"Why, whatever's this?" she asked."This ain't our paper!""'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly."It's a special early edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger.Here's the bit about it" - he showed her the exact spot.But she would have found it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear characters: -"Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger has escaped detection.While the whole attention of the police, and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were concentrating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, he moved swift1y and silently Westward.And, choosing a time when the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery.
"Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping.Into that cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing his atrocious crime.And it was only owing to the merest accident that the body was discovered as soon as it was - that is, just after midnight "Dr.Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four.It was at first thought - we were going to say, hoped - that this murder had nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying the whole of the civilised world.But no - pinned on the edge of the dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of grey paper - the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his audacity and daring - so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent wickedness."All the time that Mrs.Bunting was reading with slow, painful intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his Ellen's unsympathetic ears.
At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly.
"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that?"she said irritably."Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go away - do!"And Bunting went off into the next room.
After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes.She tried to think of nothing.Nay, more - so strong, so determined was her will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing.She felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness.
Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of her mind like little clouds across a summer sky.She wondered if those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square;she wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper.But no.Margaret was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as that.
Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes - to-morrow, not to-day.Well, that was a comfort, at any rate.What amusing things Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl had an excellent gift of mimicry.And Margaret, with her precise, funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," lent herself to the cruel gift.
