st. In this case,
as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely
be very formal--formal and therefore short.

She herself had one quite definite object--that of hearing the
evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving
the spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowing
blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager
curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter
would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of
people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day
before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a
living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and
where he spent his time between his awful crimes.

As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her
husband.

"Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the doctor. You
looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along with
you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Not
by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know."

"There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first
minute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully
and sadly.

And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone and clean
forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait
till to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?"

"I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone
else's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting
really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, "I'll
be all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!"

As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl
she had put over her long jacket more closely round her.

She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband.
And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden
with poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft.
Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer--as if she
would give the world to tell someone--anyone--what it was that she
suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth.

But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it
was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the
last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house
unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come
into