s of
cloudy liquids.

"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what they are. There's
enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to do for you and me
--aye, and for your father as well, I should say."

"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said Daisy, smiling.
Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight of these little
bottles only brought a pleasant thrill.

"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a flypaper, that was.
Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her complexion, but what she was
really going for was flypapers for to do away with her husband.
She'd got a bit tired of him, I suspect."

"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be done away with,"
said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very comic that they
began to laugh aloud in unison.

"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?" asked Chandler,
becoming suddenly serious.

"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little. "That was the
wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby and its mother.
They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she won't let me go
to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father take me there
last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it. But somehow
I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after having been here!"

"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of relics of Mrs.
Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in, that's at Madame
Tussaud's--at least so they claim, I can't say. Now here's something
just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See that man's jacket
there?"

"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to feel oppressed,
frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian gentleman had
been taken queer.

"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and by mistake he
went and left that jacket behind him. Our people noticed that one
of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't seem much of a
clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you
that that other bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged
the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all three buttons
was different!"

Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which
had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked, pointing to a
piece of dirty-looking stuff.

"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a horrible thing
--that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried with a woman--
buried in the ground, I mean--a