button which had hung a man. "And whatever’s that?" she asked, pointing to a piece of dirty-looking stuff.
"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that’s rather a horrible thing—that is. That’s a bit o’ shirt that was buried with a woman—buried in the ground, I mean—after her husband had cut her up and tried to burn her. ’Twas that bit o’ shirt that brought him to the gallows."
"I considers your museum’s a very horrid place!" said Daisy pettishly, turning away.
She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room.
But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types of infernal machines. "Beautiful little works of art some of them are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree.
"Come along—do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I’ve seen about enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it ’ud give me the horrors. I don’t want to have no nightmares to-night. It’s dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the world. Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without knowing it, mightn’t we?"
"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I don’t suppose you’ll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone who’s committed a murder—not one in a million does that. Why, even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!"
But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every moment of the time. Just now he was studying intently the various photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially was he pleased
