good-naturedly. "So you can come along of me. You see there’s that big Avenger inquest going on to-day, so I think they’ll have had to make other arrangements for—hum, hum—ordinary cases." And as she looked at him dumbly, he went on, "There’ll be a mighty crowd of people at The Avenger inquest—a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, to say nothing of the public."
"That’s the inquest I’m going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest!
During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet—and yet that was just what she was about to do herself.
"I’ve got a reason for wanting to go there," she murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger.
"Ah!" he said reflectively. "A—a relative connected with one of the two victims’ husbands, I presume?"
And Mrs. Bunting bent her head.
"Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and then he turned and looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done.
"Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker’s voice.
