Daisy and Margaret, that is. He’s on to-night, luckily not till twelve o’clock; plenty of time to escort the two of ’em back after the play. Besides, he said he’ll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto’ goes on too long for him to take ’em home."
"On to-night?" repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever for?"
"Well, you see, The Avenger’s always done ’em in couples, so to speak. They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again to-night. However, even so, Joe’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. Then he’ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy. Fine thing to be young, ain’t it, Ellen?"
"I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as this!"
"What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone.
"What do I mean?" she repeated—and a great fear clutched at her heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud.
"Why, by saying he won’t go out. Of course, he has to go out. Besides, he’ll have been to the play as it is. ’Twould be a pretty thing if the police didn’t go out, just because it was cold!"
"I—I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bunting. She looked at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter those true words.
"He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting sombrely. "I take it the man’s dead to all human feeling—saving, of course, revenge."
