He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned quickly. "Yes, what is it, Joe?" she asked. And then, in sudden terror, "You’ve never come to tell me that anything’s happened to Bunting? He’s not had an accident?"
"Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? But—but, Mrs. Bunting, there’s been another of them!"
His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was staring at her with unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, eyes.
"Another of them?" She looked at him, bewildered—at a loss. And then what he meant flashed across her—"another of them" meant another of these strange, mysterious, awful murders.
But her relief for the moment was so great—for she really had thought for a second that he had come to give her ill news of Bunting—that the feeling that she did experience on hearing this piece of news was actually pleasurable, though she would have been much shocked had that fact been brought to her notice.
Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become keenly interested in the amazing series of crimes which was occupying the imagination of the whole of London’s nether-world. Even her refined mind had busied itself for the last two or three days with the strange problem so frequently presented to it by Bunting—for Bunting, now that they were no longer worried, took an open, unashamed, intense interest in "The Avenger" and his doings.
She took the kettle off the gas-ring. "It’s a pity Bunting isn’t here," she said, drawing in her breath.
