“Never had, seen her. I’m from the country.” Something impelled Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, “At least, I was.” “Will he be there?” She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was alluding. “I mean the husband,” went on the inspector hastily. “I felt sorry for the last poor chap—I mean the husband of the last one—he seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she’d been a good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink.” “It always is so,” breathed out Mrs. Bunting. “Aye.” He waited a moment. “D’you know anyone about the court?” he asked. She shook her head. “Well, don’t you worry. I’ll take you in along o’ me. You’d never get in by yourself.” They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one’s charge, of having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial about the whole business. “If he knew—if he only knew what I know!” she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly form of the police inspector. “’Tisn’t far—not three minutes,” he said suddenly. “Am I walking too quick for you, ma’am?” “No, not at all. I’m a quick walker.” And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into a high wall. “Better take my arm,” the inspector suggested. “Make way there! Make way!” he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight of his uniform. “Lucky you met me,” he said, smiling. “You’d never have got through alone. And ’tain’t a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.” The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few men were out there, smoking. Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of the yard, Mrs. Bunting’s kind new friend took out his watch. “There’s another twenty minutes before they’ll begin,” he said. “There’s the mortuary”—he pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to the right of the court. “Would you like to go in and see them?” he whispered. “Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to one of The Avenger’s victims. They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones. “I think you’d better sit down here,” he said considerately, and, leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed walls—“unless you’d rather be with the witnesses, that is.”