“I’ll just run out,” said Bunting apologetically, “and see what happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clue about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it—when he wasn’t talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He’s on to-night, luckily not till twelve o’clock; plenty of time to escort the two of ’em back after the play. Besides, he said he’ll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto’ goes on too long for him to take ’em home.” “On to-night?” repeated Mrs. Bunting. “Whatever for?” “Well, you see, The Avenger’s always done ’em in couples, so to speak. They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again to-night. However, even so, Joe’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. Then he’ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, Fine thing to be young, ain’t it, Ellen?” “I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as this!” “What _do_ you mean?” said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone. “What do I mean?” she repeated—and a great fear clutched at her heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud. “Why, by saying he won’t go out. Of course, he has to go out. Besides, he’ll have been to the play as it is. ’Twould be a pretty thing if the police didn’t go out, just because it was cold!” “I—I was thinking of The Avenger,” said Mrs. Bunting. She looked at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter those true words. “He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold,” said Bunting sombrely. “I take it the man’s dead to all human feeling—saving, of course, revenge.” “So that’s your idea about him, is it?” She looked across at her husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. “D’you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?” “Let me see,” he said slowly. “I thought that ’twas from the bedroom window a woman saw him?” “No, no. I mean the _other_ woman, what was taking her husband’s breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most respectable-looking woman of the two,” said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. And then, seeing her husband’s look of utter, blank astonishment, she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. “There, now,” she said; “here I am gossiping all about nothing when I ought to be seeing about the lodger’s supper. It was someone in the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The Avenger.” Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous discussion.