Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought she would surely die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of standing in that curious box-like stand, and she stared across at the bench where sat the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart.

But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted.  Each woman witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well pleased to be the centre of attention and attraction to the general public.  It was plain each was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the attention of all London—­it might almost be said of the whole world.

Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered vaguely which was which.  Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking young person who had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The Avenger within ten seconds of the double crime being committed?  The woman who, aroused by one of his victims’ cry of terror, had rushed to her window and seen the murderer’s shadowy form pass swiftly by in the fog?

Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, had given a most circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked like, for he, it was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he passed.

Those two women now before her had been interrogated and cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by representatives of every newspaper in London.  It was from what they had both said—­unluckily their accounts materially differed—­that that official description of The Avenger had been worked up—­that which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young fellow of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel.

As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaintance, a boon companion of the dead.

Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and focused her gaze on another unfamiliar sight.  Specially prominent, running indeed through the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the coroner’s high dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her place, there had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now every seat at the table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, before him.

“Them’s the reporters,” whispered her friend.  “They don’t like coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last to go.  At an ordinary inquest there are only two—­maybe three—­attending, but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well applied for a pass to that reporters’ table.”

He looked consideringly down into the well of the court.  “Now let me see what I can do for you—­”

Then he beckoned to the coroner’s officer:  “Perhaps you could put this lady just over there, in a corner by herself?  Related to a relation of the deceased, but doesn’t want to be—­” He whispered a word or two, and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at Mrs. Bunting with interest.  “I’ll put her just here,” he muttered.  “There’s no one coming there to-day.  You see, there are only seven witnesses—­sometimes we have a lot more than that.”