stared up at her in varying type. Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the close print in the paper Bunting took in. Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station. And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting. The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. “Can you tell me,” she said, in a low voice, “where death inquests are held”—she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then concluded—“in the neighbourhood of King’s Cross?” The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest—there are many such—just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face. “I’m going to the Coroner’s Court myself.” he said good-naturedly. “So you can come along of me. You see there’s that big Avenger inquest going on to-day, so I think they’ll have had to make other arrangements for—hum, hum—ordinary cases.” And as she looked at him dumbly, he went on, “There’ll be a mighty crowd of people at The Avenger inquest—a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to say nothing of the public.” “That’s the inquest I’m going to,” faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest! During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet—and yet that was just what she was about to do herself. “I’ve got a reason for wanting to go there,” she murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. “Ah!” he said reflectively. “A—a relative connected with one of the two victims’ husbands, I presume?” And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. “Going to give evidence?” he asked casually, and then he turned and looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done. “Oh, no!” There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker’s voice. And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. “Hadn’t seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?”