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diff --git a/2014-h/2014-h.htm b/2014-h/2014-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2c19f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/2014-h/2014-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14052 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lodger, by Marie Belloc Lowndes</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <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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