Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were still on the table.
“You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup,” said Bunting hospitably; “and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We’re right in the middle of everything now, ain’t we?” He spoke with evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact.
Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. He waited a moment, and then: “Well I have got one piece of news—not that I suppose it’ll interest you very much.”
They both looked at him—Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her breast still heaved from time to time.
“Our Boss has resigned!” said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively.
“No! Not the Commissioner o’ Police?” exclaimed Bunting.
“Yes, he has. He just can’t bear what’s said about us any longer—and I don’t wonder! He done his best, and so’s we all. The public have just gone daft—in the West End, that is, to-day. As for the papers, well, they’re something cruel—that’s what they are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You’d never believe the things they asks us to do—and quite serious-like.”
“What d’you mean?” questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted to know.
“Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-house investigation—all over London. Just think of it! Everybody to let the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen, just to see if The Avenger isn’t concealed there. Dotty, I calls it! Why, ’twould take us months and months just to do that one job in a town like London.”
“I’d like to see them dare come into my house!” said Mrs. Bunting angrily.