aid, smiling. "You'd never have got
through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner of
means."

The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves
on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few
men were out there, smoking.

Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of
the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his watch.
"There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he said.
"There's the mortuary"--he pointed with his thumb to a low room
built out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in and
see them?" he whispered.

"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked
down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a
nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued
with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it
her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to
one of The Avenger's victims.

They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men
talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.

"I think you'd better sit down here," he said considerately, and,
leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed
walls--"unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is."

But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an effort, "Oughtn't
I to go into the court now, if it's likely to be so full?"

"Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get a proper place.
I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come back in good time
and look after you."

She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while
they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside,
and looked about her.

Many of the gentlemen--they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats
--standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She picked
out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated
face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely
advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair--the
preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had
great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to
himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a
dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke,
and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody.

How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London,