“I wonder why he’s on duty?” said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. “I thought Joe’s hours was as regular as clockwork—that nothing could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose it’ll do all right if I start about eleven o’clock? It may have left off snowing by then. I don’t feel like going out again just now. I’m pretty tired this morning.” “You start about twelve,” said his wife quickly. “That’ll give plenty of time.” The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there came no sounds at all from overhead. Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast. “Daisy will be surprised to see you—not to say disappointed!” she observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made him stay on a little longer. “There’s no such great hurry as that,” she said good-temperedly. “It’ll do quite well if you’re there by half-past twelve. I’ll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn’t help with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard.” But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously along through the slush. Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a knock at the door—a now very familiar ring and knock. “Joe thinks Daisy’s home again by now!” she said, smiling to herself. Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler’s voice. “Don’t be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!” But though not exactly scared, she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat. “I haven’t a minute,” he said a little breathlessly. “But I thought I’d just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got my telegram all right? I couldn’t send no other kind of message.” “She’s not back yet. Her father hasn’t been gone long after her.” Then, struck by a look in his eyes, “Joe, what’s the matter?” she asked quickly. There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very pale. “Well,” he said. “Well, Mrs. Bunting, I’ve no business to say anything about it—but I _will_ tell _you!_”