gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out of the house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes his way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area. Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal lunatic.
"I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to the part of London where these murders have been actually committed. I am quite sure from all that has come out—and we must remember that full information is never given to the newspapers—The Avenger should be sought for in the West, and not in the East End of London.—Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly"Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she brought out the word "Gab-o-ri-you," said she.
"What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly.
And then Joe broke in: "That’s the name of a French chap what wrote detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of them are, too!"
"Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, I take it?" said Bunting.
"Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever’s written that silly letter just signed that name for fun."
"It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. "I wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish."
"Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman!"
