n the counter, asked
for, and received, a glass of cold water.

As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind
dwelling persistently--not on the inquest at which she had been
present, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims.

Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the
mortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, though
cold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this time
yesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul--
alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers had
already interviewed, particularly merry and bright.

Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of
The Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered
wearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear
which encompassed her night and day.

As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened.
The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others
exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front
yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would,
keep any secret closely hidden.

For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from her
mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were
concentrated on Bunting--Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what
had happened during her absence--whether the lodger had rung his
bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with
him?

She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a
pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must
have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains,
for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door.

"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in,
Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now--and you
out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all
right?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety.

And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No,"
she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and
waited, but he never came in at all. 'Twas my own fault," she added
quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though
she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband,
she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her
years ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night,"