's no such great hurry as that,"
she said good-temperedly. "It'll do quite well if you're there by
half-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't help
with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard."

But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and
his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing,
less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming
and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously
along through the slush.

Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a
knock at the door--a now very familiar ring and knock. "Joe thinks
Daisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to herself.

Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's voice. "Don't
be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not exactly scared,
she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to
represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection,
with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his
seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat.

"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. "But I thought
I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got
my telegram all right? I couldn't send no other kind of message."

"She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone long after her."
Then, struck by a look in his eyes, "Joe, what's the matter?" she
asked quickly.

There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn,
while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very
pale.

"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no business to say
anything about it--but I will tell you!"

He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind
him. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered. "But this time
no one is to know anything about it--not for the present, I mean,"
he corrected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got a clue--
and a good clue, too, this time."

"But where--and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting.

"Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the
present"--he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. "The
poor soul was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by
chance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his
way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd be able to get an
ambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I
'spect he'