Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the person who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark man, with fierce, black moustaches. And somehow—she could not have told you why—he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting’s mind.
This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. For, "I’m here to execute a warrant!" he exclaimed in a theatrical, hollow tone.
With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms as if to bar the way; she turned deadly white—but then, in an instant the supposed stranger’s laugh rang out, with loud, jovial, familiar sound!
"There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I’d take you in as well as all that!"
It was Joe Chandler—Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew he sometimes, not very often, did dress up in the course of his work.
Mrs. Bunting began laughing—laughing helplessly, hysterically, just as she had done on the morning of Daisy’s arrival, when the newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road.
"What’s all this about?" Bunting came out
Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I didn’t mean to upset her like this," he said, looking foolish; "’twas just my silly nonsense, Mr. Bunting." And together they helped her into the sitting-room.
But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; she threw her black apron over her face, and began to sob hysterically.
"I made sure she’d know who I was when I spoke,"
