“Well, what d’you say to the day after to-morrow, Mr. Bunting? I’d call for you here about—shall we say half-past two?—and just take you and Miss Daisy down to the Yard. ’Twouldn’t take very long; we could go all the way by bus, right down to Westminster Bridge.” He looked round at his hostess: “Wouldn’t you join us, Mrs. Bunting? ’Tis truly a wonderful interesting place.” But his hostess shook her head decidedly. “’Twould turn me sick,” she exclaimed, “to see the bottle of poison what had done away with the life of some poor creature! “And as for knives—!” a look of real horror, of startled fear, crept over her pale face. “There, there!” said Bunting hastily. “Live and let live—that’s what I always say. Ellen ain’t on in this turn. She can just stay at home and mind the cat—I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!” “I won’t have Mr. Sleuth laughed at,” said Mrs. Bunting darkly. “But there! I’m sure it’s very kind of you, Joe, to think of giving Bunting and Daisy such a rare treat”—she spoke sarcastically, but none of the three who heard her understood that. CHAPTER IX. The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart of that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, Daisy Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of Romance. Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this was the first time a lift had come her way. With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. Daisy clung to her father’s arm, a little bewildered, a little oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful place where she found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of great rooms full of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling—or so she supposed—the mysteries of crime. They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped short. “Look in there,” he said, in a low voice, addressing the father rather than the daughter, “that’s the Finger-Print Room. We’ve records here of over two hundred thousand men’s and women’s finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we’ve got the print of a man’s five finger-tips, well, he’s done for—if he ever does anything else, that is. Once we’ve got that bit of him registered he can’t never escape us—no, not if he tries ever so. But though there’s nigh on a quarter of a million records in there, yet it don’t take—well, not half an hour, for them to tell whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful thought, ain’t it?”