multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the
conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised,
struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison.

Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they
belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to
so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours
ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they
belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk
whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving.

There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought
to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this
woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy,
Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two
days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady,
and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort
with a cruel, sharp rebuff.

As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on,
they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but
one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This
was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting
had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone
into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too
fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective.

When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they
both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap
to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to--quite