with a certain languid interest to all he had to say.

In the morning paper which Bunting had begun taking again that
very day three columns were devoted to the extraordinary mystery
which was now beginning to be the one topic of talk all over London,
West and East, North and South. Bunting had read out little bits
about it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself
Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited.

"They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They do say, Joe, that
the police have a clue they won't say nothing about?" He looked
expectantly at his visitor. To Bunting the fact that Chandler was
attached to the detective section of the Metropolitan Police
invested the young man with a kind of sinister glory--especially
just now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amazing and
terrifying the town.

"Them who says that says wrong," answered Chandler slowly, and a
look of unease, of resentment came over his fair, stolid face.
"'Twould make a good bit of difference to me if the Yard had a clue."

And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, Joe?" she said,
smiling indulgently; the young man's keenness about his work pleased
her. And in his slow, sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took
his job very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it.

"Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day I'm on this
business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, the Yard's nettled--that's
what it is, and we're all on our mettle--that we are. I was right
down sorry for the poor chap who was on point duty in the street