went off quite all right.
And Daisy's a lucky girl--that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her
five shillings."

But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought
to do.

"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little
disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was
that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time
went on and he didn't come."

"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly.

"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and
fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?"

"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along,
child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself
useful."

And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her
stepmother didn't want her to hear.

"I've something to tell you, Bunting."

"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?"

"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want
anyone to know about it--not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over
and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again."

Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the
mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much
concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it.

There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a
great effort to appear unconcerned.

"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?"

She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!"
she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror
in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum."

And he acquiesced.

"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away
the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried
upstairs.

Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched.
"I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting?
I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I
saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints,
but I should like to do so now."

She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly,
"the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun."

Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed.
"You can tell him that I don't want it back again."

On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third
of the space was an irregular drawing, and