great readers of newspapers.

As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask
curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him.

It was a shame--a damned shame--that he shouldn't know what was
happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing
news of what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those
shouts, those hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really
exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for
the moment his own intimate, gnawing troubles.

He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to
listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused
babel of hoarse shouts, the one clear word "Murder!"

Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some
sort of connected order. Yes, that was it--"Horrible Murder!
Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting remembered vaguely another murder
which had been committed near St. Pancras--that of an old lady by
her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was
still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among
the class to which he had belonged.

The newsboys--for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual
thing in the Marylebone Road--were coming nearer and nearer; now
they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they
were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he
could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly "The Avenger!
The Avenger at his work again!" broke on his ear.