bled at the thought of her house being invaded by the police, but that was only because she had always credited the police with supernatural powers of detection. That they should come to know the awful fact she kept hidden in her breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly suspect it appeared beyond the range of possibility.
And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. He sat cowering over the fire—saying nothing, doing nothing.
"Why, father, ain’t you well?" the girl asked more than once.
And, looking up, he would answer, "Yes, I’m well enough, my girl, but I feels cold. It’s awful cold. I never did feel anything like the cold we’ve got just now."
| · | · | · | · | · | · | · |
At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside.
"The Avenger again!" "Another horrible crime!" "Extra speshul edition!"—such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room.
Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy’s cheeks grew pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled.
"Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D’you hear that?" she exclaimed childishly, and even clapped her hands. "I do wish Mr. Chandler had been here. He would ’a been startled!"
"Don’t, Daisy!" and Bunting frowned.
Then, getting up, he stretched himself. "It’s fair getting on my mind," he said, "these horrible things
