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about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite
of herself Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited.
      "They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They do
say, Joe, that the police have a clue they won't say nothing
about?" He looked expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact
that Chandler was attached to the detective section of the
Metropolitan Police invested the young man with a kind of sinister
glory - especially just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes
were amazing and terrifying the town.
      "Them who says that says wrong," answered Chandler
slowly, and a look of unease, of resentment came over his fair,
stolid face. "'Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the
Yard had a clue."
      And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, Joe?"
she said, smiling indulgently; the young man's keenness about his
work pleased her. And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very
keen, and took his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and
mind into it.
      "Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day
I'm on this business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard's
nettled - that's what it is, and we're all on our mettle - that we
are. I was right down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty
in the street where the last one happened - "
      "No!" said Bunting incredulously. "You don't mean
there was a policeman there, within a few yards?"
      That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper.
      Chandler nodded. "That's exactly what I do mean, Mr.
Bunting! The man is near off his head, so I'm told. He did hear a
yell, so he says, but he took no notice - there are a good few
yells in that part o' London, as you can guess. People always
quarrelling and rowing at one another in such low parts."
      "Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the
monster writes his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly.
      Public imagination had been much stirred by the
account of those three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the
victims' skirts, on which was roughly written in red ink and in
printed characters the words "The Avenger."
      His round, fat face was full of questioning
eagerness. He put his elbows on the table, and stared across
expectantly at the young man.
      "Yes, I have," said Joe briefly.
      "A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting
laughed; the notion struck him as downright comic.
      But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make
a joke about," she said reprovingly.
      And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said
feelingly. "I'll never forget what I've been made to see over this
job. And as for that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting - or, rather,
those grey bits of paper " - he corrected himself hastily - " you
know they've three of them now at the Yard - well, they gives me
the horrors!"
      And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I
oughtn't to be wasting my time in pleasant company - "
      "Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs.
Bunting solicitously.
      But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I
had a bite before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you
know. A lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't
leave us much time for lazing about, I can tell you."
      When he reached the door he turned round, and with
elaborate carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss Daisy
coming to London again soon?"
      Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He
was very, very fond of his only child; the pity was he saw her so
seldom. "No," he said, "I'm afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls
the old lady, keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string.
She was quite put about that week the child was up with us last
June."
      "Indeed? Well, so long!"
      After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting
said cheerfully, "Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?"
      But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did
not exactly dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way
Bunting's daughter was