Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job.  There was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too.  Why, even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to taunt him with the remissness of the police.  More than that one of his pals, a man he’d always looked up to, because the young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but also against the Home Secretary.

But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading just yet.

“Here’s another notion!” she exclaimed.  “Another letter, father!”

“Pardon to accomplices.

“Dear Sir—­During the last day or two several of the more Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons.  It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however nomad he may be in his habits—­”

“Now I wonder what ‘nomad’ can be?” Daisy interrupted herself, and looked round at her little audience.

“I’ve always declared the fellow had all his senses about him,” observed Bunting confidently.

Daisy went on, quite satisfied: 

“—­however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat where his ways are known to at least one person.  Now the person who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences.  My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon.  The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice.  Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence.”

“There’s something worth listening to in that letter,” said Joe, leaning forward.

Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he was saying.

“Yes, Mr. Chandler?” she said interrogatively.

“Well, d’you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in a railway carriage?  He took refuge with someone—­a woman his mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time.  But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!”

“I don’t think I’d like to give anybody up for a reward,” said Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way.

“Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting,” said Chandler confidently.  “You’d only be doing what it’s the plain duty of everyone—­everyone, that is, who’s a good citizen.  And you’d be getting something for doing it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty.”