platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting
guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would sit. And to
the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also raised
considerably above the jury.

Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than
the scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that
bright April day, in the village inn. There the coroner had sat on
the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped
forward one by one, and taken their place before him.

Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely
die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that
curious box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat
the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart.

But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. Each woman
witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the
centre of attention and attraction to the general public. It was
plain each was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress
in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the attention of all
London--it might almost be said of the whole world.

Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was
which. Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who
had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten
seconds of the double crime being committed? The woman who, aroused
by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed to her window and
seen the murderer's shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog?

Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most
circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it
was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed.

Those two women now before her had been interrogated and
cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by
representatives of every newspaper in London. It was from what they
had both said--unluckily their accounts materially differed--that
that official description of The Avenger had been worked up--that
which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow
of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel.

As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon
companion of the dead.

Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze
on another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent, running indeed
through the whole length