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"He came to have something to eat and drink," snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "That’s what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. He could hardly speak of it at all—he felt so bad. In fact, he didn’t say a word about it until he’d come right into the room and sat down. He told me quite enough!"

"Didn’t he tell you if the piece of paper on which the ​murderer had written his name was square or three-cornered?" demanded Bunting.

"No; he did not. And that isn't the sort of thing I should have cared to ask him."

"The more fool you!" And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful discovery which had been made that morning—that of The Avenger's fifth murder.

Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took the things he had brought in down to the kitchen.

The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadn't been in the kitchen ten minutes before his bell rang.