“The Avenger:  A—­”

And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly.  Bravely, however, she went on.  “A the-o-ry.”

“Go in—­do!” whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor.  “Why should we stay out here in the cold?  It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t want to interrupt Miss Daisy,” whispered Chandler back, rather hoarsely.

“Well, you’ll hear it all the better in the room.  Don’t think she’ll stop because of you, bless you!  There’s nothing shy about our Daisy!”

The young man resented the tart, short tone.  “Poor little girl!” he said to himself tenderly.  “That’s what it is having a stepmother, instead of a proper mother.”  But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then he was pleased he had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright blush came over her pretty face.

“Joe begs you won’t stop yet awhile.  Go on with your reading,” commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly.  “Now, Joe, you can go and sit over there, close to Daisy, and then you won’t miss a word.”

There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even Chandler noticed that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and crossing the room he went and sat on a chair just behind Daisy.  From there he could note with reverent delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards from the nape of her slender neck.

“The avenger:  A the-O-ry”

began Daisy again, clearing her throat.

“Dear Sir—­I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think there is a great deal to be said.  It seems to me very probable that The Avenger—­to give him the name by which he apparently wishes to be known—­comprises in his own person the peculiarities of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson’s now famous hero.

“The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of London.  He has, however, a tragedy in his past life.  He is the husband of a dipsomaniac wife.  She is, of course, under care, and is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister.  They notice that he has become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby.  On foggy nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out of the house, maybe between one and two o’clock, and swiftly makes his way straight to what has become The Avenger’s murder area.  Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home again.  After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and acquaintances.  Meantime, the police are searching about the scene of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal lunatic.

“I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to the part of London where these murders have been actually committed.  I am quite sure from all that has come out—­and we must remember that full information is never given to the newspapers—­The Avenger should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London —­Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly—­”