“Last night!” thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and then she realised that “last night,” in this connection, meant the night before last. She began the sentence again: “As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of traces of the tragedy.” Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper up again in its original creases, and then she stooped and put it back down on the mat where she had found it. She then turned out the gas, and going back into bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. “Anything the matter?” Bunting murmured, and stirred uneasily. “Anything the matter, Ellen?” She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with a strange gladness, “No, nothing, Bunting—nothing the matter! Go to sleep again, my dear.” They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful mood. Bunting rejoiced at the thought of his daughter’s coming, and even Daisy’s stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant having the girl about the house to help her a bit. About ten o’clock Bunting went out to do some shopping. He brought back with him a nice little bit of pork for Daisy’s dinner, and three mince-pies. He even remembered to get some apples for the sauce. CHAPTER VII. Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate. It brought Daisy—pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy—a sight to gladden any father’s heart. “Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad,” she cried out joyously. There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King’s Cross, as all the world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road, but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that he had done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all. While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it, walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother was awaiting her. As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, ’twas a mere peck on Mrs. Bunting’s part, there fell, with startling suddenness, loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, they sounded strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roar of traffic in the Edgware Road. “What’s that?” exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. “Why, whatever’s that?” The cabman lowered his voice. “Them’s ’a-crying out that ’orrible affair at King’s Cross. He’s done for two of ’em this time! That’s what I meant when I said I might ’a got a better fare. I wouldn’t say nothink before little missy there, but folk ’ave been coming from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, too—but there, there’s nothing to see now!” “What? Another woman murdered last night?” Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousand constables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen?