wered dramatically. "Dark, almost black! If you can
take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look."

And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the
coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down.

Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness.

This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black.
Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse
situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the
crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some
food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her,
breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been
drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and
because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner.

Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much
from what this witness had said that the official description of The
Avenger had been composed--that description which had brought such
comfort to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul.

This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the
newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and
positive.

"It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with string."

She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man
to carry such a parcel--that was what had made her notice it. But
when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night
--so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way,
though every step was familiar.

When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears
told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna
Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had
nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that
she admitted reluctantly that "Anny" would have been such a nice,
respectable young woman if it hadn't been for the drink.

Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that
of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very
respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon.
He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn't seen his
wife for two years; he hadn't had news of her for six months. Before
she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and--and yes,
mother.

Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or
imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the mur