“Not you, Miss Daisy,” said Chandler smilingly.  “I don’t suppose you’ll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone who’s committed a murder—­not one in a million does that.  Why, even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!”

But Bunting was in no hurry.  He was thoroughly enjoying every moment of the time.  Just now he was studying intently the various photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially was he pleased to see those connected with a famous and still mysterious case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, and in which the servant of the man who died had played a considerable part—­not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery.

“I suppose a good many murderers get off?” he said musingly.

And Joe Chandler’s friend nodded.  “I should think they did!” he exclaimed.  “There’s no such thing as justice here in England.  ’Tis odds on the murderer every time.  ’Tisn’t one in ten that come to the end he should do—­to the gallows, that is.”

“And what d’you think about what’s going on now—­I mean about those Avenger murders?”

Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already moving towards the door.

“I don’t believe he’ll ever be caught,” said the other confidentially.  “In some ways ’tis a lot more of a job to catch a madman than ’tis to run down just an ordinary criminal.  And, of course—­leastways to my thinking—­The Avenger is a madman—­one of the cunning, quiet sort.  Have you heard about the letter?” his voice dropped lower.

“No,” said Bunting, staring eagerly at him.  “What letter d’you mean?”

“Well, there’s a letter—­it’ll be in this museum some day—­which came just before that last double event.  ’Twas signed ‘The Avenger,’ in just the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always leaves behind him.  Mind you, it don’t follow that it actually was The Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it.”

“And where was it posted?” asked Bunting.  “That might be a bit of a clue, you know.”

“Oh, no,” said the other.  “They always goes a very long way to post anything—­criminals do.  It stands to reason they would.  But this particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office.”

“What?  Close to us?” said Bunting.  “Goodness! dreadful!”

“Any of us might knock up against him any minute.  I don’t suppose The Avenger’s in any way peculiar-looking—­in fact we know he ain’t.”

“Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?” asked Bunting hesitatingly.

“Our description was made up from what she said,” answered the other cautiously.  “But, there, you can’t tell!  In a case like that it’s groping—­groping in the dark all the time—­and it’s just a lucky accident if it comes out right in the end.  Of course, it’s upsetting us all very much here.  You can’t wonder at that!”