrs. Bunting's hand shot up to her breast. A feeling of deadly fear +took possession of her. + +"I mustn't faint," she said to herself hurriedly. "I mustn't faint! +Whatever's the matter with me?" She took out her bottle of +smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff. + +"He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. Coroner, with a +very odd-looking face. I should say an educated man--in common +parlance, a gentleman. What drew my special attention to him was +that he was talking aloud to himself--in fact, he seemed to be +repeating poetry. I give you my word, I had no thought of The +Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, I thought this +gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a man who'd got away from his +keeper. The Regent's Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you, is a +most quiet and soothing neighbourhood--" + +And then a member of the general public gave a loud guffaw. + +"I appeal to you; sir," the old gentleman suddenly cried out "to +protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come here with +any other object than that of doing my duty as a citizen!" + +"I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant" said the +coroner stiffly. "Time is going on, and I have another important +witness to call--a medical witness. Kindly tell me, as shortly as +possible, what made you suppose that this stranger could possibly +be--" with an effort he brought out for the first time since the +proceedings began, the words, "The Avenger?" + +"I am coming to that!" said Mr. Cannot hastily. "I am coming to +that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It was a foggy +night, but not as foggy as it became later. And just when we were +passing one an-other, I and this man, who was talking aloud to +himself--he, instead of going on, stopped and turned towards +me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the more so that +there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as +soothingly as possible, 'A very foggy night, sir.' And he said, +'Yes--yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of +dark and salutary deeds.' A very strange phrase, sir, that--'dark +and salutary deeds.'" He looked at the coroner expectantly-- + +"Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person +go off in the direction of--of King's Cross, for instance?" + +"No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. "No, I must honestly +say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then +he crossed the road and was lost in the fog." + +"That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. "I thank +you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently +consider important information." + +Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some +of those present tittered rather foolishly. + +As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked +up at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a +murmur of talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard +quite distinctly what it was that he said: + +"One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The +man carried a bag--a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left +hand. It was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled +knife." + +Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She remembered suddenly +that she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag. +And then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a +single reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put down that last +remark of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one of them had heard it. + +Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And +then silence did fall on the court. + +"One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May I ask to be +accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see +there is some room left on the witnesses' bench." And, without +waiting for permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down. + +Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was +bending over her. + +"Perhaps you'd like to come along now," he said urgently.--"I +don't suppose you want to hear the medical evidence. It's always +painful for a female to hear that. And there'll be an awful rush +when the inquest's over. I could get you away quietly now." + +She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed +him obediently. + +Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty, +room downstairs. + +"I'll let you out the back way," he said. "I expect you're tired, +ma'am, and will like to get home to a cup o' tea." + +"I don't know how to thank you!" There were tears in her eyes. +She was trembling with excitement and emotion. "You have been good +to me." + +"Oh, that's nothing," he said a little awkwardly. "I expect you +went though a pretty bad time, didn't you?" + +"Will they be having that old gentleman again?" she spoke in a +whisper, and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look. + +"Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We're troubled with a lot of +those sort of people, you know, ma'am, and they often do have funny +names, too. You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City, +or what not; then they retires when they gets about sixty, and +they're fit to hang themselves with dulness. Why, there's hundreds +of lunies of the sort to be met in London. You can't go about at +night and not meet 'em. Plenty of 'em!" + +"Then you don't think there was anything in what he said?" she +ventured. + +"In what that old gent said? Goodness--no!" he laughed +good-naturedly. "But I'll tell you what I do think. If it wasn't +for the time that had gone by, I should believe that the second +witness had seen that crafty devil--" he lowered his voice. "But, +there, Dr. Gaunt declares most positively--so did two other medical +gentlemen--that the poor creatures had been dead hours when they +was found. Medical gentlemen are always very positive about their +evidence. They have to be--otherwise who'd believe 'em? If we'd +time I could tell you of a case in which--well, 'twas all because +of Dr. Gaunt that the murderer escaped. We all knew perfectly well +the man we caught did it, but he was able to prove an alibi as to +the time Dr. Gaunt said the poor soul was killed." + + + +CHAPTER XX + +It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, +but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go +to Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think of +nothing. + +Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she +began listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt +that it would do her more good to stay out in the air than take the +train. Also she would thus put off the moment--the moment to which +she looked forward with dread and dislike--when she would have to +invent a circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor, +and what the doctor had said to her. + +Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest +in other people's ailments, the more interest that he was himself so +remarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn't +tell him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that the +doctor had told her. + +As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, +and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest +edition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. "Avenger +Inquest?" they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" At +one place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the +pavement by stones, she stopped and looked down. "Opening of the +Avenger Inquest. What is he really like? Full description." On yet +another ran the ironic query: "Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?" + +And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. +Bunting turned sick--so sick and faint that she did what she had +never done before in her life--she pushed her way into a +public-house, and, putting two pennies down on the counter, asked +for, and received, a glass of cold water. + +As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind +dwelling persistently--not on the inquest at which she had been +present, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims. + +Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the +mortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, though +cold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this time +yesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul-- +alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers had +already interviewed, particularly merry and bright. + +Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of +The Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered +wearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear +which encompassed her night and day. + +As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. +The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others +exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front +yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, +keep any secret closely hidden. + +For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from her +mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were +concentrated on Bunting--Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what +had happened during her absence--whether the lodger had rung his +bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with +him? + +She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a +pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must +have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, +for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door. + +"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in, +Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now--and you +out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all +right?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety. + +And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No," +she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and +waited, but he never came in at all. 'Twas my own fault," she added +quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though +she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, +she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her +years ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night," she +said. "Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance +of finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to go out +to people at all times of day." + +"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said. + +And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the +doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, +would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained +she'd known him a long time. + +She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired +voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'd +be very grateful for a cup now--if you'd just make it for me over +the ring." + +"'Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in and sit down, +my dear. Don't trouble to take your things off now--wait till +you've had tea." + +And she obeyed him. "Where's Daisy?" she asked suddenly. "I thought +the girl would be back by the time I got home." + +"She ain't coming home to-day"--there was an odd, sly, smiling look +on Bunting's face. + +"Did she send a telegram?" asked Mrs. Bunting. + +"No. Young Chandler's just come in and told me. He's been over +there and,--would you believe it, Ellen?--he's managed to make +friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain't it? He +went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, +and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money +to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this +evening--she and Daisy--to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o' +such a thing?" + +"Very nice for them, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bunting absently. But +she was pleased--pleased to have her mind taken off herself. "Then +when is that girl coming home?" she asked patiently. + +"Well, it appears that Chandler's got to-morrow morning off too-- +this evening and to-morrow morning. He'll be on duty all night, +but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early +dinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?" + +"Yes. That'll be all right," she said. "I don't grudge the girl +her bit of pleasure. One's only young once. By the way, did the +lodger ring while I was out?" + +Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to +see the kettle boil. "No," he said. "Come to think of it, it's +rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. +Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all +about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened +while you was out, Ellen." + +"Something else happened?" she said in a startled voice. Getting +up from her chair she came towards her husband: "What happened? +Who came?" + +"Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a +young lady's birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter +--one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing--fell out +just at the last minute and so they had to send for me." + +His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over his +old friend's business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very +badly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for +ever so long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this new +man had never employed him--no, not once. + +"I hope you didn't make yourself too cheap?" said his wife jealously. + +"No, that I didn't! I hum'd and haw'd a lot; and I could see the +fellow was quite worried--in fact, at the end he offered me +half-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!" + +Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long +time. + +"You won't mind being alone, here? I don't count the lodger--he's +no good--" Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted +to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so +unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that +she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been +so in the days when he got more jobs. + +She stared at him, a little suspiciously. "I be afraid?" she echoed. +"Certainly not. Why should I be? I've never been afraid before. +What d'you exactly mean by that, Bunting?" + +"Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone +on this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young +fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door." + +"I shouldn't have been frightened if he'd just been an ordinary +stranger," she said shortly. "He said something silly to me--just +in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I +feel better now." + +As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise +outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers. + +"I'll just run out," said Bunting apologetically, "and see what +happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue +about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it-- +when he wasn't talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He's +on to-night, luckily not till twelve o'clock; plenty of time to +escort the two of 'em back after the play. Besides, he said +he'll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto' +goes on too long for him to take 'em home." + +"On to-night?". repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever for?" + +"Well, you see, The Avenger's always done 'em in couples, so to +speak. They've got an idea that he'll have a try again to-night. +However, even so, Joe's only on from midnight till five o'clock. +Then he'll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, +Fine thing to be young, ain't it, Ellen?" + +"I can't believe that he'd go out on such a night as this!" + +"What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken +so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. + +"What do I mean?" she repeated--and a great fear clutched at her +heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. + +"Why, by saying he won't go out. Of course, he has to go out. +Besides, he'll have been to the play as it is. 'Twould be a pretty +thing if the police didn't go out, just because it was cold!" + +"I--I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bunting. She looked +at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter +those true words. + +"He don't take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting sombrely. +"I take it the man's dead to all human feeling--saving, of +course, revenge." + +"So that's your idea about him, is it?" She looked across at her +husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between +them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. +"D'you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young +man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?" + +"Let me see," he said slowly. "I thought that 'twas from the bedroom +window a woman saw him?" + +"No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband's +breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most +respectable-looking woman of the two," said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. + +And then, seeing her husband's look of utter, blank astonishment, +she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly +mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. +"There, now," she said; "here I am gossiping all about nothing when +I ought to be seeing about the lodger's supper. It was someone in +the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The +Avenger." + +Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the +gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to +buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous +discussion. + +As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, +Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite +unnaturally cold even for the time of year. + +She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed +by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that +stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going +to be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and +she didn't like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suit +her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, +in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to +cheer her up after he had gone. + +Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little +sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, +at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little +ease, listening--listening. . . . + +She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth's +supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so +as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so. + +Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she +listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good +fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! +But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was +moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his +wont at this time of the evening. + +She knocked, and then waited a moment. + +There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in +the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard--or so Mr. Sleuth's landlady +could have sworn. + +There was a pause--she knocked again. + +"Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and +carried in the tray. + +"You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?" +he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice. + +"I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I lost count of +the time. I thought you'd like your breakfast early, as you had +dinner rather sooner than usual." + +"Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?" + +"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." He looked at +her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible +questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes. + +"Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look well, Mrs. +Bunting." + +"No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went over to see a doctor +this afternoon, to Ealing, sir." + +"I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting"--the lodger's voice had +become softer, kinder in quality. + +"It always does me good to see the doctor," said Mrs. Bunting +evasively. + +And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth's face. "Doctors are a +maligned body of men," he said. "I'm glad to hear you speak well of +them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable +to err, but I assure you they do their best." + +"That I'm sure they do, sir "--she spoke heartily, sincerely. +Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously. + +And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger's one hot dish +upon it, she went towards the door. "Wouldn't you like me to bring +up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it's bitterly cold--getting +colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in--" she +looked at him deprecatingly. + +And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. +Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full +height. + +"What d'you mean?" he stammered. "Why did you say that, Mrs. +Bunting?" + +She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an +awful questioning look over his face. + +"I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He's got a job to-night. He's +going to act as waiter at a young lady's birthday party. I was +thinking it's a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, +too"--she brought out her words jerkily. + +Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. "Ah!" +he said. "Dear me--I'm sorry to hear that! I hope your husband +will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting." + +And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. + +****** + +Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy +washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. + +Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. + +"Time for you to dress," she cried out cheerfully, "and I've got a +little bit of fire for you to dress by." + +As he exclaimed at her extravagance, "Well, 'twill be pleasant for +me, too; keep me company-like while you're out; and make the room +nice and warm when you come in. You'll be fair perished, even +walking that short way," she said. + +And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs +and cleared away Mr. Sleuth's supper. + +The lodger said no word while she was so engaged--no word at all. + +He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him +to do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees. + +Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, a +great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting's +heart. He was such a--a--she searched for a word in her mind, but +could only find the word "gentle"--he was such a nice, gentle +gentleman, was Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving his +money about, as he had done the first day or two, and with some +concern his landlady had seen that the store had diminished a good +deal. A very simple calculation had made her realise that almost the +whole of that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, had +passed through her hands. + +Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, his +landlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay. +And Mrs. Bunting's conscience pricked her a little, for he hardly +ever used that room upstairs--that room for which he had paid extra +so generously. If Bunting got another job or two through that nasty +man in Baker Street,--and now that the ice had been broken between +them it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a very +well-trained, experienced waiter--then she thought she would tell +Mr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he was +now doing. + +She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back. + +"Good-night, sir," she said at last. + +Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn. + +"I hope you'll sleep well, sir." + +"Yes, I'm sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take a +little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have been +studying all day I require a little exercise." + +"Oh, I wouldn't go out to-night," she said deprecatingly. "'Tisn't +fit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold." + +"And yet--and yet"--he looked at her attentively--"there will +probably be many people out in the streets to-night." + +"A many more than usual, I fear, sir." + +"Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a strange thing, +Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amuse +themselves should carry their revels far into the night?" + +"Oh, I wasn't thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking"--she +hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out the +words, "of the police." + +"The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two or +three times with a nervous gesture. "But what is man--what is man's +puny power or strength against that of God, or even of those over +whose feet God has set a guard?" + +Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting up +his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Then +she had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that, +that--was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? + +"Very true, sir," she said respectfully. "But Providence means us +to take care o' ourselves too." And then she closed the door behind +her and went downstairs. + +But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. She +came into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would think +the next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger's meal on +her table. 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. It even +occurred to her to do the one thing that might have quieted her +excited brain--to get a book, one of those detective stories of +which Bunting had a slender store in the next room, and then, +lighting the gas, to sit up and read. + +No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read in +bed, and she was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything that +she had been told was wrong. . . . + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +It was a very cold night--so cold, so windy, so snow-laden was the +atmosphere, that everyone who could do so stayed indoors. + +Bunting, however, was now on his way home from what had proved a +really pleasant job. A remarkable piece of luck had come his way +this evening, all the more welcome because it was quite unexpected! +The young lady at whose birthday party he had been present in +capacity of waiter had come into a fortune that day, and she had had +the gracious, the surprising thought of presenting each of the hired +waiters with a sovereign! + +This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind words, had gone +to Bunting's heart. It had confirmed him in his Conservative +principles; only gentlefolk ever behaved in that way; quiet, +old-fashioned, respectable, gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom +those nasty Radicals know nothing and care less! + +But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have been. +Slackening his footsteps, he began to think with puzzled concern of +how queer his wife had seemed lately. Ellen had become so nervous, +so "jumpy," that he didn't know what to make of her sometimes. She +had never been really good-tempered--your capable, self-respecting +woman seldom is--but she had never been like what she was now. And +she didn't get better as the days went on; in fact she got worse. +Of late she had been quite hysterical, and for no reason at all! +Take that little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. Ellen knew +quite well he often had to go about in some kind of disguise, and yet +how she had gone on, quite foolish-like--not at all as one would +have expected her to do. + +There was another queer thing about her which disturbed him in more +senses than one. During the last three weeks or so Ellen had taken +to talking in her sleep. "No, no, no!" she had cried out, only the +night before. "It isn't true--I won't have it said--it's a lie!" +And there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her usually +quiet, mincing voice. + +****** + +Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten his gloves. + +He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and began walking +more quickly. + +As h& tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly caught sight +of his lodger walking along the opposite side of the solitary street +--one of those short streets leading off the broad road which +encircles Regent's Park. + +Well! This was a funny time o' night to be taking a stroll for +pleasure, like! + +Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth's tall, thin figure +was rather bowed, and that his head was bent toward the ground. His +left arm was thrust into his long Inverness tape, and so was quite +hidden, but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger +were carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung down straight. + +Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he walked he talked +aloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not unusual with gentlemen who live +much alone. It was clear that he had not yet become aware of the +proximity of his landlord. + +Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their lodger was +certainly a most eccentric, peculiar person. Strange, was it not, +that that odd, luny-like gentleman should have made all the +difference to his, Bunting's, and Mrs. Bunting's happiness and +comfort in life? + +Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded himself, not for +the first time, of this perfect lodger's one fault--his odd dislike +to meat, and to what Bunting vaguely called to himself, sensible food. + +But there, you can't have everything! The more so that the lodger +was not one of those crazy vegetarians who won't eat eggs and cheese. +No, he was reasonable in this, as in everything else connected with +his dealings with the Buntings. + +As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than did his wife. +Indeed, he had been upstairs only three or four times since Mr. +Sleuth had been with them, and when his landlord had had occasion +to wait on him the lodger had remained silent. Indeed, their +gentleman had made it very clear that he did not like either the +husband or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitely +asked to do so. + +Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little genial +conversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his lodger; it increased +his general comfortable sense of satisfaction. + +So it was that the butler, still an active man for his years, +crossed over the road, and, stepping briskly forward, began trying +to overtake Mr. Sleuth. But the more he hurried along, the more the +other hastened, and that without ever turning round to see whose +steps he could hear echoing behind him on the now freezing pavement. + +Mr. Sleuth's own footsteps were quite inaudible--an odd circumstance, +when you came to think of it--as Bunting did think of it later, +lying awake by Mrs. Bunting's side in the pitch darkness. What it +meant of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his shoes. +Now Bunting had never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down to +him to dean. He had always supposed the lodger had only one pair of +outdoor boots. + +The two men--the pursued and the pursuer--at last turned into the +Marylebone Road; they were now within a few hundred yards of home. +Plucking up courage, Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly +on the still air: + +"Mr Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!" + +The lodger stopped and turned round. + +He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor a physical +condition, that the sweat was pouring down his face. + +"Ah! So it's you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps behind me, and +I hurried on. I wish I'd known that it was you; there are so many +queer characters about at night in London." + +"Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who have business +out of doors would be out such a night as this. It is cold, sir!" + +And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there suddenly crept +the query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth's own business out could be +on this bitter night. + +"Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, and his words +came out sharp and quick through his thin lips. "I can't say that +I find it cold, Mr. Bunting. When the snow falls, the air always +becomes milder." + +"Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind. Why, it +freezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, there's nothing like +walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, +sir." + +Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange +way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, +on the wall side, to his landlord. + +"I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over Primrose Hill to +see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, +and then, coming back, I lost my way." + +Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the +shabby, paved court in front of the house--that gate which now was +never locked. + +Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged +path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, stepping +aside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front +door for him. + +As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left hand +brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was +wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth against +which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from +stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet--wet and +gluey. + +Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other +that he placed the key in the lock of the door. + +The two men passed into the hail together. + +The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up +road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the +lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of +mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful +immediate danger. + +A stuffless voice--the voice of his first wife, the long-dead +girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays--uttered into +his ear the words, "Take care!" + +And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, +though not loud. + +"I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, +foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but I +brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some +thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose +Hill." + +"No, sir, no. I didn't notice nothing. 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. Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and +dipped a hand into the water-jug. + +"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came a +voice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily. + +"I'm just washing my hands." + +"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such +a thing--putting your hand into the water in which I was going to +wash my face to-morrow morning!" + +"I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away. +You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?" + +She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting +lay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more +uncomfortable than he was already. + +At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence +by telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, +but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if +it had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside. + +Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook +the bed. + +"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning in +the hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly. + +He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as +she had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money--or, +rather, Mr. Sleuth's good money. Since he had come to be their lodger +they had not had to touch their rent money. + +Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and +so to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and +wife lay awake till dawn. + +The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he felt +curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes. + +Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven +o'clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the +blind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the +way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, +curiously still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage. +As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already +lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being pushed +through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful +sleep. + +He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, +shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper +wide open on the table, and bent over it. + +As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression +of intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he +had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet +was not there. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit +the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea. + +While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: + +"Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" Quickly he hurried in +response to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my dear? I +won't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly, rather +foolishly. + +She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face. + +"What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously. + +"I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. "But you was +so cross last night that I simply didn't dare tell you about it." + +"Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice. + +"I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her +birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice bit of money, and +she gave each of us waiters a sovereign." + +Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her +eyes. + +"What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly. "You didn't +say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about +it yesterday." + +"Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner." + +"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?" +said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting's +round face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing +if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit--especially now that +they were doing so well! + +"Daisy'll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly. +"It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all +she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, 'twould +be cruel--cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and +that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that +even you would see the justice o' that!" + +But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. + +Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling +now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, +his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill--ill and wizened. +He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything. +She had never been one to grouse about herself. + +"The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed +genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn't +the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now +was it? And yet he must'a been out a long time if what he said +was true." + +"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the +crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day-- +that they do! But go along now; I want to get up." + +He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire +and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper. + +Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with +a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible +thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his +head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No +doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled--that was what had happened; +though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against +a dead animal. + +Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for one to be +always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It +made one go dotty--that's what it did. + +And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a +loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before +he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, +Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and +shawl. + +"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't you +trouble." + +He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall. + +She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the +telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said. +"If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she tore +the envelope open--"Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's +only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this +morning. Then you'll have to go." + +She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said. +"There it is, Bunting. You just read it." + +"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.-- +Chandler." + +"I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. +"I thought Joe's hours was as regular as clockwork--that nothing +could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose +it'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock? It may have +left off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again just +now. I'm pretty tired this morning." + +"You start about twelve," said his wife quickly. + +"That'll give plenty of time." + +The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a +letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a +little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at +any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting +often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there +came no sounds at all from overhead. + +Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more +cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a +pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, +before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +"Daisy will be surprised to see you--not to say disappointed!" she +observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at +the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made +him stay on a little longer. "There's no such great hurry as that," +she said good-temperedly. "It'll do quite well if you're there by +half-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't help +with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard." + +But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and +his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, +less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming +and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously +along through the slush. + +Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a +knock at the door--a now very familiar ring and knock. "Joe thinks +Daisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to herself. + +Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's voice. "Don't +be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not exactly scared, +she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to +represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, +with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his +seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. + +"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. "But I thought +I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got +my telegram all right? I couldn't send no other kind of message." + +"She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone long after her." +Then, struck by a look in his eyes, "Joe, what's the matter?" she +asked quickly. + +There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, +while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very +pale. + +"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no business to say +anything about it--but I will tell you!" + +He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind +him. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered. "But this time +no one is to know anything about it--not for the present, I mean," +he corrected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got a clue-- +and a good clue, too, this time." + +"But where--and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting. + +"Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the +present"--he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. "The +poor soul' was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by +chance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his +way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd be able to get an +ambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I +'spect he'll get promotion for that!" + +"What about the clue?" asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. "You said +there was a clue?" + +"Well, I don't rightly understand about the clue myself. All I +knows is it's got something to do with a public-house, 'The Hammer +and Tongs,' which isn't far off there. They feels sure The Avenger +was in the bar just on closing-time." + +And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural +the police should suspect a public-house loafer. "Then that's why you +wasn't able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?" + +He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll all be in the last +editions of the evening newspapers--it can't be kep' out. There'd be +too much of a row if 'twas!" + +"Are you going off to that public-house now?" she asked. + +"Yes, I am. I've got a awk'ard job--to try and worm something out +of the barmaid." + +"Something out of the barmaid?" repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. +"Why, whatever for?" + +He came and stood close to her. "They think 'twas a gentleman," he +whispered. + +"A gentleman?" + +Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. "Whatever +makes them think such a silly thing as that?" + +"Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with a +leather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass of +milk. And what d'you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! +He wouldn't take no change--just made the girl a present of it! +That's why the young woman what served him seems quite unwilling to +give him away. She won't tell now what he was like. She doesn't +know what he's wanted for, and we don't want her to know just yet. +That's one reason why nothing's being said public about it. But +there! I really must be going now. My time'll be up at three +o'clock. I thought of coming in on the way back, and asking you for +a cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting." + +"Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," but there was no +welcome in her tired voice. + +She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to her +kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. + +The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Bunting +and Daisy might be home, and they'd want something, too. Margaret +always had breakfast even when "the family" were away, unnaturally +early. + +As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of all +thought. But it is very difficult to do that when one is in a state +of torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler what +they supposed that man who had gone into the public-house was really +like. It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that inquisitive +young chap had never met face to face. + +At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang--a quiet little tinkle. But when +she went up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room. + +Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the cloth +on the table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps coming +down the stairs, and her quick ears detected the slight whirring +sound which showed that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had +already lit the stove; that meant that he would carry out some +elaborate experiment this afternoon. + +"Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very quiet and +still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known +it quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A +very pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in +the Marylebone Road." + +"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day--too quiet to my +thinking. 'Tain't natural-like." + +The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air. + +"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, +hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window +and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?" + +And his landlady obeyed him. + +"It's only Bunting, sir--Bunting and his daughter." + +"Oh! Is that all?" + +Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She +had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that +first day when she had been showing him her rooms. + +Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if +aware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face +up towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at the +lodger, whose face she could only dimly discern. + +"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. +And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. +Bunting very much aback. + +"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little read +nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, +for youth, for innocence." + +"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfast +will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now." + +He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child +rebuked might have done. + +And then his landlady Left him. + +"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right. +And Daisy's a lucky girl--that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her +five shillings." + +But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought +to do. + +"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little +disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was +that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time +went on and he didn't come." + +"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly. + +"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and +fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?" + +"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along, +child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself +useful." + +And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her +stepmother didn't want her to hear. + +"I've something to tell you, Bunting." + +"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?" + +"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want +anyone to know about it--not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over +and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again." + +Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the +mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much +concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it. + +There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a +great effort to appear unconcerned. + +"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?" + +She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!" +she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror +in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum." + +And he acquiesced. + +"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away +the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried +upstairs. + +Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. +"I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? +I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I +saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, +but I should like to do so now." + +She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly, +"the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun." + +Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed. +"You can tell him that I don't want it back again." + +On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third +of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in +rather large characters: + +"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic +reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which +was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his +double murder ten days ago." + +She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. + +"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffled +voice from the upper landing. + +She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper back +again, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out of +the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, +listening and waiting--Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; +Daisy for the knock which would herald Joe Chandler. + +And about four there came the now familiar sound. + +Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the +front door she whispered, "We haven't said anything to Daisy yet. +Young girls can't keep secrets." + +Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked the low character +he had assumed to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, +and tired out. + +Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of +welcome, when she saw how cleverly he was disguised. + +"I never!" she exclaimed. "What a difference it do make, to be +sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. Chandler." + +And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much +that he quite cheered up. Bunting had been very dull and quiet +all that afternoon. + +"It won't take me ten minutes to make myself respectable again," +said the young man rather ruefully. + +His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came +to the conclusion that he had been unsuccessful--that he had failed, +that is, in getting any information worth having. And though, in a +sense, they all had a pleasant tea together, there was an air of +constraint, even of discomfort, over the little party. + +Bunting felt it hard that he couldn't ask the questions that were +trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during +the last month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, +but now it seemed almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of +half suspense. There was one important fact he longed to know, +and at last came his opportunity of doing so, for Joe Chandler rose +to leave, and this time it was Bunting who followed him out into +the hall. + +"Where did it happen?" he whispered. "Just tell me that, Joe?" + +"Primrose Hill," said the other briefly. "You'll know all about it +in a minute or two, for it'll be all in the last editions of the +evening papers. That's what's been arranged." + +"No arrest I suppose?" + +Chandler shook his head despondently. "No," he said, "I'm inclined +to think the Yard was on a wrong tack altogether this time. But one +can only do one's best. I don't know if Mrs. Bunting told you I'd +got to question a barmaid about a man who was in her place just +before closing-time. Well, she's said all she knew, and it's as +clear as daylight to me that the eccentric old gent she talks about +was only a harmless luny. He gave her a sovereign just because she +told him she was a teetotaller!" He laughed ruefully. + +Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. "Well, that's a queer +thing for a barmaid to be!" he exclaimed. "She's niece to the people +what keeps the public," explained Chandler; and then he went out of +the front door with a cheerful "So long!" + +When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy had disappeared. +She had gone downstairs with the tray. "Where's my girl?" he said +irritably. + +"She's just taken the tray downstairs." + +He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called out sharply, +"Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down there?" + +"Yes, father," came her eager, happy voice. + +"Better come up out of that cold kitchen." + +He turned and came back to his wife. "Ellen, is the lodger in? I +haven't heard him moving about. Now mind what I says, please! I +don't want Daisy to be mixed up with him." + +"Mr. Sleuth don't seem very well to-day," answered Mrs. Bunting +quietly. "'Tain't likely I should let Daisy have anything to do +with him. Why, she's never even seen him. 'Tain't likely I should +allow her to begin waiting on him now." + +But though she was surprised and a little irritated by the tone in +which Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of the truth illumined her mind. +So accustomed had she become to bearing alone the burden of her awful +secret, that it would have required far more than a cross word or +two, far more than the fact that Bunting looked ill and tired, for +her to have come to suspect that her secret was now shared by another, +and that other her husband. + +Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trembled at the +thought of her house being invaded by the police, but that was only +because she had always credited the police with supernatural powers +of detection. That they should come to know the awful fact she kept +hidden in her breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a +natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly suspect it appeared +beyond the range of possibility. + +And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering +over the fire--saying nothing, doing nothing. + +"Why, father, ain't you well?" the girl asked more than once. + +And, looking up, he would answer, "Yes, I'm well enough, nay girl, +but I feels cold. It's awful cold. I never did feel anything like +the cold we've got just now." + + * * * + +At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside. + +"The Avenger again!" "Another horrible crime!" "Extra speshul +edition!"--such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through +the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room. + +Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy's cheeks grew +pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled. + +"Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D'you hear that?" she exclaimed +childishly, and even clapped her hands. "I do wish Mr. Chandler +had been here. He would 'a been startled!" + +"Don't, Daisy!" and Bunting frowned. + +Then, getting up, he stretched himself. "It's fair getting on my +mind," he said, "these horrible things happening. I'd like to get +right away from London, just as far as I could--that I would!" + +"Up to John-o'-Groat's?" said Daisy, laughing. And then, "Why, +father, ain't you going out to get a paper?" + +"Yes, I suppose I must." + +Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, +he put on his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, +and walked down the flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped +out on the pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys +now stood. + +The boy nearest to him only had the Sun--a late edition of the paper +he had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a +ha'penny rag of which he already knew the main contents. But there +was nothing else to do. + +Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was +bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked +down at the big headlines. For Bunting had been very unfair to the +enterprise of the editor of his favourite evening paper. This +special edition was full of new matter--new matter concerning +The Avenger. + +First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement +that The Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had +chosen quite a new locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising +ground known to Londoners as Primrose Hill. + +"The police." so Bunting read, "are very reserved as to the +circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger's +latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess +several really important clues, and that one of them is concerned +with the half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to reproduce +an outline to-day. (See over page.)" + +And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline +he had already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting +to be a facsimile of the imprint left by The Avenger's rubber sole. + +He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the +space which should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, +sinking feeling of terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had +been tracked by the marks their boots or shoes had made at or near +the scenes of their misdoings. + +Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial +kind was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already +visualised early this very afternoon the little row with which he +dealt each morning--first came his wife's strong, serviceable +boots, then his own two pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and +next to his own Mr. Sleuth's strong, hardly worn, and expensive +buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high-heeled pair +of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for +her trip to London, had ended the row. The girl had worn these +thin shoes persistently, in defiance of Ellen's reproof and advice, +and he, Bunting, had only once had to clean her more sensible +country pair, and that only because the others had become wet though +the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to Scotland Yard. + +Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going +in again, of hearing his wife's sarcastic comments, of parrying +Daisy's eager questions, had become intolerable. So he walked +slowly, trying to put off the evil moment when he would have to tell +them what was in his paper. + +The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite +the house. It was rather to the right of it. And when, having +crossed over the roadway, he walked along the pavement towards his +own gate, he heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side +of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard from the pavement. + +Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward +to drive out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had +trouble, before the cold weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter +there. But to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick +with suspense and fear. + +Was it possible that their place was being watched--already? He +thought it only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited +the police with almost supernatural powers, especially since he +had paid that visit to Scotland Yard. + +But to Bunting's amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who +suddenly loomed up in the dim light. + +Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form +had been quite concealed till he stepped forward from behind the +low wall on to the flagged path leading to the front door. + +The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked +along, the new boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of +hard nail-studded heels rang out on the flat-stones of the narrow +path. + +Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was +his lodger had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. +Sleuth had evidently been out to buy himself another pair of new +boots, and then he had gone inside the gate and had put them on, +placing his old footgear in the paper in which the new pair had +been wrapped. + +The ex-butler waited--waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. +Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had +time to get well away, upstairs. + +Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in +the door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and +coat up in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out +to him. Then he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, +he said sullenly: "There it is! You can see it all for yourself-- +not that there's very much to see," and groped his way to the fire. + +His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. "Whatever have you done to +yourself?" she exclaimed. "You're ill--that's what it is, Bunting. +You got a chill last night!" + +"I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered. "'Twasn't last night, +though; 'twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. +Margaret keeps that housekeeper's room o' hers like a hothouse-- +that's what she does. 'Twas going out from there into the biting +wind, that's what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in +such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, +can stand the life--being out in all weathers like he is." + +Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what +was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. + +"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm," +said his wife testily. "But if you felt so bad, whatever was you +out so long for, Bunting? I thought you'd gone away somewhere! +D'you mean you only went to get the paper?" + +"I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp," he +muttered apologetically. + +"That was a silly thing to do!" + +"Perhaps it was," he admitted meekly. + +Daisy had taken up the paper. "Well, they don't say much," she +said disappointedly. "Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. +Chandler 'll be in soon again. If so, he'll tell us more about it." + +"A young girl like you oughtn't to want to know anything about +murders," said her stepmother severely. "Joe won't think any the +better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I +was you, Daisy, I shouldn't say nothing about it if he does come in +--which I fair tell you I hope he won't. I've seen enough of that +young chap to-day." + +"He didn't come in for long--not to-day," said Daisy, her lip +trembling. + +"I can tell you one thing that'll surprise you, my dear"--Mrs. +Bunting looked significantly at her step-daughter. She also wanted +to get away from that dread news--which yet was no news. + +"Yes?" said Daisy, rather defiantly. "What is it, Ellen?" + +"Maybe you'll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning. +He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that +you shouldn't be told anything about it." + +"Never!" cried Daisy, much mortified. + +"Yes," went on her stepmother ruthlessly. "You just ask your father +over there if it isn't true." + +"'Tain't a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings," +said Bunting heavily. + +"If I was Joe," went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage, +"I shouldn't want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in +to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that +poor young chap is set upon--mostly, I admit, by your father," she +looked at her husband severely. "But you does your share, too, +Daisy! You asks him this, you asks him that--he's fair puzzled +sometimes. It don't do to be so inquisitive." + +****** + +And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting's part +when young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was +said of the new Avenger murder. + +Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though Daisy said a +word, it was but a word. And Joe Chandler thought he had never +spent a pleasanter evening in his life--for it was he and Daisy +who talked all the time, their elders remaining for the most part +silent. + +Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Margaret. She +described the long, dull hours and the queer jobs her aunt set her +to do--the washing up of all the fine drawing-room china in a big +basin lined with flannel, and how terrified she (Daisy) had been +lest there should come even one teeny little chip to any of it. +Then she went on to relate some of the funny things Aunt Margaret +had told her about "the family." + +There came a really comic tale, which hugely interested and delighted +Chandler. This was of how Aunt Margaret's lady had been taken in by +an impostor--an impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping +out of her carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the doorstep. +Aunt Margaret's lady, being a soft one, had insisted on the man +coming into the hall, where he had been given all kinds of +restoratives. When the man had at last gone off, it was found that +he had "wolfed" young master's best walking-stick, one with a fine +tortoise-shell top to it. Thus had Aunt Margaret proved to her lady +that the man had been shamming, and her lady had been very angry-- +near had a fit herself! + +"There's a lot of that about," said Chandler, laughing. +"Incorrigible rogues and vagabonds--that's what those sort of people +are!" + +And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an exceptionally +clever swindler whom he himself had brought to book. He was very +proud of that job, it had formed a white stone in his career as a +detective. And even Mrs. Bunting was quite interested to hear about +it. + +Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth's bell rang. For +awhile no one stirred; then Bunting looked questioningly at his wife. + +"Did you hear that?" he said. "I think, Ellen, that was the lodger's +bell." + +She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. + +"I rang," said Mr. Sleuth weakly, "to tell you I don't require any +supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a glass of milk, with a lump +of sugar in it. That is all I require--nothing more. I feel very +very far from well"--and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on +his face. "And then I thought your husband would like his paper +back again, Mrs. Bunting." + +Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad intensity of gaze +of which she was quite unconscious, answered, "Oh, no, sir! +Bunting don't require that paper now. He read it all through." +Something impelled her to add, ruthlessly, "He's got another paper +by now, sir. You may have heard them come shouting outside. Would +you like me to bring you up that other paper, sir?" + +And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. "No," he said querulously. "I much +regret now having asked for the one paper I did read, for it +disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. There was nothing of any value in it-- +there never is in any public print. I gave up reading newspapers +years ago, and I much regret that I broke though my rule to-day." + +As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any more +conversation, the lodger then did what he had never done before in +his landlady's presence. He went over to the fireplace and +deliberately turned his back on her. + +She went down and brought up the glass of milk and the lump of +sugar he had asked for. + +Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, studying the +Book. + +When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they were chatting +merrily. She did not notice that the merriment was confined to the +two young people. + +"Well?" said Daisy pertly. "How about the lodger, Ellen? Is he +all right?" + +"Yes," she said stiffly. "Of course he is!" + +"He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by himself--awful +lonely-like, I call it," said the girl. + +But her, stepmother remained silent. + +"Whatever does he do with himself all day?" persisted Daisy. + +"Just now he's reading the Bible," Mrs. Bunting answered, shortly +and dryly. + +"Well, I never! That's a funny thing for a gentleman to do!" + +And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed--a long hearty peal +of amusement. + +"There's nothing to laugh at," said Mrs. Bunting sharply. "I should +feel ashamed of being caught laughing at anything connected with the +Bible." + +And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This was the first time +that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken really nastily to him, and he +answered very humbly, "I beg pardon. I know I oughtn't to have +laughed at anything to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy +said it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must be a +queer card, Mrs. Bunting." + +"He's no queerer than many people I could mention," she said quickly; +and with these enigmatic words she got up, and left the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting its full meed +of aching fear and suspense. + +The unhappy man was ever debating within himself what course he +should pursue, and, according to his mood and to the state of his +mind at any particular moment, he would waver between various +widely-differing lines of action. + +He told himself again and again, and with fretful unease, that the +most awful thing about it all was that he wasn't sure. If only he +could have been sure, he might have made up his mind exactly what +it was he ought to do. + +But when telling himself this he was deceiving himself, and he was +vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from Bunting's point of view, +almost any alternative would have been preferable to that which to +some, nay, perhaps to most, householders would have seemed the only +thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners of Bunting's +class have an uneasy fear of the law. To his mind it would be ruin +for him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly in such a terrible +affair. No one concerned in the business would give them and their +future a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, and, +above all, it would make it quite impossible for them ever to get +again into a good joint situation. It was that for which Bunting, +in his secret soul, now longed with all his heart. + +No, some other way than going to the police must be found--and he +racked his slow brain to find it. + +The worst of it was that every hour that went by made his future +course more difficult and more delicate, and increased the awful +weight on his conscience. + +If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite sure! And +then he would tell himself that, after all, he had very little to +go upon; only suspicion--suspicion, and a secret, horrible +certainty that his suspicion was justified. + +And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution which he knew +to be indefensible from every point of view; he began to hope, that +is, in the depths of his heart, that the ledger would again go out +one evening on his horrible business and be caught--red-handed. + +But far from going out on any business, horrible or other, Mr. +Sleuth now never went out at all. He kept upstairs, and often spent +quite a considerable part of his day in bed. He still felt, so he +assured Mrs. Bunting, very far from well. He had never thrown off +the chill he had caught on that bitter night he and his landlord +had met on their several ways home. + +Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication to Daisy's +father. The detective spent every waking hour that he was not on +duty with the Buntings; and Bunting, who at one time had liked him +so well and so cordially, now became mortally afraid of him. + +But though the young man talked of little else than The Avenger, +and though on one evening he described at immense length the +eccentric-looking gent who had given the barmaid a sovereign, +picturing Mr. Sleuth with such awful accuracy that both Bunting and +Mrs. Bunting secretly and separately turned sick when they listened +to him, he never showed the slightest interest in their lodger. + +At last there came a morning when Bunting and Chandler held a strange +conversation about The Avenger. The young fellow had come in earlier +than usual, and just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were +starting out to do some shopping. The girl would fain have stopped +behind, but her stepmother had given her a very peculiar, disagreeable +look, daring her, so to speak, to be so forward, and Daisy had gone +on with a flushed, angry look on her pretty face. + +And then, as young Chandler stepped through into the sitting-room, +it suddenly struck Bunting that the young man looked unlike himself +--indeed, to the ex-butler's apprehension there was something almost +threatening in Chandler's attitude. + +"I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting," he began abruptly, falteringly. +"And I'm glad to have the chance now that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Daisy +are out." + +Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words--the accusation of +having sheltered a murderer, the monster whom all the world was +seeking, under his roof. And then he remembered a phrase, a +horrible legal phrase--"Accessory after the fact." Yes, he had +been that, there wasn't any doubt about it! + +"Yes?" he said. "What is it, Joe?" and then the unfortunate man +sat down in his chair. "Yes?" he said again uncertainly; for young +Chandler had now advanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting +fixedly--the other thought threateningly. "Well, out with it, +Joe! Don't keep me in suspense." + +And then a slight smile broke over the young man's face. "I don't +think what I've got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bunting." + +And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything--yes +or no, as the case might be. + +The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long +time to the elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe +Chandler brought out the words, "Well, I suppose you know what it +is I want to talk about. I'm sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look +or two she's lately cast on me. It's your daughter--it's Miss +Daisy." + +And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, 'twixt a sob and a laugh. +"My girl?" he cried. "Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to +talk about? Why, you fair frightened me--that you did!" + +And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as +he stared across it at his daughter's lover, that lover who was +also the embodiment of that now awful thing to him, the law. He +smiled, rather foolishly, at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp +wave of irritation, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. +Daisy's father was an old stupid--that's what he was. + +And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. "As +far as I'm concerned," he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even +a little dignity, "you have my blessing, Joe. You're a very likely +young chap, and I had a true respect for your father." + +"Yes," said Chandler, "that's very kind of you, Mr. Bunting. But +how about her--her herself?" + +Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn't +given herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing. + +"I can't answer for Daisy," he said heavily. "You'll have to ask +her yourself--that's not a job any other man can do for you, my lad." + +"I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by our two selves," +said Chandler, with some heat. "You don't seem to understand, Mr. +Bunting, that I never do see Miss Daisy alone," he repeated. "I +hear now that she's going away Monday, and I've only once had the +chance of a walk with her. Mrs. Bunting's very particular, not to +say pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bunting--" + +"That's a fault on the right side, that is--with a young girl," +said Bunting thoughtfully. + +And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as regarded other young +chaps Mrs. Bunting could not be too particular. + +"She's been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has," went on Bunting, +with some pride. "That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of her +sight." + +"I was coming to the old aunt," said Chandler heavily. "Mrs. +Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that +old woman the whole of her natural life--now is that right? That's +what I wants to ask you, Mr. Bunting,--is that right?" + +"I'll say a word to Ellen, don't you fear," said Bunting abstractedly. + +His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap, +to his now constant anxious preoccupation. "You come along +to-morrow," he said, "and I'll see you gets your walk with Daisy. +It's only right you and she should have a chance of seeing one +another without old folk being by; else how's the girl to tell +whether she likes you or not! For the matter of that, you hardly +knows her, Joe--" He looked at the young man consideringly. + +Chandler shook his head impatiently. "I knows her quite as well as +I wants to know her," he said. "I made up my mind the very first +time I see'd her, Mr. Bunting." + +"No! Did you really?" said Bunting. "Well, come to think of it, +I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. +But I hope you'll never want no second, Chandler," + +"God forbid!" said the young man under his breath. And then he +asked, rather longingly, "D'you think they'll be out long now, Mr. +Bunting?" + +And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. "Sit down, sit +down; do!" he said hastily. "I don't believe they'll be very long. +They've only got a little bit of shopping to do." + +And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, "And +how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you're +all just waiting for the next time?" + +"Aye--that's about the figure of it." Chandler's voice had also +changed; it was now sombre, menacing. "We're fair tired of it-- +beginning to wonder when it'll end, that we are!" + +"Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master's +like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that. + +"Yes," said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion--a savage, +fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that description that +was circulated put us wrong. I don't believe it was the man that +knocked up against that woman in the fog--no, not one bit I don't. +But I wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it's +a sailor--the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight +or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, +again, I says to myself that it's a butcher, a man from the Central +Market. Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat." + +"Then it don't seem to you possible--?" (Bunting got up and walked +over to the window.) "You don't take any stock, I suppose, in that +idea some of the papers put out, that the man is"--then he +hesitated and brought out, with a gasp--"a gentleman?" + +Chandler looked at him, surprised. "No," he said deliberately. +"I've made up my mind that's quite a wrong tack, though I knows that +some of our fellows--big pots, too--are quite sure that the fellow +what gave the girl the sovereign is the man we're looking for. You +see, Mr. Bunting, if that's the fact--well, it stands to reason the +fellow's an escaped lunatic; and if he's an escaped lunatic he's got +a keeper, and they'd be raising a hue and cry after him; now, +wouldn't they?" + +"You don't think," went on Bunting, lowering his voice, "that he +could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?" + +"D'you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some +West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that +'ud be have come to pass." He smiled as if the notion was a funny +one. + +"Yes, something o' that sort," muttered Bunting. + +"Well, if your idea's correct, Mr. Bunting--" + +"I never said 'twas my idea," said Bunting, all in a hurry. + +"Well, if that idea's correct then, 'twill make our task more +difficult than ever. Why, 'twould be looking for a needle in a +field of hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! I don't think it's +anything quite so unlikely as that--not myself I don't." He +hesitated. "There's some of us"--he lowered his voice--"that +hopes he'll betake himself off--The Avenger, I mean--to another +big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There'd be plenty of +work for him to do there," and Chandler chuckled at his own grim +joke. + +And then, to both men's secret relief, for Bunting was now +mortally afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and +his doings, they heard Mrs. Bunting's key in the lock. + +Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young +Chandler was still there. She had feared that when they got home +he would be gone, the more so that Ellen, just as if she was doing +it on purpose, had lingered aggravatingly long over each small +purchase. + +"Here's Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk," +blurted out Bunting. + +"My mother says as how she'd like you to come to tea, over at +Richmond," said Chandler awkwardly, "I just come in to see whether +we could fix it up, Miss Daisy." And Daisy looked imploringly at +her stepmother. + +"D'you mean now--this minute?" asked Mrs. Bunting tartly. + +"No, o' course not"--Bunting broke in hastily. "How you do go on, +Ellen!" + +"What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?" +asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically. + +Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day +--in fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to +see Daisy at all. But he had talked her round. + +"How about Saturday?" suggested Bunting. "That's Daisy's' birthday. +'Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she's +going back to Old Aunt on Monday." + +"I can't go Saturday," said Chandler disconsolately. "I'm on duty +Saturday." + +"Well, then, let it be Sunday," said Bunting firmly. And his wife +looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her +presence. + +"What do you say, Miss Daisy?" said Chandler. + +"Sunday would be very nice," said Daisy demurely. And then, as the +young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy +ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute. + +Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing +of Mrs. Bunting's whispered remark: "When I was a young woman folk +didn't gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to +go to church together, decent-like--" + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Daisy's eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave +her what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth +birthday--a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which +Bunting had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy-- +it seemed a long, long time ago now. + +Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but +she was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to +trouble much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generally +had the good sense not to interfere between her husband and his +child. + +In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy +himself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the +last four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed on +his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite +pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden +fruit. + +His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his +nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. +But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him +feel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found himself +starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke +to him suddenly. + +Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting +didn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only +one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly +slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going +out. + +In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above +all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his +acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that +they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his +mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the +knowledge--no, not knowledge, rather the--the suspicion--that +dwelt within him. + +But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive longing +for human companionship--companionship, that is, other than that +of his wife and of his daughter. + +This longing for a change of company finally led him into a small, +populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgeware Road. There were more +people there than usual just now, for the housewives of the +neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The +ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he generally +bought his tobacco. + +Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two +fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief and surprise +the man made no allusion to the subject of which all the +neighbourhood must still be talking. + +And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and +before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, +Bunting, through the open door, saw with horrified surprise that +Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shop +just opposite. + +Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across +the road. + +"Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and left my little +girl alone in the house with the lodger?" + +Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I thought you was +indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever made you come out +for, without first making sure I'd stay in?" + +Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in +exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew. + +They turned and scurried down the crowded street. "Don't run," he +said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. +People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run." + +He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear +and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking. + +At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in +front of his wife. + +After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know how he was +feeling. + +He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment +with his latchkey. + +Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice, +"Daisy, my dear! where are you?" + +"Here I am, father. What is it?" + +"She's all right." Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She's +all right, Ellen." + +He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. "It +did give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly, "Don't frighten +the girl, Ellen." + +Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring +herself in the glass. + +"Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round, "I've seen the +lodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, though, to be sure, he does +look a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn't like to go up; and so +he came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite a nice +little chat--that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and he +asked me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him this +afternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of course, +I could see he was 'centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily. +'And who be you?' he says, threatening-like. And I says to him, +'I'm Mr. Bunting's daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunate +girl '--that's what he says, Ellen--'to 'ave such a nice +step-mother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look such +a good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit of the Prayer +Book. 'Keep innocency,' he says, wagging his head at me. Lor'! +It made me feel as if I was with Old Aunt again." + +"I won't have you going out with the lodger--that's flat." + +Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wiping his forehead +with one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the +little packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had +forgotten to pay. + +Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat +on my birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn't a very good day-- +at least, so I'd heard--for Madame Tussaud's. Then he said we +could go early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners." +She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He particularly +said you was to come, too. The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, +Ellen; if I was father, I'd feel quite jealous!" + +Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door. + +Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively. Was it +possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door +open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had +crept in behind them? + +Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it +was only Mr. Sleuth--Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall +hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but +he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape. + +"I heard you come in"--he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, +whistling, hesitating voice--"and so I've come down to ask you if +you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's now. I have +never seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the place +all my life." + +As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden +doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to +Mr. Sleuth's landlord. + +Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered +gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting +had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be! + +He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, +staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and +cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy +was already putting on her hat and coat. + +"Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed +to his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly. "Well?" + +"Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said dully. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Madame Tussaud's had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. +In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there +part of their afternoon-out. + +The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of +the waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for +"self and lady." But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been +inside the place since she had come to live almost next door, as it +were, to the big building. + +They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after +the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the +first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of +those curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so strangely death +in life, seemed to surprise and affright him. + +Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger's hesitation and unease. + +"Oh, Ellen," she cried, "do let us begin by going into the Chamber +of Horrors! I've never been in there. Old Aunt made father promise +he wouldn't take me the only time I've ever been here. But now that +I'm eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never +know." + +Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over +his worn, gaunt face. + +"Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that's a +good idea, Miss Bunting. I've always wanted to see the Chamber of +Horrors." + +They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics were +then kept, and which led into the curious, vault-like chamber where +waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. + +Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband's +old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting +the public to the Chamber of Horrors. + +"Well, you are a stranger," the man observed genially. "I do believe +that this is the very first time I've seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, +since you was married!" + +"Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my husband's daughter, +Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this"--she +hesitated a moment--"is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth." + +But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her +stepmother's side, joined him. + +Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. Mrs. +Bunting put down three sixpences. + +"Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can't go into the Chamber of +Horrors just yet. But you won't have to wait more than four or +five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It's this way, you see; our boss is +in there, showing a party round." He lowered his voice. "It's +Sir John Burney--I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?" + +"No," she answered indifferently, "I don't know that I ever heard +of him." + +She felt slightly--oh, very sightly--uneasy about Daisy. She +would have liked her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and +sound, but Mr. Sleuth was now taking the girl down to the other +end of the room. + +"Well, I hope you never will know him--not in any personal sense, +Mrs. Bunting." The man chuckled. "He's the Commissioner of Police +--the new one--that's what Sir John Burney is. One of the +gentlemen he's showing round our place is the Paris Police boss-- +whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John's. The +Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there are several +other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, Mrs. Bunting; that's +our experience here. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors '-- +that's what they say the minute they gets into this here building!" + +Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred to Mr. Hopkins +that she was very wan and tired; she used to look better in the old +days, when she was still in service, before Bunting married her. + +"Yes," she said; "that's just what my stepdaughter said just now. +'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors'--that's exactly what she +did say when we got upstairs." + +****** + +A group of people, all talking and laughing together; were advancing, +from within the wooden barrier, toward the turnstile. + +Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them +was the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be +brought into personal contact; she thought she could pick him out +among the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome gentleman, with +a military appearance. + +Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. +"Monsieur Barberoux is quite right," he was saying in a loud, +cheerful voice, "our English law is too kind to the criminal, +especially to the murderer. If we conducted our trials in the +French fashion, the place we have just left would be very much +fuller than it is to-day. A man of whose guilt we are absolutely +assured is oftener than not acquitted, and then the public taunt +us with 'another undiscovered crime!"' + +"D'you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? +Take the man who has been committing all these awful murders this +last month? I suppose there's no doubt he'll be hanged--if he's +ever caught, that is!" + +Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could hear every word +that was said. + +The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. "Well, no." +He spoke very deliberately. "I doubt if that particular murderer +ever will be hanged." + +"You mean that you'll never catch him?" the girl spoke with a touch +of airy impertinence in her clear voice. + +"I think we shall end by catching him--because"--he waited a moment, +then added in a lower voice--"now don't give me away to a newspaper +fellow, Miss Rose--because now I think we do know who the murderer +in question is--" + +Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and +incredulity. + +"Then why don't you catch him?" cried the girl indignantly. + +"I didn't say we knew where he was; I only said we knew who he was, +or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that I personally have a very +strong suspicion of his identity." + +Sir John's French colleague looked up quickly. "De Leipsic and +Liverpool man?" he said interrogatively. + +The other nodded. "Yes, I suppose you've had the case turned up?" + +Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject +from his own mind, and from that of his auditors, he went on: + +"Four murders of the kind were committed eight years ago--two in +Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, in Liverpool,--and there were +certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear +they were committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, +fortunately for us, red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of +his last victim, for in Liverpool the murder was committed in a +house. I myself saw the unhappy man--I say unhappy, for there is +no doubt at all that he was mad "--he hesitated, and added in a +lower tone--"suffering from an acute form of religious mania. +I myself saw him, as I say, at some length. But now comes the really +interesting point. I have just been informed that a month ago this +criminal lunatic, as we must of course regard him, made his escape +from the asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole +thing with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and we should +probably have caught him long ago, were it not that he managed, when +on his way out of the place, to annex a considerable sum of money +in gold, with which the wages of the asylum staff were about to be +paid. It is owing to that fact that his escape was, very wrongly, +concealed--" + +He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, and a moment +later the party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, +Sir John Burney leading the way. + +Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt--so she +expressed it to her husband later--as if she had been turned to +stone. + +Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the time nor the power +to warn her lodger of his danger, for Daisy and her companion were +now coming down the room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of +Police. In another moment Mrs. Bunting's lodger and Sir John Burney +were face to face. + +Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible change over +his pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and +terror. + +But, to Mrs. Bunting's relief--yes, to her inexpressible relief +--Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. They passed Mr. Sleuth +and the girl by his side, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that +there was anyone else in the room but themselves. + +"Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting," said the turnstile-keeper; "you and your +friends will have the place all to yourselves for a bit." From an +official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that +gallantly addressed pretty Daisy Bunting: "It seems strange that a +young lady like you should want to go in and see all those 'orrible +frights," he said jestingly. + +"Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?" + +The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth's lips. + +His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. + +"A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting." The lodger's face was still +distorted with fear and passion. "Do not think to escape the +consequences of your hideous treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, +and you betrayed me! Put I am protected by a higher power, for +I still have much to do." Then, his voice sinking to a whisper, he +hissed out "Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a +two-edged sword. Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps +take hold on hell." + +Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, dreadful words, +he was looking round, glancing this way and that, seeking a way of +escape. + +At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed above a +curtain. "Emergency Exit" was written there. Mrs. Bunting thought +he was going to make a dash for the place; but Mr. Sleuth did +something very different. Leaving his landlady's side, he walked +over to the turnstile, he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and +then touched the man on the arm. "I feel ill," he said, speaking +very rapidly; "very ill indeed! It is the atmosphere of this place. +I want you to let me out by the quickest way. It would be a pity +for me to faint here--especially with ladies about." + +His left hand shot out and placed what he had been fumbling for in +his pocket on the other's bare palm. "I see there's an emergency +exit over there. Would it be possible for me to get out that way?" + +"Well, yes, sir; I think so." + +The man hesitated; he felt a slight, a very sight, feeling of +misgiving. He looked at Daisy, flushed and smiling, happy and +unconcerned, and then at Mrs. Bunting. She was very pale; but +surely her lodger's sudden seizure was enough to make her feel +worried. Hopkins felt the half-sovereign pleasantly tickling his +palm. The Paris Prefect of Police had given him only half-a-crown +--mean, shabby foreigner! + +"Yes, sir; I can let you out that way," he said at last, "and p'raps +when you're standing out in the air, on the iron balcony, you'll feel +better. But then, you know, sir, you'll have to come round to the +front if you wants to come in again, for those emergency doors only +open outward." + +"Yes, yes," said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. "I quite understand! If I +feel better I'll come in by the front way, and pay another shilling +--that's only fair." + +"You needn't do that if you'll just explain what happened here." + +The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put his shoulder +against the door. It burst open, and the light, for a moment, +blinded Mr. Sleuth. + +He passed his hand over his eyes. "Thank you," he muttered, "thank +you. I shall get all right out there." + +An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, of which the +door opened into a side street. + +Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did feel very ill-- +ill and dazed. How pleasant it would be to take a flying leap over +the balcony railing and find rest, eternal rest, below. + +But no--he thrust the thought the temptation, from him. Again a +convulsive look of rage came over his face. He had remembered his +landlady. How could the woman whom he had treated so generously have +betrayed him to his arch-enemy?--to the official, that is, who had +entered into a conspiracy years ago to have him confined--him, an +absolutely sane man with a great avenging work to do in the world-- +in a lunatic asylum. + +He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, falling-to behind +him, blotted out the tall, thin figure from the little group of +people who had watched him disappear. + +Even Daisy felt a little scared. "He did look bad, didn't he, now?" +she turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. + +"Yes, that he did, poor gentleman--your lodger, too?" he looked +sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. + +She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Yes," she repeated dully, +"my lodger." + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her pretty stepdaughter +to step through into the Chamber of Horrors. "I think we ought to +go straight home," said Mr. Sleuth's landlady decidedly. And Daisy +meekly assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a little scared by +the lodger's sudden disappearance. Perhaps this unwonted feeling of +hers was induced by the look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on +her step-mother's face. + +Slowly they made their way out of the building, and when they got +home it was Daisy who described the strange way Mr. Sleuth had been +taken. + +"I don't suppose he'll be long before he comes home," said Bunting +heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive look at his wife. She +looked as if stricken in a vital part; he saw from her face that +there was something wrong--very wrong indeed. + +The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill at ease. Daisy +knew there was no chance that young Chandler would come in to-day. + +About six o'clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She lit the gas in +Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room and looked about her with a fearful glance. +Somehow everything seemed to speak to her of the lodger, there lay +her Bible and his Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly +as he had left them, when he had come downstairs and suggested that +ill-starred expedition to his landlord's daughter. She took few +steps forward, listening the while anxiously for the familiar sound +of the click in the door which would tell her that the lodger had +come back, and then she went over to the window and looked out. + +What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, homeless, +friendless, and, as she suspected with a pang, with but very little +money on him! + +Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger's bedroom and opened the +drawer of the looking-glass. + +Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sovereigns. If only he +had taken his money out with him! She wondered painfully whether he +had enough on his person to secure a good night's lodging, and then +suddenly she remembered that which brought relief to her mind. The +lodger had given something to that Hopkins fellow--either a sovereign +or half a sovereign, she wasn't sure which. + +The memory of Mr. Sleuth's cruel words to her, of his threat, did +not disturb her overmuch. It had been a mistake--all a mistake. +Far from betraying Mr. Sleuth, she had sheltered him--kept his awful +secret as she could not have kept it had she known, or even dimly +suspected, the horrible fact with which Sir John Burney's words had +made her acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was victim of no +temporary aberration, but that he was, and had been for years, a +madman, a homicidal maniac. + +In her ears there still rang the Frenchman's half careless yet +confident question, "De Leipsic and Liverpool man?" + +Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the sitting-room, +and taking a black-headed pin out of her bodice stuck it amid the +leaves of the Bible. Then she opened the Book, and looked at the +page the pin had marked:-- + +"My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken . . . +There is none to stretch forth my tent any more and to set up my +curtains." + +At last leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and +as she opened the door of her sitting-room Daisy came towards her +stepmother. + +"I'll go down and start getting the lodger's supper ready for you," +said the girl good-naturedly. "He's certain to come in when he gets +hungry. But he did look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad-- +that he did!" + +Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy +to go down. + +"Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she said sombrely, and +then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which +came over her husband's face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, +of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, +"That's to say, I don't suppose he will." + +And Bunting's face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, +the look it had worn the last few days, returned. + +"What makes you think he mayn't come back?" he muttered. + +"Too long to tell you now," she said. "Wait till the child's gone +to bed." + +And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. + +And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where +she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her +husband to follow her upstairs. + +Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the +door. And about this they had a few sharp whispered words. + +"You're never going to shut him out?" she expostulated angrily, +beneath her breath. + +"I'm not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps +walking in any minute." + +"Mr. Sleuth won't hurt Daisy, bless you! Much more likely to hurt +me," and she gave a half sob. + +Bunting stared at her. "What do you mean?" he said roughly. +"Come upstairs and tell me what you mean." + +And then, in what had been the lodger's sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting +told her husband exactly what it was that had happened. + +He listened in heavy silence. + +"So you see," she said at last, "you see, Bunting, that 'twas me +that was right after all. The lodger was never responsible for +his actions. I never thought he was, for my part." + +And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. "Depends on what you call +responsible--" he began argumentatively. + +But she would have none of that. "I heard the gentleman say myself +that he was a lunatic," she said fiercely. And then, dropping, her +voice, "A religious maniac--that's what he called him." + +"Well, he never seemed so to me," said Bunting stoutly. "He simply +seemed to me 'centric--that's all he did. Not a bit madder than +many I could tell you of." He was walking round the room restlessly, +but he stopped short at last. "And what d'you think we ought to do +now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. "I don't think we ought +to do nothing," she said. "Why should we?" + +And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion +that irritated her. + +"If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he +would get it! And his money, too? I hate to feel it's in there." + +"Don't you make any mistake--he'll come back for that," said Bunting, +with decision. + +But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. "Now," she said, +"you go off up to bed. It's no use us sitting up any longer." + +And Bunting acquiesced. + +She ran down and got him a bedroom candle--there was no gas in the +little back bedroom upstairs. And then she watched him go slowly up. + +Suddenly he turned and came down again. "Ellen," he said, in an +urgent whisper, "if I was you I'd take the chain off the door, and +I'd lock myself in--that's what I'm going to do. Then he can sneak +in and take his dirty money away." + +Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. Slowly she went +downstairs, and there she carried out half of Bunting's advice. +She took, that is, the chain off the front door. But she did not +go to bed, neither did she lock herself in. She sat up all night, +waiting. At half-past seven she made herself a cup of tea, and +then she went into her bedroom. + +Daisy opened her eyes. + +"Why, Ellen," she said, "I suppose I was that tired, and slept so +sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up--funny, +wasn't it?" + +"Young people don't sleep as light as do old folks," Mrs. Bunting +said sententiously. + +"Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he's upstairs now?" + +Mrs. Bunting shook her head. "It looks as if 'twould be a fine +day for you down at Richmond," she observed in a kindly tone. + +And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. + +****** + +That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler +that their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting +had thought carefully over what they would say, and so well did +they carry out their programme, or, what is more likely, so full +was young Chandler of the long happy day he and Daisy had spent +together, that he took their news very calmly. + +"Gone away, has he?" he observed casually. "Well, I hope he paid +up all right?" + +"Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Bunting hastily. "No trouble of that sort." + +And Bunting said shamefacedly, "Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an +honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such +a poor, gentle chap--not the sort o' man one likes to think of as +wandering about by himself." + +"You always said he was 'centric," said Joe thoughtfully. + +"Yes, he was that," said Bunting slowly. "Regular right-down queer. +Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch," and, as he tapped his +head significantly, both young people burst out laughing. + +"Would you like a description of him circulated?" asked Joe +good-naturedly. + +Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another. + +"No, I don't think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. 'Twould upset +him awfully, you see." + +And Joe acquiesced. "You'd be surprised at the number o' people +who disappears and are never heard of again" he said cheerfully. +And then he got up, very reluctantly. + +Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into +the passage, and shut the sitting-room door behind her. + +When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting +in his easy chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round +his neck. + +Then she bent down her head. "Father," she said, "I've a bit of +news for you!" + +"Yes, my dear?" + +"Father, I'm engaged! Aren't you surprised?" + +"Well, what do you think?" said Bunting fondly. Then he turned +round and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss. + +"What'll Old Aunt say, I wonder?" he whispered. + +"Don't you worry about Old Aunt," exclaimed his wife suddenly. +"I'll manage Old Aunt! I'll go down and see her. She and I have +always got on pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, Daisy." + +"Yes," said Daisy a little wonderingly. "I know you have, Ellen." + +****** + +Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many +nights had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click +of the lock which she at once hoped and feared would herald her +lodger's return. + +As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the "Avenger" +murders stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when +a gardener, working in the Regent's Park, found a newspaper in which +was wrapped, together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, +a long, peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though of considerable +interest to the police, was not chronicled in any newspaper, but +about the same time a picturesque little paragraph went the round +of the press concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been +anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about "Old Aunt," +and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in a +more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to +do. She only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks +leave a house in charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to +follow--a remark which Daisy resented much more than did her Joe. + + +Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old +lady, by whom they are feared as well as respected, and whom they +make very comfortable. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LODGER *** + +This file should be named tldgr11.txt or tldgr11.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tldgr12.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tldgr11a.txt + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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