The Lodger [58]
Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been easier to bear than this awakening.
She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then he came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the sitting-room.
Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale blue eyes. This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job.
When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his wife lying with her face to the wall.
"Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, nay happy, excitement in his voice.
She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she asked. "Well? Why don't you tell me about it?"
"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I thought, Ellen, you never heard nothing."
"How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. Why don't you tell me?"
"I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly.
"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don't tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?"
"Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you. The Avenger's moving West - that's what he's doing. Last time 'twas King's Cross - now 'tis the Edgware Road. I said he'd come our way, and he has come our way!"
"You just go and get me that paper," she commanded. "I wants to see for myself."
Bunting went into the next room; then he came back and handed her silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet.
"Why, whatever's this?" she asked. "This ain't our paper!"
"'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly. "It's a special early edition of the Sun, just because of The Avenger. Here's the bit about it" - he showed her the exact spot. But she would have found it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring over the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear characters: -
"Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The Avenger has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police, and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were concentrating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, he moved swift1y and silently Westward. And, choosing a time when the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery.
"Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest accident that the body was discovered as soon as it was - that is, just after midnight
"Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at first thought - we were going to say, hoped - that this murder had nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying the whole of the civilised world. But no - pinned on the edge of the dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of grey paper - the grimmest visiting card ever designed by the wit of man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his audacity and daring - so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent wickedness."
All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, painful intentness, her husband