uish, 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.

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.

"Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy eagerly, and he
handed her the paper.

Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knock
echoed through the house.

CHAPTER XI

It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no
longer "Chandler," as he had mostly used to do.

Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way.
She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her.

To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel
which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty
horde with right on their side. 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.

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.

"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."

A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news.

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.

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.

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 crime