She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. ’Twould soon be time for the lodger’s supper. She hurried on: “But what I do say is that—that—he has nothing to do with the West End. Why, they say it’s a sailor from the Docks—that’s a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I’m fair sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. The Avenger this—The Avenger that—” “I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night,” said Bunting cheerfully. “Well, Joe, is there anything new?” “I say, father, just listen to this!” Daisy broke in excitedly. She read out: “BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED” “Bloodhounds?” repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her tone. “Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!” Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. “Why, ’twould be a very good idea, if ’twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. But, there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers’ shops, to say nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o’ that sort?” But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother’s shrinking ear there seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her fresh young voice. “Hark to this,” she said: “A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and hanged.” “La, now! Who’d ever have thought of such a thing?” Bunting exclaimed, in admiration. “The newspapers do have some useful hints in sometimes, Joe.” But young Chandler shook his head. “Bloodhounds ain’t no use,” he said; “no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the suggestions that the last few days have brought in—well, all I can say is our work would be cut out for us—not but what it’s cut out for us now, if it comes to that!” He sighed ruefully. He was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would presently have to do, into the cold and foggy night! Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than that one of his pals, a man he’d always looked up to, because the young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but also against the Home Secretary. But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading just yet. “Here’s another notion!” she exclaimed. “Another letter, father!” “PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES.