Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall.  Cold?  Well, he didn’t feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the sooner where he was now.

Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the double murder which had been committed early in the morning of the day Daisy had arrived in London.  And though the thousands of men belonging to the Metropolitan Police—­to say nothing of the smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force—­ were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that there was nothing to be alert about.  Familiarity, even with horror, breeds contempt.

But with the public it was far otherwise.  Each day something happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked.  Even the more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary.

But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that.  The little house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an unsatisfactory, job.  He secretly agreed with one of his pals who had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last double crime, “Why, ‘twould be easier to find a needle in a rick o’ hay than this—­bloke!”

And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now—­after nine long, empty days had gone by?

Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat.  Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. Bunting to wait a moment.  From where he stood in the hall the father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented domesticity.  Joe Chandler’s honest heart swelled at the sight.

Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude—­as it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought a pang to Mrs. Bunting—­which showed that age was beginning to creep over the listener.

One of Daisy’s duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her accomplishment.

Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been asking, “Shall I read this, father?” And Bunting had answered quickly, “Aye, do, my dear.”

He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the door, he had only just nodded his head.  The young man was becoming so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves.

Daisy read out: