She decided on the latter.

But before turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the early afternoon papers lying on the ground.
Two words, THE AVENGER, stared up at her in varying type.
Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, Mrs.Bunting looked down at the placards.

She did not feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing.

Her eyes were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the close print in the paper Bunting took in.
Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station.
And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs.Bunting.
The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be empty, save for the presence of a police inspector.

And once they were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes.
"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquests are held"-- she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then concluded--"in the neighbourhood of King's Cross ?" The man turned and, looked at her attentively.