contact with the lodger.

When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There
were two ways of getting to St. Pancras--she could go by bus, or
she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before
turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the
early afternoon papers lying on the ground.

Two words,

THE AVENGER,

stared up at her in varying type.

Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders,
Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined
to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes
were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the
close print in the paper Bunting took in.

Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station.

And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting.

The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be
empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they
were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question
she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes.

"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquests
are held"--she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then
concluded--"in the neighbourhood of King's Cross?"

The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at
all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest--there are many
such--just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a
widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain
Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face.

"I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said good-naturedly.
"So you can come along of me. You see there's that big Avenger
inquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to make other
arrangements for--hum, hum--ordinary cases." And as she looked
at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd of people at
The Avenger inquest--a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to
say nothing of the public."

"That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could
scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort,
yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was
going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder
inquest!

During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened
by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the
stolid face of her unknown