“Don’t you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe Chandler had become sweet on her last summer?  I thought it only foolishness then, but I’ve come round to your view—­that’s all.”

Bunting nodded his head slowly.  Yes, Joe had got into the way of coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested in the Avenger murders that he hadn’t thought of Joe in any other connection—­not this time, at any rate.

“And do you think Daisy likes him?” There was an unwonted tone of excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting’s voice.

His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly smile by any means, lit up her pale face.  “I’ve never been one to prophesy,” she answered deliberately.  “But this I don’t mind telling you, Bunting—­Daisy’ll have plenty o’ time to get tired of Joe Chandler before they two are dead.  Mark my words!”

“Well, she might do worse,” said Bunting ruminatingly.  “He’s as steady as God makes them, and he’s already earning thirty-two shillings a week.  But I wonder how Old Aunt’d like the notion?  I don’t see her parting with Daisy before she must.”

“I wouldn’t let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing as that!” cried Mrs. Bunting.  “No, not for millions of gold!” And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder.  Ellen was singing a very different tune now to what she’d sung a few minutes ago, when she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square.

“If she still seems upset while she’s having her dinner,” said his wife suddenly, “well, you just wait till I’ve gone out for something, and then you just say to her, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ —­just that, and nothing more!  She’ll take it from you.  And I shouldn’t be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot.”

“For the matter of that, there’s no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn’t go over and see her there,” said Bunting hesitatingly.

“Oh, yes, there is,” said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly.  “Plenty of reason.  Daisy’ll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to know any of her secrets.  I’ve only seen that woman once, but I know exactly the sort Margaret is.  She’s just waiting for Old Aunt to drop off and then she’ll want to have Daisy herself—­to wait on her, like.  She’d turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young fellow what stood in her way.”

She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day clock which had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress.  It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth’s arrival.

“I’ve time to go out with that telegram,” she said briskly—­somehow she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days—­ “and then it’ll be done.  It’s no good having more words about it, and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait till the child comes upstairs again.”