good few yells in that
part o' London, as you can guess. People always quarrelling and
rowing at one another in such low parts."

"Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the monster writes
his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly.

Public imagination had been much stirred by the account of those
three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned to the victims' skirts,
on which was roughly written in red ink and in printed characters
the words "The Avenger."

His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. He put his
elbows on the table, and stared across expectantly at the young man.

"Yes, I have," said Joe briefly.

"A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting laughed; the notion
struck him as downright comic.

But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make a joke about,"
she said reprovingly.

And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said feelingly. "I'll
never forget what I've been made to see over this job. And as for
that grey bit of paper, Mr. Bunting--or, rather, those grey bits of
paper"--he corrected himself hastily--"you know they've three of
them now at the Yard--well, they gives me the horrors!"

And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I oughtn't to be
wasting my time in pleasant company--"

"Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs. Bunting
solicitously.

But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I had a bite
before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of job, as you know. A
lot's left to our discretion, so to speak, but it don't leave us
much time for lazing about, I can tell you."

When he reached the door he turned round, and with elaborate
carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss Daisy coming to London
again soon?"

Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He was very, very
fond of his only child; the pity was he saw her so seldom. "No,"
he said, "I'm afraid not Joe. Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady,
keeps Daisy pretty tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite
put about that week the child was up with us last June."

"Indeed? Well, so long!"

After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said cheerfully,
"Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?"

But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She did not exactly
dislike the girl, though she did not hold with the way Bunting's
daughter was being managed by that old aunt of hers--an idle,
good-for-nothing way, very different from the fashion in which
she herself had been trained