How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day.  Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality —­that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose to call himself The Avenger.  And somewhere, not so very far away from them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly trained minds—­aye, and bodies, too—­at bay.

Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her presence among them.

CHAPTER XIX

It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting there a long time—­it was really about a quarter of an hour—­when her official friend came back.

“Better come along now,” he whispered; “it’ll begin soon.”

She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep stone steps, and so into the Coroner’s Court.

The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways not unlike a chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery ran half-way round, a gallery evidently set aside for the general public, for it was now crammed to its utmost capacity.

Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row of faces.  Had it not been for her good fortune in meeting the man she was now following, it was there that she would have had to try and make her way.  And she would have failed.  Those people had rushed in the moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their way in a way she could never have pushed or fought.

There were just a few women among them, set, determined-looking women, belonging to every class, but made one by their love of sensation and their power of forcing their way in where they wanted to be.  But the women were few; the great majority of those standing there were men—­men who were also representative of every class of Londoner.

The centre of the court was like an arena; it was sunk two or three steps below the surrounding gallery.  Just now it was comparatively clear of people, save for the benches on which sat the men who were to compose the jury.  Some way from these men, huddled together in a kind of big pew, stood seven people—­three women and four men.

“D’you see the witnesses?” whispered the inspector, pointing these out to her.  He supposed her to know one of them with familiar knowledge, but, if that were so, she made no sign.

Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a kind of little platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair.  Mrs. Bunting guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would sit.  And to the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also raised considerably above the jury.

Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe-inspiring than the scene of the inquest which had taken place so long ago, on that bright April day, in the village inn.  There the coroner had sat on the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped forward one by one, and taken their place before him.