For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger’s victims receded from her mind.  She thought of them no more.  All her thoughts were concentrated on Bunting—­Bunting and Mr. Sleuth.  She wondered what had happened during her absence—­whether the lodger had rung his bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with him?

She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a pleasant feeling of home-coming.  And then she saw that Bunting must have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door.

“I was getting quite anxious about you,” he exclaimed.  “Come in, Ellen, quick!  You must be fair perished a day like now—­and you out so little as you are.  Well?  I hope you found the doctor all right?” He looked at her with affectionate anxiety.

And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting.  “No,” she said slowly, “Doctor Evans wasn’t in.  I waited, and waited, and waited, but he never came in at all.  ’Twas my own fault,” she added quickly.  Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her years ago.  “I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night,” she said.  “Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance of finding a doctor in.  It stands to reason they’ve got to go out to people at all times of day.”

“I hope they gave you a cup of tea?” he said.

And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself:  if the doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained she’d known him a long time.

She compromised.  “I was offered some,” she said, in a weak, tired voice.  “But there, Bunting, I didn’t feel as if I wanted it.  I’d be very grateful for a cup now—­if you’d just make it for me over the ring.”

“’Course I will,” he said eagerly.  “You just come in and sit down, my dear.  Don’t trouble to take your things off now—­wait till you’ve had tea.”

And she obeyed him.  “Where’s Daisy?” she asked suddenly.  “I thought the girl would be back by the time I got home.”

“She ain’t coming home to-day”—­there was an odd, sly, smiling look on Bunting’s face.

“Did she send a telegram?” asked Mrs. Bunting.

“No.  Young Chandler’s just come in and told me.  He’s been over there and,—­would you believe it, Ellen?—­he’s managed to make friends with Margaret.  Wonderful what love will do, ain’t it?  He went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this evening—­she and Daisy—­to the pantomime.  Did you ever hear o’ such a thing?”

“Very nice for them, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bunting absently.  But she was pleased—­pleased to have her mind taken off herself.  “Then when is that girl coming home?” she asked patiently.