“I told you I’d got a chill,” he muttered. “’Twasn’t last night, though; ’twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. Margaret keeps that housekeeper’s room o’ hers like a hothouse—that’s what she does. ’Twas going out from there into the biting wind, that’s what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in such weather; ’tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, can stand the life—being out in all weathers like he is.” Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table. “Those that keep out o’ doors all day never do come to no harm,” said his wife testily. “But if you felt so bad, whatever was you out so long for, Bunting? I thought you’d gone away somewhere! D’you mean you only went to get the paper?” “I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp,” he muttered apologetically. “That was a silly thing to do!” “Perhaps it was,” he admitted meekly. Daisy had taken up the paper. “Well, they don’t say much,” she said disappointedly. “Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. Chandler ’ll be in soon again. If so, he’ll tell us more about it.” “A young girl like you oughtn’t to want to know anything about murders,” said her stepmother severely. “Joe won’t think any the better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I was you, Daisy, I shouldn’t say nothing about it if he does come in—which I fair tell you I hope he won’t. I’ve seen enough of that young chap to-day.” “He didn’t come in for long—not to-day,” said Daisy, her lip trembling. “I can tell you one thing that’ll surprise you, my dear”—Mrs. Bunting looked significantly at her stepdaughter. She also wanted to get away from that dread news—which yet was no news. “Yes?” said Daisy, rather defiantly. “What is it, Ellen?” “Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning. He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that you shouldn’t be told anything about it.” “Never!” cried Daisy, much mortified. “Yes,” went on her stepmother ruthlessly. “You just ask your father over there if it isn’t true.” “’Tain’t a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings,” said Bunting heavily. “If I was Joe,” went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage, “I shouldn’t want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that poor young chap is set upon—mostly, I admit, by your father,” she looked at her husband severely. “But you does your share, too, Daisy! You asks him this, you asks him that—he’s fair puzzled sometimes. It don’t do to be so inquisitive.” And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting’s part when young Chandler did come in again that evening, very little was said of the new Avenger murder.