But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother’s shrinking ear there seemed a horrible thrill of delight, of gloating pleasure, in her fresh young voice.
"Hark to this," she said:
"A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and hanged."
"La, now! Who’d ever have thought of such a thing?" Bunting exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do have some useful hints in sometimes, Joe."
But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds ain’t no use," he said; "no use at all! If the Yard was to listen to all the suggestions that the last few days have brought in—well, all I can say is our work would be cut out for us—not but what it’s cut out for us now, if it comes to that!" He sighed ruefully. He was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would presently have to do, into the cold and foggy night!
Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new job. There was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business, too. Why, even in the house where he lived, and in the little cook-shop where he habitually took his meals, the people round him had taken to taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than that. One of his pals, a man he’d always looked up to, because the young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had spoken at the big demonstration in
