sed no more. That's why they didn't find 'em
before."

The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer--two news vendors
trying to outshout each other.

"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled exultingly.
"The Avenger again!"

And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all in his hand,
ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for
a halfpenny paper.

He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with
young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He
hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it,
as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily
been out.

As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy's voice--
high, voluble, excited--giving her stepmother a long account of
the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's neighbours had
thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash.

But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there
came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's voice, and he heard
her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!"
and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window--do."

"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross--a clue at last!" yelled
the newspaper-boys triumphantly.

And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed,
and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an
ecstasy of mirth.

"Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?"

Daisy looked quite scared.

"She's in 'sterics--that's what it is," he said shortly.
"I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!"

Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous--that's what she
was, to be so easily upset.

The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either
that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical
effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all
over, but mentally composed.

"I'll go up," she said a little chokingly. "As for you, child,
just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of pork
roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the
sauce."

As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made
of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the
banister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself,
she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments
on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room.