of any strange young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police.
"Who’d ever have thought she’d have minded as much as that!" Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart was misgiving him.
"It’s plain enough why she’s become so fond of us all of a sudden," said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, "as plain as the nose on your face, my man."
"What d’you mean?" he said. "I daresay I’m a bit slow, Ellen, but I really don’t know what you’d be at?"
"Don’t you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only foolishness then, but I’ve come round to your view—that’s all."
Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested in the Avenger murders that he hadn’t thought of Joe in any other connection—not this time, at any rate.
"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an unwonted tone of excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting’s voice.
His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly smile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I’ve never been one to prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don’t mind telling you, Bunting—Daisy’ll have plenty o’ time to get tired of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!"
