“DEAR SIR—During the last day or two several of the more Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however nomad he may be in his habits—” “Now I wonder what ‘nomad’ can be?” Daisy interrupted herself, and looked round at her little audience. “I’ve always declared the fellow had all his senses about him,” observed Bunting confidently. Daisy went on, quite satisfied: “—however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence.” “There’s something worth listening to in that letter,” said Joe, leaning forward. Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he was saying. “Yes, Mr. Chandler?” she said interrogatively. “Well, d’you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone—a woman his mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!” “I don’t think I’d like to give anybody up for a reward,” said Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. “Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting,” said Chandler confidently. “You’d only be doing what it’s the plain duty of everyone—everyone, that is, who’s a good citizen. And you’d be getting something for doing it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty.” “A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common informer,” went on Bunting obstinately. “And no man ’ud care to be called that! It’s different for you, Joe,” he added hastily. “It’s your job to catch those who’ve done anything wrong. And a man’d be a fool who’d take refuge—like with you. He’d be walking into the lion’s mouth—” Bunting laughed. And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: “If I’d done anything I wouldn’t mind going for help to Mr. Chandler,” she said. And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, “No. And if you did you needn’t be afraid I’d give you up, Miss Daisy!” And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, sitting with bowed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain. “Why, Ellen, don’t you feel well?” asked Bunting quickly.