“I hope nothing’s happened to Mr. Chandler,” she said a little disconsolately. “The very last words he said to me last night was that he’d be there at ten o’clock. I got quite fidgety as the time went on and he didn’t come.” “He’s been here,” said Mrs. Bunting slowly. “Been here?” cried her husband. “Then why on earth didn’t he go and fetch Daisy, if he’d time to come here?” “He was on the way to his job,” his wife answered. “You run along, child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself useful.” And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her stepmother didn’t want her to hear. “I’ve something to tell you, Bunting.” “Yes?” He looked across uneasily. “Yes, Ellen?” “There’s been another o’ those murders. But the police don’t want anyone to know about it—not yet. That’s why Joe couldn’t go over and fetch Daisy. They’re all on duty again.” Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it. There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a great effort to appear unconcerned. “And where did it happen?” he asked. “Close to the other one?” She hesitated, then: “I don’t know. He didn’t say. But hush!” she added quickly. “Here’s Daisy! Don’t let’s talk of that horror in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I’d be mum.” And he acquiesced. “You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away the lodger’s breakfast.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried upstairs. Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. “I don’t feel well to-day,” he said fretfully. “And, Mrs. Bunting? I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, but I should like to do so now.” She flew downstairs. “Bunting,” she said a little breathlessly, “the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun.” Bunting handed it over to her. “I’ve read it through,” he observed. “You can tell him that I don’t want it back again.” On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in rather large characters: “We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his double murder ten days ago.” She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty. “Kindly put the paper down on the table,” came Mr. Sleuth’s muffled voice from the upper landing. She did so. “Yes, sir. And Bunting don’t want the paper back again, sir. He says he’s read it.” And then she hurried out of the room. CHAPTER XXIII.