ust
after midnight.

"Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that
the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at
first thought--we were going to say, hoped--that this murder had
nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying
the whole of the civilised world. But no--pinned on the edge of the
dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of
grey paper--the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of
man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his
audacity and daring--so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent
wickedness."

All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful
intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to
burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his
Ellen's unsympathetic ears.

At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly.

"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?"
she said irritably. "Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go
away--do!"

And Bunting went off into the next room.

After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried
to think of nothing. Nay, more--so strong, so determined was her
will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She
felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does
a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness.

Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of
her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if
those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square;
she wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her
brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret
was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as
that.

Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes--to-morrow, not
to-day. Well, that was a comfort, at any rate. What amusing things
Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl
had an excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise,
funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," lent herself to
the cruel gift.

And then Mrs. Bunting's mind--her poor, weak, tired mind--wandered
off to young Chandler. A funny thing love was, when you came to
think of it--which she, Ellen Bunting, didn't often do. There was
Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women, an