“If he knew—­if he only knew what I know!” she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly form of the police inspector.

“’Tisn’t far—­not three minutes,” he said suddenly.  “Am I walking too quick for you, ma’am?"’

“No, not at all.  I’m a quick walker.”

And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into a high wall.

“Better take my arm,” the inspector suggested.  “Make way there!  Make way!” he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight of his uniform.

“Lucky you met me,” he said, smiling.  “You’d never have got through alone.  And ’tain’t a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.”

The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard.  A few men were out there, smoking.

Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of the yard, Mrs. Bunting’s kind new friend took out his watch.  “There’s another twenty minutes before they’ll begin,” he said.  “There’s the mortuary”—­he pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to the right of the court.  “Would you like to go in and see them?” he whispered.

“Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of extreme horror.  And he looked down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect.  She was a nice, respectable woman, she was.  She had not come here imbued with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do so.  He suspected her of being sister-in-law to one of The Avenger’s victims.

They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.

“I think you’d better sit down here,” he said considerately, and, leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed walls—­“unless you’d rather be with the witnesses, that is.”

But again she said, “Oh, no!” And then, with an effort, “Oughtn’t I to go into the court now, if it’s likely to be so full?”

“Don’t you worry,” he said kindly.  “I’ll see you get a proper place.  I must leave you now for a minute, but I’ll come back in good time and look after you.”

She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about her.

Many of the gentlemen—­they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats —­standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar.  She picked out one at once.  He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair—­the preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to himself.  This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody.