The cabman stared at him, surprised. “Two of ’em, I tell yer—within a few yards of one another. He ’ave—got a nerve—But, of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the drink!” “Have they caught him?” asked Bunting perfunctorily. “Lord, no! They’ll never catch ’im! It must ’ave happened hours and hours ago—they was both stone cold. One each end of a little passage what ain’t used no more. That’s why they didn’t find ’em before.” The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer—two news vendors trying to outshout each other. “’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross!” they yelled exultingly. “The Avenger again!” And Bunting, with his daughter’s large straw hold-all in his hand, ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny for a halfpenny paper. He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance with young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. He hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it, as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily been out. As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy’s voice—high, voluble, excited—giving her stepmother a long account of the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt’s neighbours had thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash. But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter’s voice, and he heard her cry, “Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You _do_ look bad!” and his wife’s muffled answer, “Open the window—do.” “’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross—a clue at last!” yelled the newspaper-boys triumphantly. And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an ecstasy of mirth. “Why, father, whatever’s the matter with her?” Daisy looked quite scared. “She’s in ’sterics—that’s what it is,” he said shortly. “I’ll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!” Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous—that’s what she was, to be so easily upset. The lodger’s bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all over, but mentally composed. “I’ll go up,” she said a little chokingly. “As for you, child, just run down into the kitchen. You’ll find a piece of pork roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the sauce.” As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the banister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself, she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room.