the past, not only in England but abroad—especially abroad.
One woman, whom all the people round her believed to be a kind, respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travellers who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes, and any valuables they possessed. But in all those stories the murderer or murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in almost every case, a wicked lust for gold.
At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe.
"The fog’s lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. "I hope that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it."
But the other shook his head silently. "No such luck!" he said briefly. "You don’t know what it’s like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I expect ’twill soon be just as heavy here as ’twas half an hour ago!"
She wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain back. "Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she observed.
"There’s a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking of asking if you wouldn’t like to go along there with me."
"No," she said dully. "I’m quite content to stay at home."
