Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination of the whole of London’s nether-world. Even her refined mind had busied itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem so frequently presented to it by Bunting—for Bunting, now that they were no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in “The Avenger” and his doings. She took the kettle off the gas-ring. “It’s a pity Bunting isn’t here,” she said, drawing in her breath. “He’d a-liked so much to hear you tell all about it, Joe.” As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a little teapot. But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced at him. “Why, you do look bad!” she exclaimed. And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad—very bad indeed. “I can’t help it,” he said, with a kind of gasp. “It was your saying that about my telling you all about it that made me turn queer. You see, this time I was one of the first there, and it fairly turned me sick—that it did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. Bunting! Don’t talk of it.” He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well made. She looked at him with sympathetic interest. “Why, Joe,” she said, “I never would have thought, with all the horrible sights you see, that anything could upset you like that.” “This isn’t like anything there’s ever been before,” he said. “And then—then—oh, Mrs. Bunting, ’twas I that discovered the piece of paper this time.” “Then it _is_ true,” she cried eagerly. “It _is_ The Avenger’s bit of paper! Bunting always said it was. He never believed in that practical joker.” “I did,” said Chandler reluctantly. “You see, there are some queer fellows even—even—” (he lowered his voice, and looked round him as if the walls had ears)—“even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and these murders have fair got on our nerves.” “No, never!” she said. “D’you think that a Bobby might do a thing like that?” He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn’t worth answering. Then, “It was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while the poor soul was still warm,”—he shuddered—“that brought me out West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince Albert Terrace, and I had to go and tell him all about it. They never offered me a bit or a sup—I think they might have done that, don’t you, Mrs. Bunting?” “Yes,” she said absently. “Yes, I do think so.” “But, there, I don’t know that I ought to say that,” went on Chandler. “He had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to me while I was telling him.” “Have a bit of something now?” she said suddenly. “Oh, no, I couldn’t eat anything,” he said hastily. “I don’t feel as if I could ever eat anything any more.” “That’ll only make you ill.” Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite out of the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him.