“The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your place for?” asked Daisy wonderingly. “I thought there was only the British Museum—” And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, laughed aloud. “You are a goosey girl!” said her father fondly. “Why, there’s a lot of museums in London; the town’s thick with ’em. Ask Ellen there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when we was courting—if the weather was bad.” “But our museum’s the one that would interest Miss Daisy,” broke in Chandler eagerly. “It’s a regular Chamber of ’Orrors!” “Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before,” said Bunting excitedly. “D’you really mean that there’s a museum where they keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives murders have been committed with?” “Knives?” cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even Mrs. Bunting looked at him expectantly. “Much more than knives, Mr. Bunting! Why, they’ve got there, in little bottles, the real poison what people have been done away with.” “And can you go there whenever you like?” asked Daisy wonderingly. She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable privileges are attached to the position of a detective member of the London Police Force. “Well, I suppose I _could_—” Joe smiled. “Anyway I can certainly get leave to take a friend there.” He looked meaningly at Daisy, and Daisy looked eagerly at him. But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? Ellen was so prim, so—so irritatingly proper. But what was this father was saying? “D’you really mean that, Joe?” “Yes, of course I do!” “Well, then, look here! If it isn’t asking too much of a favour, I should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don’t want to wait till The Avenger’s caught”—Bunting smiled broadly. “I’d be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum o’ yours. Ellen, there,”—he looked across at his wife—“don’t agree with me about such things. Yet I don’t think I’m a bloodthirsty man! But I’m just terribly interested in all that sort of thing—always have been. I used to positively envy the butler in that Balham Mystery!” Again a look passed between Daisy and the young man—it was a look which contained and carried a great many things backwards and forwards, such as—“Now, isn’t it funny that your father should want to go to such a place? But still, I can’t help it if he does want to go, so we must put up with his company, though it would have been much nicer for us to go just by our two selves.” And then Daisy’s look answered quite as plainly, though perhaps Joe didn’t read her glance quite as clearly as she had read his: “Yes, it is tiresome. But father means well; and ’twill be very pleasant going there, even if he does come too.”