“Well?” she said a little breathlessly.  “Well, Joe?  I suppose you’ve brought us news?  I suppose there’s been another?”

He looked at her, surprised.  “No, that there hasn’t, Mrs. Bunting —­not as far as I know, that is.  Oh, you’re thinking of those newspaper chaps?  They’ve got to cry out something,” he grinned.  “You wouldn’t ’a thought folk was so bloodthirsty.  They’re just shouting out that there’s been an arrest; but we don’t take no stock of that.  It’s a Scotchman what gave himself up last night at Dorking.  He’d been drinking, and was a-pitying of himself.  Why, since this business began, there’s been about twenty arrests, but they’ve all come to nothing.”

“Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed,” said Bunting jokingly.  “Come to think of it, it’s high time The Avenger was at work again.”  He laughed as he made his grim joke.  Then turned to young Chandler:  “Well, you’ll be glad when its all over, my lad.”

“Glad in a way,” said Chandler unwillingly.  “But one ’ud have liked to have caught him.  One doesn’t like to know such a creature’s at large, now, does one?”

Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket.  “I must just go and see about Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast,” she said in a weary, dispirited voice, and left them there.

She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed.  As to the plot which had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance of success; Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out another telegram contradicting the first.  Besides, Daisy’s stepmother shrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself wouldn’t care to do such a thing.  Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere in her pretty little head.  If it ever became her fate to live as a married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the right side of Aunt Margaret.

And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother’s heart became very soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready.  In fact, there was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth’s two eggs.  Feeling suddenly more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took the tray upstairs.

“As it was rather late, I didn’t wait for you to ring, sir,” she said.

And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was studying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book.  “Quite right, Mrs. Bunting—­quite right!  I have been pondering over the command, ‘Work while it is yet light.’”

“Yes, sir?” she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over her heart.  “Yes, sir?”

“‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh—­the flesh is weak,’” said Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy sigh.

“You studies too hard, and too long—­that’s what’s ailing you, sir,” said Mr. Sleuth’s landlady suddenly.

******

When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal had been settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandler was going to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square.  He could carry Daisy’s modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead of walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station to Victoria—­that would land them very near Belgrave Square.