since it had been purchased by her as a present for him.

They had been so happy, so happy, and so--so restful, during that
first week after Mr. Sleuth had come to them. Perhaps it was the
sudden, dramatic change from agonising anxiety to peace and security
which had been too much for Ellen--yes, that was what was the matter
with her, that and the universal excitement about these Avenger
murders, which were shaking the nerves of all London. Even Bunting,
unobservant as he was, had come to realise that his wife took a
morbid interest in these terrible happenings. And it was the more
queer of her to do so that at first she refused to discuss them, and
said openly that she was utterly uninterested in murder or crime of
any sort.

He, Bunting, had always had a mild pleasure in such things. In his
time he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he
thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first
drawn him to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap as
cordially as he had done when they first came to London.

But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort
of talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimed
reproachfully: "To hear you two, one would think there was no nice,
respectable, quiet people left in the world!"

But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be
to hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her
own view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had had
her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman
who thought for herself--a clever woman, not an everyday woman by
any manner of means.

While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind,
Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give
Ellen a nice little surprise--to cook an omelette as a French chef
had once taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn't know how
she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but
never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn't
been eating her food properly of late.

And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must be
admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even
noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading
with intense, painful care the column that the great daily paper
they took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective.

According to this Special Invest