point
she found she could not do so.

"Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and there. There's
been another murder, hasn't there?"

"Two other murders," he said soberly.

"Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale--a sallow
greenish-white--that Bunting thought she was again going queer.

"Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a care! I can't
think what's come over you about these murders. Turn your mind
away from them, do! We needn't talk about them--not so much,
that is--"

"But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically.

The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table,
the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to the
door.

Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed and
disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figure
looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully,
Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands--she
had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has never
done rough work--grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive
movement.

Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," he said
to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! That would be
a to-do just now."

"Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. "Can't you see
I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!"

"There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. "There's
precious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what brought
Daisy told me--"

"Well?"

"What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, and they'd
both been drinking heavily, poor creatures."

"Was it where the others was done?" she asked looking at her husband
fearfully.

"No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. It was a good bit
farther West--in fact, not so very far from here. Near King's Cross
--that's how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to have
been done in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as he
thought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he added
hastily. "There, that's enough for the present! We shall soon be
hearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure to
come in some time to-day."

"Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" said Mrs.
Bunting slowly.

She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing more
upright.

"No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful and no mistake
about it.