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 was looking at her, longing, yet afraid, to burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his Ellen's unsympathetic ears.
At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly.
"Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that ?" she said irritably.

"Murder or no murder, I've got to get up! Go away--do!" And Bunting went off into the next room.
After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes.

She tried to think of nothing.

Nay, more--so strong, so determined was her will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing.

She felt terribly tired and weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does a person who is recovering from a long, wearing illness.
Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the surface of her mind like little clouds across a summer sky.