“Wanted

A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height approximately 5 ft. 8 in.  Complexion dark.  No beard or whiskers.  Wearing a black diagonal coat, hard felt hat, high white collar, and tie.  Carried a newspaper parcel.  Very respectable appearance.”

Mrs. Bunting walked forward.  She gave a long, fluttering sigh of unutterable relief.

“There’s the chap!” said Joe Chandler triumphantly.  “And now, Miss Daisy”—­he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice—­“if you knows of any nice, likely young fellow that answers to that description—­well, you’ve only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hundred pounds.”

“Five hundred pounds!” cried Daisy and her father simultaneously.

“Yes.  That’s what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday.  Some private bloke—­nothing official about it.  But we of the Yard is barred from taking that reward, worse luck.  And it’s too bad, for we has all the trouble, after all.”

“Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?” said Bunting.  “I’d like to con it over to myself.”

Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy.

A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back.  “Well, it’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  And there’s hundreds—­nay, thousands—­of young fellows that might be a description of,” said Chandler sarcastically.  “As a pal of mine said this morning, ’There isn’t a chap will like to carry a newspaper parcel after this.’  And it won’t do to have a respectable appearance—­eh?”

Daisy’s voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter.  She greatly appreciated Mr. Chandler’s witticism.

“Why on earth didn’t the people who saw him try and catch him?” asked Bunting suddenly.

And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, “Yes, Joe—­that seems odd, don’t it?”

Joe Chandler coughed.  “Well, it’s this way,” he said.  “No one person did see all that.  The man who’s described here is just made up from the description of two different folk who think they saw him.  You see, the murders must have taken place—­well, now, let me see—­perhaps at two o’clock this last time.  Two o’clock—­ that’s the idea.  Well, at such a time as that not many people are about, especially on a foggy night.  Yes, one woman declares she saw a young chap walking away from the spot where ’twas done; and another one—­but that was a good bit later—­says The Avenger passed by her.  It’s mostly her they’re following in this ’ere description.  And then the boss who has charge of that sort of thing looked up what other people had said—­I mean when the other crimes was committed.  That’s how he made up this ‘Wanted.’”

“Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?” said Bunting slowly, disappointedly.

“Well, of course he may be.  But, no; I think that description fits him all right,” said Chandler; but he also spoke in a hesitating voice.