THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT THE "ARGUS" SAID.
The following report appeared in the Argus newspaper of Saturday, the 28th July, 18—:
"Truth is said to be stranger than fiction, and certainly the extraordinary murder which took place in Melbourne on Thursday night, or rather Friday morning, goes a long way towards verifying this saying. A crime has been committed by an unknown assassin, within a short distance of the principal street of this great city, and is surrounded by an impenetrable mystery. Indeed, from the nature of the crime itself, the place where it was committed, and the fact that the assassin has escaped without leaving a trace behind him, it would seem as though the case itself had been taken bodily out of Gaboreau's novels, and that his famous detective Lecocq only would be able to unravel it. The facts of the case are simply these:
"On the twenty-seventh day of July, at the hour of twenty minutes to two o'clock in the morning, a hansom cab drove up to the police station, in Grey Street, St. Kilda, and the driver made the startling statement that his cab contained the body of a man whom he had reason to believe had been murdered.
"Being taken into the presence of the Inspector, the cabman, who gave his name as Malcolm Royston, related the following strange story:
"At the hour of one o'clock in the morning, he was driving down Collins Street East, when as he was passing the Burke and Wills' monument he was hailed by a gentleman standing at the corner by the Scotch Church. He immediately drove up, and saw that the gentleman who hailed him was supporting the deceased, who appeared to be very intoxicated. Both were in evening dress, but the deceased had no overcoat on, while the other wore a short covert coat of a light fawn color, which was open. As Royston drove up, the gentleman in the light coat said, 'Look here, cabby, here's some fellow awfully tight; you'd better take him home!'
"Royston then asked him if the drunken man was his friend, but this the other denied, saying that he had just picked him up from the foot-path, and did not know him from Adam. At this moment the deceased turned his face up to the light of the lamp under which both were standing, and the other seemed to recognize him, for he recoiled a pace, letting the drunken man fall in a heap on the pavement, and gasping out 'You?' he turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away down Russell Street in the direction of Bourke Street.
"Royston was staring after him, and wondering at his strange conduct, when he was recalled to himself by the voice of the deceased, who had struggled to his feet, and was holding on to the lamp-post, swaying to and fro. 'I wan' g'ome,' he said in a thick voice, 'St. Kilda.' He then tried to get into the cab, but was too drunk to do so, and finally sat down again on the pavement. Seeing this, Royston got down, and lifting him up, helped him into the cab with some considerable difficulty. The deceased fell back into the cab, and seemed to drop off to sleep; so, after closing the door, Royston turned to remount his driving-seat, when he found the gentleman in the light coat whom he had seen holding up the deceased, close to his elbow. Royston said, 'Oh, you've come back,' and the other answered, 'Yes, I've changed my mind, and will see him home.' As he said this he opened the door of the cab, stepped in beside the deceased, and told Royston to drive down to St. Kilda. Royston, who was glad that the friend of the deceased had come to look after him, drove as he had been directed, but near the Church of England Grammar School, on the St. Kilda Road, the gentleman in the light coat called out to him to stop. He did so, and the gentleman got out of the cab, closing the door after him.
"'He won't let me take him home,' he said, 'so I'll just walk back to the city, and you can drive him to St. Kilda.'
"'What street, sir?' asked Royston.
"'Grey Street, I fancy,' said the other, 'but my friend will direct you when you get to the junction.'
"'Ain't he too much on, sir?' said Royston, dubiously.
"'Oh, no! I think he'll be able to tell you where he lives—it's Grey Street or Ackland Street, I fancy. I don't know which."
"He then opened the door of the cab and looked in. 'Good night, old man,' he said—the other apparently did not answer, for the gentleman in the light coat, shrugging his shoulders, and muttering 'sulky brute,' closed the door again. He then gave Royston half a sovereign, lit a cigarette, and after making a few remarks about the beauty of the night, walked off quickly in the direction of Melbourne. Royston drove down to the junction, and having stopped there according to his instructions he asked his fare several times where he was to drive him to. Receiving no answer and thinking that the deceased was too drunk to answer, he got down from his seat, opened the door of the cab, and found the deceased lying back in the corner with a handkerchief across his mouth. He put out his hand with the intention of rousing him, thinking that he had gone to sleep, when on touching him the deceased fell forward, and on examination, to his horror, he found that he was quite dead. Alarmed at what had taken place, and suspecting the gentleman in the light coat, he drove to the police station at St. Kilda, and there made the above report. The body of the deceased was taken out of the cab and brought into the station, a doctor being sent for at once. On his arrival, however, he found that life was quite extinct, and also discovered that the handkerchief which was tied lightly over the mouth was saturated with chloroform. He had no hesitation in stating that from the way in which the handkerchief was placed, and the presence of chloroform, that a murder had been committed, and from all appearances the deceased died easily, and without a struggle. The deceased is a slender man, of medium height, with a dark complexion, and is dressed in evening dress, which will render indentification difficult, as it is a costume which has not any distinctive mark to render it noticeable. There were no papers nor cards found on the deceased from which his name could be discovered, and the clothing was not marked in any way.
The handkerchief, however, which was tied across his mouth, was of white silk, and marked in one of the corners with the letters 'O. W.' in red silk. The assassin, of course, may have used his own handkerchief to commit the crime, so that if the initials are those of his own name they may ultimately lead to his detection. There will be an inquest held on the body of the deceased this morning, when, no doubt, some evidence may be elicited which may solve the mystery."
In Monday morning's issue of the Argus the following article appeared with reference to the matter:
"The following additional evidence has been obtained which may throw some light on the mysterious murder in a hansom cab of which we gave a full description in Saturday's issue:—'Another hansom cabman called at the police office, and gave a clue which will, no doubt, prove of value to the detectives in their search after the murderer. He says he was driving up the St. Kilda Road on Friday morning about half-past one o'clock, when he was hailed by a gentleman in a light coat, who stepped into the cab and told him to drive to Powlett Street, East Melbourne.
He did so, and after paying him, the gentleman got out at the corner of Wellington Parade and Powlett Street, and walked slowly up Powlett Street, while the cab drove back to town. Here all clue ends, but there can be no doubt in the minds of our readers as to the identity of the man in the light coat who got out of Royston's cab on the St. Kilda Road, with the one who entered the other cab and alighted therefrom at Powlett Street. There could have been no struggle, as the cabman Royston would surely have heard the noise had any taken place. The supposition is, therefore, that the deceased was too drunk to make any resistance, and the other, watching his opportunity, placed the handkerchief saturated with chloroform over the mouth of his victim, and after a few ineffectual struggles, the latter would relapse into a state of stupor from such inhalation. The man in the light coat, judging from his conduct before getting into the cab, appears to have known the deceased, though from the circumstances of his walking away on recognition, and returning again, shows that his attitude towards the deceased was not altogether a friendly one.
"The difficulty is where to start from in the search after the author of what appears to be a deliberate murder, as the deceased seems to be unknown, and his presumed murderer has escaped. But it is impossible that the body can remain long without being identified by some one, as though Melbourne is a large city, yet it is neither Paris or London, where a man can disappear in a crowd and never be heard of again. The first thing to be done is to establish the identity of the deceased, and then, no doubt, a clue will be obtained leading to the detection of the man in the light coat, who appears to have been the perpetrator of the crime. It is of the utmost importance that the mystery in which the crime is shrouded should be cleared up, not only in the interests of justice, but also in those of the public—taking place as it did in a public conveyance, and in the public street. To think that the author of such a crime is at present at large, walking in our midst, and perhaps preparing for the committal of another, is enough to shake the strongest nerves. According to James Payne, the well-known novelist, fact is sometimes in the habit of poaching on the domain of fiction, and, curiously enough, this case is a proof of the truth of his saying. In one of DuBoisgobey's stories, entitled 'An Omnibus Mystery,' a murder closely resembling this tragedy takes place in an omnibus, but we question if even that author would have been daring enough to have written about a crime being committed in such an unlikely place as a hansom cab. Here is a great chance for some of our detectives to render themselves famous, and we feel sure that they will do their utmost to trace the author of this cowardly and daring murder."
CHAPTER II.
THE EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST.
At the inquest held on the body found in the hansom cab the following articles taken from the deceased were placed on the table:
1. Two pounds ten shillings in gold and silver.
2. The white silk handkerchief which was saturated with chloroform, and was found tied across the mouth of the deceased, marked with the letters O. W. in red silk.
3. A cigarette case of Russian leather, half filled with cigarettes.
4. A left-hand white glove of kid—rather soiled—with black seams down the back.
Samuel Gorby, of the detective office, was present in order to see if anything might be said by the witnesses likely to point to the cause or to the author of the crime.
The first witness called was Malcolm Royston, in whose cab the crime had been committed. He told the same story as had already appeared in the Argus, and the following facts were elicited by the coroner:
Q. Can you give a description of the gentleman in the light coat who was holding the deceased when you drove up?
A. I did not observe him very closely, as my attention was taken up by the deceased; and, besides, the gentleman in the light coat was in the shadow.
Q. Describe him from what you saw of him.
A. He was fair, I think, because I could see his mustache, rather tall, and in evening dress, with a light coat over it. I could not see his face very plainly, as he wore a soft felt hat, which was pulled down over his eyes.
Q. What kind of hat was it he wore—a wide-awake?
A. Yes. The brim was turned down, and I could only see his mouth and mustache.
Q. What did he say when you asked him if he knew the deceased?
A. He said he didn't; that he had just picked him up.
Q. And afterwards he seemed to recognize him?
A. Yes. When the deceased looked up he said, "You!" and let him fall on to the ground; then he walked away toward Bourke Street.
Q. Did he look back?
A. Not that I saw.
Q. How long were you looking after him?
A. About a minute.
Q. And when did you see him again?
A. After I put deceased into the cab I turned round and found him at my elbow.
Q. And what did he say?
A. I said, "Oh, you've come back," and he said, "Yes, I've changed my mind, and will see him home," and then he got into the cab and told me to drive to St. Kilda.
Q. He spoke then as if he knew the deceased?
A. Yes; I thought that he only recognized him when he looked up, and perhaps having had a row with him walked away, but thought he'd come back.
Q. Did you see him coming back?
A. No; the first I saw of him was at my elbow when I turned.
Q. And when did he get out?
A. Just as I was turning down by the Grammar School on the St. Kilda Road.
Q. Did you hear any sounds of fighting or struggling in the cab during the drive?
A. No; the road was rather rough, and the noise of the wheels going over the stones would have prevented me hearing anything.
Q. When the gentleman in the light coat got out did he appear disturbed?
A. No; he was perfectly calm.
Q. How could you tell that?
A. Because the moon had risen, and I could see plainly.
Q. Did you see his face then?
A. No; his hat was pulled down over it. I only saw as much as I did when he entered the cab in Collins Street.
Q. Were his clothes torn or disarranged in any way?
A. No; the only difference I saw in him was that his coat was buttoned.
Q. And was it open when he got in?
A. No; but it was when he was holding up the deceased.
Q. Then he buttoned it before he came back and got into the cab?
A. Yes; I suppose so.
Q. What did he say when he got out of the cab on the St. Kilda Road?
A. He said that the deceased would not let him take him home, and that he would walk back to Melbourne.
Q. And you asked him where you were to drive the deceased to?
A. Yes; he said that the deceased lived either in Grey Street or Ackland Street, St. Kilda, but that the deceased would direct me at the Junction.
Q. Did you not think that the deceased was too drunk to direct you?
A. Yes, I did; but his friend said that the sleep and the shaking of the cab would sober him a bit by the time I got to the Junction.
Q. The gentleman in the light coat apparently did not know where the deceased lived?
A. No; he said it was either in Ackland Street or Grey Street.
Q. Did you not think that curious?
A. No; I thought he might be a club friend of the deceased.
Q. How long did the man in the light coat talk to you?
A. About five minutes.
Q. And during that time you heard no noise in the cab?
A. No; I thought the deceased had gone to sleep.
Q. And after the man in the light coat said good-night to the deceased what happened?
A. He lit a cigarette, gave me a half sovereign, and walked off toward Melbourne.
Q. Did you observe if the gentleman in the light coat had his handkerchief with him?
A. Oh, yes; because he dusted his boots with it. The road was very dusty.
Q. Did you notice any striking peculiarity about him?
A. Well, no; except that he wore a diamond ring.
Q. What was there peculiar about that?
A. He wore it on the forefinger of the right hand, and I never saw it that way before.
Q. When did you notice this?
A. When he was lighting his cigarette.
Q. How often did you call to the deceased when you got to the Junction?
A. Three or four times. I then got down, and found he was quite dead.
Q. How was he lying?
A. He was doubled up in the far corner of the cab, very much in the same position as I left him when I put him in. His head was hanging on one side, and there was a handkerchief across his mouth. When I touched him he fell into the other corner of the cab, and then I found out he was dead. I immediately drove to the St. Kilda police station and told the police.
At the conclusion of Royston's evidence, during which Gorby had been continually taking notes, Robert Chinston was called. He deposed—
I am a duly qualified medical practitioner, residing in Collins Street East. I made a post mortem examination of the body of the deceased on Friday.
Q. That was within a few hours after his death?
A. Yes; seeing from the position of the handkerchief and the presence of chloroform that he had died through chloroform, and knowing how quickly that poison evaporates, I made the examination at once.
Coroner: Go on, sir.
Dr. Chinston: Externally, the body was healthy-looking and well nourished. There were no marks of violence. The staining apparent at the back of the legs and trunk was due to post mortem congestion. Internally, the brain was hyperæmic, and there was a considerable amount of congestion, especially apparent in the superficial vessels. There was no brain disease. The lungs were healthy, but slightly congested. On opening the thorax there was a faint spirituous odor discernible. The stomach contained about a pint of completely digested food. The heart was flaccid. The right-heart contained a considerable quantity of dark, fluid blood. There was a tendency to fatty degeneration of that organ. I am of the opinion that deceased died from the inhalation of some such vapor as chloroform or methylene.
Q. You say there was a tendency to fatty degeneration of the heart? Would that have anything to do with the death of deceased?
A. Not of itself. But chloroform administered while the heart was in such a state would have a decided tendency to accelerate the fatal result. At the same time, I may mention that the post mortem signs of poisoning by chloroform are mostly negative.
Dr. Chinston was then permitted to retire, and Clement Rankin, another hansom cabman, was called. He deposed: I am a cabman, living in Collingwood, and usually drive a hansom cab. I remember Thursday last. I had driven a party down to St. Kilda, and was returning about half-past one o'clock. A short distance past the Grammar School I was hailed by a gentleman in a light coat; he was smoking a cigarette, and told me to drive him to Powlett Street, East Melbourne. I did so and he got out at the corner of Wellington Parade and Powlett Street. He paid me half a sovereign for my fare, and then walked up Powlett Street, while I drove back to town.
Q. What time was it you stopped at Powlett Street?
A. Two o'clock exactly.
Q. How do you know?
A. Because it was a still night, and I heard the Post Office clock strike two o'clock.
Q. Did you notice anything peculiar about the man in the light coat?
A. No! He looked just the same as anybody else. I thought he was some swell of the town out for a lark. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, and I could not see his face.
Q. Did you notice if he wore a ring?
A. Yes! I did. When he was handing me the half-sovereign, I saw he had a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand.
Q. He did not say why he was on the St. Kilda Road at such an hour?
A. No! He did not.
Clement Rankin was then ordered to stand down, and the coroner then summed up in an address of half-an-hour's duration. There was, he pointed out, no doubt that the death of the deceased had resulted not from natural causes, but from the effects of poisoning. Only slight evidence had been obtained up to the present time regarding the circumstances of the case, but the only person who could be accused of committing the crime was the unknown man who entered the cab with the deceased on Friday morning at the corner of the Scotch Church, near the Burke and Wills' monument. It had been proved that the deceased, when he entered the cab, was, to all appearances, in good health, though in a state of intoxication, and the fact that he was found by the cabman Royston, after the man in the light coat had left the cab, with a handkerchief saturated with chloroform tied over his mouth, would seem to show that he had died through the inhalation of chloroform, which had been deliberately administered. All the obtainable evidence in the case was circumstantial, but, nevertheless, showed conclusively that a crime had been committed. Therefore, as the circumstances of the case pointed to one conclusion, the jury could not do otherwise than frame a verdict in accordance with that conclusion.
The jury retired at four o'clock, and, after an absence of a quarter of an hour, returned with the following verdict: "That the deceased, whose name there was no evidence to show, died on the 27th day of July, from the effects of poison, namely, chloroform, feloniously administered by some person unknown; and the jury, on their oaths, say that the said unknown person, feloniously, willfully and maliciously, did murder the said deceased."
CHAPTER III.
ONE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD
V. R.
MURDER.
£100 REWARD.
"Whereas, on Friday, the 27th day of July, the body of a man, name unknown, was found in a hansom cab. And whereas, at an inquest held at St. Kilda, on the 30th day of July, a verdict of wilful murder, against some person unknown, was brought in by the jury. The deceased is of medium height, with a dark complexion, dark hair, clean shaved, has a mole on the left temple, and was dressed in evening dress. Notice is hereby given that a reward of £100 will be paid by the Government for such information as will lead to the conviction of the murderer, who is presumed to be a man who entered the hansom cab with the deceased at the corner of Collins and Russell streets, on the morning of the 27th day of July."
CHAPTER IV.
MR GORBY MAKES A START.
"Well," said Mr. Gorby, addressing his reflection in the looking-glass, "I've been finding out things these last twenty years, but this is a puzzler, and no mistake."
Mr. Gorby was shaving, and as was his usual custom conversed with his reflection. Being a detective, and of an extremely reticent disposition, he never talked outside about his business, or made a confidant of anyone. When he did want to unbosom himself, he retired to his bedroom and talked to his reflection in the mirror. This mode of proceeding was a safe one, and, moreover, relieved his overburdened mind of anything he wished to speak about, yet wanted to keep secret. The barber of Midas, when he found out what was under the royal crown of his master, fretted and chafed over his secret, until he stole one morning to the reeds by the river, and whispered "Midas has ass's ears." In the like manner Mr. Gorby felt a necessity at times to let out his secret thoughts in talk, and as he did not care about chattering to the air, he made his mirror the confidant of his ideas, and liked to see his own jolly red face nodding gravely at him out of the shining glass, like a mandarin. If that cheap little looking-glass which Mr. Gorby stared at every morning could only have spoken, what revelations there would have been of Melbourne secrets and Melbourne morals. But then, luckily for some people, we do not live in fairy-land, and however sympathetic Mr. Gorby found his mirror, it revealed nothing. This morning the detective was unusually animated in his talk with the looking-glass, and at times a puzzled expression passed over his face. The hansom cab murder had been put into his hands in order to clear up the mystery connected therewith, and he was trying to think of how to make a beginning.
"Hang it," he said, thoughtfully, stropping his razor, "a thing with an end must have a start, and if I don't get the start how am I to get the end?"
As the mirror did not answer this question, Mr. Gorby lathered his face, and started shaving in a somewhat mechanical fashion, for his thoughts were with the case, and ran on in this manner:
"Here's a man—well, say a gentleman—who gets drunk, and, therefore don't know what he's up to. Another gent who is on the square comes up and sings out for a cab for him—first he says he don't know him, and then he shows plainly he does—he walks away in a temper, changes his mind, comes back and gets into the cab, after telling the cabby to drive down to St. Kilda. Then he polishes the drunk one off with chloroform, gets out of the cab, jumps into another, and after getting out at Powlett Street, vanishes—that's the riddle I've got to find out, and I don't think the Sphinx ever had a harder one. There are three things to be discovered—First, who is the dead man? Second, what was he killed for?—And third, who did it? Once I get hold of the first the other two won't be very hard to find out, for one can tell pretty well from a man's life whether it's to anyone's interest that he should be got off the books. The man that murdered that chap must have had some strong motive, and I must find out what that motive was. Love? No, it wasn't that—men in love don't go to such lengths in real life—they do in novels and plays, but I've never seen it occurring in my experience. Robbery? No, there was plenty of money in his pocket. Revenge? Now, really it might be that—it's a kind of thing that carries on most people further than they want to go. There was no violence used, for his clothes weren't torn, so he must have been taken sudden, and before he knew what the other chap was up to. By the way, I don't think I examined his clothes sufficiently; there might be something about them to give a clue; at any rate, it's worth looking after, so I'll start with his clothes."
So Mr. Gorby, after he had finished dressing and had his breakfast, walked quickly to the police station, where he asked for the clothes of the deceased to be shown to him. When he received them he went into a corner by himself, and started to examine them. There was nothing remarkable about the coat, as it was merely a well-cut and well-made dress coat; so with a grunt of dissatisfaction Mr. Gorby threw it on one side, and picked up the waistcoat.
Here he found something which interested him very much, and that was a pocket made on the left-hand side of the waistcoat, and on the inside.
"Now, what the deuce is this for?" said Mr. Gorby, scratching his head; "it ain't usual for a dress waistcoat to have a pocket on its inside as I'm aware of; and," continued the detective, greatly excited, "this ain't tailors' work; he did it himself; and jolly badly he did it, too. Now, he must have taken the trouble to make this pocket himself, so that no one else would know anything about it, and it was made to carry something valuable—so valuable that he had to carry it with him even when he wore evening clothes. Ah! here's a tear on the side nearest the outside of the waistcoat: something has been pulled out roughly. I begin to see now. The dead man possessed something which the other man wanted, and which he knew the dead one carried about with him. He sees him drunk, gets into the cab with him, and tries to get what he wants. The dead man resists, upon which the other kills him by means of the chloroform which he had with him, and being afraid that the cab will stop, and he will be found out, snatches what he wants out of the pocket so quickly that he tears the waistcoat, and then makes off. That's clear enough, but the question is, What was it he wanted? A case with jewels? No! It could not have been anything so bulky, or the dead man would never have carried it about inside his waistcoat. It was something flat, which could easily lie in the pocket—a paper—some valuable paper which the assassin wanted, and for which he killed the other.
"This is all very well," said Mr. Gorby, throwing down the waistcoat, and rising. "I have found number two before number one. The first question is: Who is the murdered man? He's a stranger in Melbourne, that's pretty clear, or else some one would be sure to have recognized him before now, by the description given in the reward. Now, I wonder if he has any relations here? No, he can't or else they would have made inquiries before this. Well, there's one thing certain, he must have had a landlady or landlord, unless he slept in the open air. He can't have lived in an hotel, as the landlord of any hotel in Melbourne would have recognized him from the description, especially when the whole place is ringing with the murder. Private lodgings more like, and a landlady who doesn't read the papers and doesn't gossip, or she'd have known all about it by this time. Now, if he did live, as I think, in private lodgings, and suddenly disappeared, his landlady wouldn't keep quiet. It's a whole week since the murder, and as the lodger has not been seen or heard of, the landlady will naturally make inquiries. If, however, as I surmise, the lodger is a stranger, she will not know where to inquire; therefore, under these circumstances, the most natural thing for her to do would be to advertise for him; so I will have a look at the newspapers."
Mr. Gorby got a file of the different newspapers, and looked carefully in the columns where missing friends and people who will hear something to their advantage are generally advertised for.
"He was murdered," said Mr. Gorby to himself "on a Friday morning, between one and two o'clock, so he might stay away till Monday without exciting any suspicion. On Monday, however, the landlady would begin to feel uneasy, and on Tuesday she would advertise for him. Therefore," said Mr. Gorby, running his fat finger down the column, "Wednesday it is."
It did not appear in Wednesday's paper, neither did it in Thursday's, but in Friday's issue, exactly one week after the murder, Mr. Gorby suddenly came on the following advertisement:
"If Mr. Oliver Whyte does not return to Possum Villa, Grey Street, St. Kilda, before the end of the week, his rooms will be let again—Rubina Hableton."
"Oliver Whyte," repeated Mr. Gorby, slowly, "and the initials on the pocket handkerchief which were proved to have belonged to the deceased were 'O. W.' So his name is Oliver Whyte, is it? Now, I wonder if Rubina Hableton knows anything about this matter. At any rate," said Mr. Gorby, putting on his hat, "as I'm fond of sea breezes, I think I'll go down, and call at Possum Villa, Grey Street, St. Kilda.
CHAPTER V.
MRS. HABLETON UNBOSOMS HERSELF.
Mrs. Hableton was a lady with a grievance, as anybody who happened to become acquainted with her soon found out. It is Beaconsfield who says, in one of his novels, that no one is so interesting as when he is talking about himself; and, judging Mrs. Hableton by this statement, she was an extremely fascinating individual, as she never by any chance talked upon any other subject. What was the threat of a Russian invasion to her as long as she had her special grievance—once let that be removed and she would have time to attend to these minor details which affected the colony. The grievance Mrs. Hableton complained of, was want of money; not an uncommon one by any means, but on being reminded of this, Mrs. Hableton would reply snappishly that she "know'd that, but some people weren't like other people," the meaning of which mystical remark was simply this: She had come out to the colonies in the earlier days, when there was not so much difficulty in making money as now, but owing to a bad husband, had failed to make any. The late Mr. Hableton—for he had long since departed this life—was addicted to the intemperate use of the flowing bowl, and at the time when he should have been earning money, was generally to be found in a drinking shanty, spending his wife's earnings in standing treat for himself and his friends. The constant drinking and the hot Victorian climate soon carried him off, and when Mrs. Hableton had seen him safely under the ground in the Melbourne Cemetery, she returned home to survey her position, and see how it could be bettered.
She gathered together a little money from the wreck of her fortune, and land being cheap, purchased a small section of St. Kilda, and build a house on it. She supported herself by going out choring, taking in sewing, and acting as a sick nurse. So, among this multiplicity of occupations, she managed to do fairly well, and even put a little money in the bank. But she was very bitter against the world for the treatment she had received, and often spoke of it. "I ought to 'ave bin in my kerridge, and 'e in the 'Ouse," she would say bitterly, "if 'e 'adn't bin such a brute, but ye can't make a man out of a beast, whatever those Darwin folks say."
And, indeed, it was a hard case, for just at the time when she should have been resting, and reaping the reward for her early industry, she had to toil for her daily bread, and all through no fault of her own. Depend upon it, that if Adam was angry at Eve for having eaten the apple and got them driven out of the pleasant garden, his descendants have amply revenged themselves on Eve's daughters for her sin. Mrs. Hableton is only the type of many women who, hardworking and thrifty themselves, are married to men who are a curse both to their wives and families. Little wonder it was that Mrs. Hableton should have condensed all her knowledge of the masculine gender in the one bitter aphorism, "Men is brutes." This she firmly believed in, and who can say she had not good grounds for saying so? "They is brutes," said Mrs. Hableton; "they marries a woman, and makes her a beast of burden while they sits at 'ome swillin' beer and calling themselves lords of creation."
Possum Villa was an unpretentious-looking place, with one bow window and a narrow verandah in front. It was surrounded with a small garden and a few sparse flowers in it which were Mrs. Hableton's delight. When not otherwise engaged, she tied an old handkerchief round her head and went out into the garden, where she dug and watered her flowers until they all gave up attempting to grow from sheer desperation at not being left alone. She was engaged in her favorite occupation about a week after her lodger had disappeared, and was wondering where he had gone.
"Lyin' drunk in a public 'ouse, I'll be bound," she said, viciously pulling up a weed with an angry tug, "a-spendin' 'is rent and a-spilin' 'is inside with beer—ah, men is brutes, drat 'em!"
Just as she said this a shadow fell across the garden, and on looking up, she saw a man leaning over the fence, looking at her.
"Git out," she said, sharply, rising from her knees and shaking her trowel at the intruder. "I don't want no apples to-day, an' I don't care how cheap you sells 'em."
Mrs. Hableton evidently labored under the delusion that the man was a hawker, but not seeing any hand-cart with him she changed her mind.
"You're takin' a plan of the 'ouse to rob it, are you?" she said. "Well, you needn't, cause there ain't nothin' to rob, the silver spoons as belonged to my father's mother 'avin' gone down my 'usband's throat long ago, an' I ain't 'ad money to buy more. I'm a lone pusson as is put on by brutes like you, an' I'll thank you to leave the fence I bought with my own 'ard earned money alone, and git out."
Mrs. Hableton stopped short for want of breath, and stood shaking her trowel, and gasping like a fish out of water.
"My dear lady," said the man at the fence, mildly, "are you——"
"No, I ain't," retorted Mrs. Hableton, fiercely, "I ain't neither a member of the 'Ouse, nor a school teacher, to answer your questions. I'm a woman as pays my rates an' taxes, and don't gossip nor read yer rubbishin' newspapers, nor care for the Russings, no how, so git out."
"Don't read the papers," repeated the man, in a satisfied tone, "Ah! that accounts for it."
Mrs. Hableton stared suspiciously at the man who made such a peculiar remark. He was a burly looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaved, and sharp, shrewd-looking gray eyes which kept twinkling like two stars. He was well dressed in a suit of light clothes, and wore a stiffly starched white waistcoat, with a massive gold chain stretched across it. Altogether he gave Mrs. Hableton the impression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted.
"What d'ye want?" she asked, abruptly.
"Does Mr. Oliver Whyte live here?" asked the stranger.
"He do, an' he don't," answered Mrs. Hableton, epigrammatically. "I ain't seen 'im for over a week, so I s'pose 'e's gone on the drink, like the rest of 'em, but I've put sumthin' in the paper as 'ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let 'im know I ain't a carpet to be trod on, an' if you're a friend of 'im you can tell 'im from me 'e's a brute, an' it's no more but what I expected of 'im, 'e bein' a male."
The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs. Hableton having stopped for want of breath, he interposed quietly—
"Can I speak to you for a few moments?"
"An' who's a-stoppin' of you?" said Mrs. Hableton, defiantly. "Go on with you, not as I expects the truth from a male, but go on."
"Well, really," said the other, looking up at the cloudless blue sky, and wiping his face with a gaudy red silk pocket-handkerchief, "it is rather hot, you know, and—"
Mrs. Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate, opened it with a jerk.
"Use your legs and walk in," she said, and the stranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting room which seemed to overflow with antimacassars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There was also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutlass on the wall, and a grimy line of hard looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornaments, as they looked too unpleasant to tempt anyone to read them. The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and shiny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery looking arm chair that Mrs. Hableton pushed towards him, he could not help thinking it had been stuffed with stones, it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, and after taking her handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.
"Now then," she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, "Who are you? what are you? and what do you want?"
The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately—
"My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. Oliver Whyte."
"He ain't here," said Mrs. Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was going to be arrested.
"I know that," answered Mr. Gorby.
"Then where is 'e?"
Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.
"He is dead."
Mrs. Hableton got quite pale, and pushed back her chair. "No," she cried, "he never killed 'im, did 'e?"
"Who never killed him?" queried Mr. Gorby, sharply.
Mrs. Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to tell, for recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively—
"He never killed himself."
Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.
"Clever," muttered the detective to himself; "knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I'll get it out of her." He paused a moment, and then went on smoothly:
"Oh, no! he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?"
Mrs. Hableton did not answer, but, rising from her seat, went over to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard, from whence she took a bottle of brandy and a small wine-glass.
Half filling the glass, she drank it off, and returned to her seat. "I don't take much of that stuff," she said, seeing the detective's eyes fixed curiously on her, "but you 'ave given me such a turn that I 'ad to take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?"
"Tell me all you know," said Mr. Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, which thereupon changed, and grew a shade paler.
"Where was Mr. Whyte killed?" she asked.
"He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St. Kilda Road."
"In the open street?" she asked, in a startled tone
"Yes, in the open street."
"Ah!" she drew a long breath, and closed her lips firmly. Mr. Gorby said nothing as he saw that she was deliberating whether to tell or not, and a word from him might seal her lips, so, like a wise man he kept silent. He obtained his reward sooner than he expected.
"Mr. Gorby," she said at length, "I 'ave 'ad a 'ard struggle all my life which it came along of a bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, I ain't got much inducement to think well of the lot of you, but—murder," she shivered slightly, though the room was quite warm, "I didn't think of that."
"In connection with whom?"
"Mr. Whyte, of course," she answered hurriedly.
"And who else?"
"I don't know."
"Then there is nobody else?"
"Well, I don't know—I'm not sure."
The detective was puzzled.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I will tell you all I know," said Mrs. Hableton, "an' if 'e's innocent, God will 'elp 'im."
"If who is innocent?"
"I'll tell you everythin' from the start," said Mrs. Hableton, "an' you can judge for yourself."
Mr. Gorby assented, and she began:
"It's only two months ago since I decided to take in lodgers; but chorin's 'ard work, and sewin's tryin' for the eyes. So, bein' a lone woman, 'avin been badly treated by a brute, who is now dead, which I was allays a good wife to 'im, I thought lodgers 'ud 'elp me a little; so I put a notice in the paper, an' Mr. Oliver Whyte took the rooms two months ago."
"What was he like?"
"Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor mustache, an' quite the gentleman."
"Anything peculiar about him?"
Mrs. Hableton thought for a moment.
"Well," she said at length, "he 'ad a mole on his left temple, but it was covered with 'is 'air, an' a few people 'ud 'ave seen it."
"The very man," said Gorby to himself, "I'm on the right path."
"Mr. Whyte said 'e 'ad just come from England," went on the woman.
"Which," murmured Mr. Gorby, "accounts for the corpse not being recognized by friends."
"He took the rooms, said 'e'd stay with me for six months, an' paid a week's rent in advance, an' 'e allays paid up reg'ler like a respectable man, tho' I don't believe in 'em myself. He said 'e'd lots of friends, an' used to go out every night."
"Who were his friends?"
"That I can't tell you, for 'e were very close, an' when 'e went out of doors I never know'd where 'e went, which is jest like 'em; for they ses they're goin' to work, an' you finds 'em in the beershop. Mr. Whyte told me 'e was a-goin' to marry a heiress, 'e was."
"Ah!" interjected Mr. Gorby, sapiently.
"E 'ad only one friend as I ever saw—a Mr. Moreland—who comed 'ere with 'im, an' was allays with 'im—brother like."
"What like is this Mr. Moreland?"
"Good-lookin' enough," said Mrs. Hableton, sourly, "but 'is 'abits weren't as good as 'is face—'andsom is as 'andsom does, is what I ses."
"I wonder if he knows anything about this affair," muttered Gorby to himself. "Where is Mr. Moreland to be found?" he asked aloud.
"Not knowin', can't tell," retorted the landlady, "'e used to be 'ere reg'lar, but I ain't seen 'im for over a week."
"Strange! very!" thought Gorby, shaking his head. "I should like to see this Mr. Moreland. I suppose it's probable he'll call again?" he remarked, aloud.
"'Abit bein' second nature I s'pose he will," answered the woman, "'e might call at any time, mostly 'avin' called at night."
"Ah! then I'll come down this evening on the chance of seeing him," replied the detective. "Coincidences happen in real life as well as in novels, and the gentleman in question may turn up in the nick of time. Now, what else about Mr. Whyte?"
"About two weeks ago, or three, I'm not cert'in which, a gentleman called to see Mr. Whyte; 'e was very tall, and wore a light coat."
"Ah! a morning coat?"
"No! 'e was in evenin' dress, and wore a light coat over it, an' a soft 'at."
"The very man," said the detective below his breath; "go on."
"He went into Mr. Whyte's room, an' shut the door. I don't know how long they were talkin' together; but I was sittin' in this very room and heard their voices git angry, and they were a-swearing at one another, which is the way with men, the brutes. I got up and went into the passage in order to ask 'em not to make such a noise, when Mr. Whyte's door opens, 'an the gentleman in the light coat comes out, and bangs along to the door. Mr. Whyte 'e comes to the door of 'is room, an' 'e 'ollers out: 'She is mine; you can't do anything;' an' the other man turns with 'is 'an' on the door an' says, 'I can kill you, 'an if you marry 'er I'll do it, even in the open street.'"
"Ah!" said Mr. Gorby, drawing a long breath, "and then?"
"Then he bangs the door to, which it never shut easy since, 'an I ain't got no money to get it put right, 'an Mr. Whyte walks back to his room, laughing."
"Did he make any remark to you?"
"No; except he'd bin worried by a loonatic."
"And what was the stranger's name?"
"That I can't tell you, as Mr. Whyte never told me. He was very tall, with a fair mustache; an' dressed as I told you."
Mr. Gorby was satisfied.
"That is the man," he said to himself, "who got into the hansom cab, and murdered Whyte; there's no doubt of it! Whyte and he were rivals for the heiress."
"What d'ye think of it?" said Mrs. Hableton, curiously.
"I think," said Mr. Gorby slowly, with his eyes fixed on her, "I think that there is a woman at the bottom of this crime."
CHAPTER VI.
MR. GORBY MAKES FURTHER DISCOVERIES.
When Mr. Gorby left Possum Villa no doubt remained in his mind as to who had committed the murder. The gentleman in the light coat had threatened to murder Whyte, even in the open street—these last words being especially significant—and there was no doubt that he had carried out his threat. The committal of the crime was merely the fulfilment of the words uttered in anger. What the detective had now to do was to find who the gentleman in the light coat was, where he lived, and, having found out these facts, ascertain his doings on the night of the murder. Mrs. Hableton had described him, but was ignorant of his name, and her very vague description might apply to dozens of young men in Melbourne.
There was only one person who, in Mr. Gorby's opinion, could tell the name of the gentleman in the light coat, and that was Moreland, the intimate friend of the dead man. They appeared, from the landlady's description, to have been so friendly that it was more than likely Whyte would have told Moreland all about his angry visitor. Besides, Moreland's knowledge of his dead friend's life and habits might be able to supply the answer as to whom Whyte's death would have been a gain, and whom the heiress was the deceased boasted he was going to marry. What puzzled the detective was that Moreland should be ignorant of his friend's tragic death, seeing that the papers were full of the murder, and that the reward gave an excellent description of the personal appearance of the deceased. The only way in which Gorby could account for Moreland's extraordinary silence was that he was out of town, and had neither seen the papers nor heard anyone talking about the murder. If this was the case he might either stay away for an indefinite time or might come back after a few days. At all events it was worth while going down to St. Kilda in the evening on the chance that Moreland might have returned to town, and would call to see his friend. So, after his tea, Mr. Gorby put on his hat and went down to Possum Villa, on what he could not help acknowledging to himself was a very slender possibility.
Mrs. Hableton opened the door for him, and in silence led the way, not into her own sitting-room, but into a much more luxuriously furnished apartment, which Gorby guessed at once was that of Whyte's. He looked keenly round the room, and his estimate of the dead man's character was formed at once.
"Fast," he said to himself, "and a spendthrift. A man who would have friends, and possibly enemies, among a very shady lot of people."
What led Mr. Gorby to this belief was the evidences which surrounded him of Whyte's mode of life. The room was well furnished, the furniture being covered with dark-red velvet, while the curtains on the windows and the carpet were all of the same somewhat somber hue.
"I did this thing properly," observed Mrs, Hableton, with a satisfactory smile on her hard face. "When you wants young men to stop with you, the rooms must be well furnished, an' Mr. Whyte paid well, tho' 'e was rather pertickler about 'is food, which I'm only a plain cook, an' can't make them French things which spile the stomach."
The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink color, and Mrs. Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr. Gorby's arrival, there was a soft roseate hue through all the room like the first faint flush of the early dawn. Mr. Gorby put his hands in his capacious pockets, and strolled leisurely through the room, examining everything with a curious eye. The walls were covered with pictures of celebrated horses and famous jockeys. Alternating with these were photographs of ladies of the stage, mostly London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars, evidently being the objects of the late Mr. Whyte's adoration. Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes, above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number of plush frames of all colors, with pretty faces smiling out of them; a remarkable fact being that all the photographs were of ladies, and not a single male face was to be seen, either on the walls or in the plush frames.
"Fond of the ladies, I see," said Mr. Gorby, nodding his head towards the mantel piece.
"A set of hussies," said Mrs. Hableton grimly, closing her lips tightly. "I feels that ashamed when I dusts 'em as never was—I don't believe in gals gettin' their picters taken with 'ardly any clothes on, as if they just got out of bed, but Mr. Whyte seems to like 'em."
"Most young men do," answered Mr. Gorby, dryly, going over to the bookcase.
"Brutes," said the lady of the house. "I'd drown 'em in the Yarrer, I would, a settin' 'emselves and a callin' 'emselves lords of creation, as if women were made for nothin' but to earn money an' see 'em drink it, as my 'usband did, which 'is inside never seemed to 'ave enough beer, an' me a poor lone woman, with no family, thank God, or they'd 'ave takin' arter their father in 'is drinkin' 'abits."
Mr. Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood looking at Mr. Whyte's library, which seemed to consist mostly of French novels and sporting newspapers.
"Zola," said Mr. Gorby, thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book rather tattered. "I've heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn't care to read them."
Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive, on hearing which Mrs. Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. "That may be Mr. Moreland," she said, as the detective quickly replaced Zola in the bookcase. "I never 'ave visitors in the evenin', bein' a lone widder, and if it is 'im I'll bring 'im in 'ere."
She went out, and presently Gorby, who was listening intently, heard a man's voice ask if Mr. Whyte was at home. "No, sir, he ain't," answered the landlady, "but there's a gentleman in this room askin' after 'im. Won't you come in, sir?"
"For a rest, yes," returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards Mrs. Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte's most intimate friend. He was a tall, slender man, with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-colored mustache—altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual. He was well-dressed in a fashionable suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.
"And where is Mr. Whyte to-night?" he asked, sinking into a chair, and taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article of furniture.
"Haven't you seen him lately?" asked the detective quickly. Mr. Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or not. At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back in his chair.
"No, I have not," he said, with a yawn. "I have been up the country for a few days, and only arrived back this evening, so I have not seen him for over a week. Why do you ask?"
The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young man before him in a thoughtful manner.
"I hope," said Moreland, nonchalantly, "I hope you will know me again, my friend; but I didn't know Whyte had started a lunatic asylum during my absence. Who are you."
Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gaslight. "My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective," he said, quietly.
"Ah! indeed;" said Moreland, coolly looking up and down. "What has Whyte been doing—running away with some one's wife, eh? I know he has little weaknesses of that sort."
Gorby shook his head.
"Do you know where Mr. Whyte is to be found?" he asked cautiously.
Moreland laughed.
"Not I, my friend," said he, lightly, "I presume he is somewhere about here, as these are his head-quarters. What's he been doing? Nothing that can surprise me, I assure you—he was always an erratic individual, and——"
"He paid reg'ler," interrupted Mrs. Hableton, pursing up her lips.
"A most enviable reputation to possess," answered the other with a sneer, "and one I'm afraid I'll never enjoy. But why all this questioning about Whyte? What's the matter with him?"
"He's dead!" said Gorby, abruptly.
All Moreland's nonchalance vanished on hearing this, and he started up out of his chair.
"Dead," he repeated mechanically. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Mr. Oliver Whyte was murdered in a hansom cab."
Moreland stared at the detective in a puzzled sort of way, and passed his hand across his forehead.
"Excuse me, my head is in a whirl," he said, as he sat down again. "Whyte murdered! He was all right when I left him nearly two weeks ago."
"Hav'n't you seen the papers?" asked Gorby.
"Not for the last two weeks," replied Moreland. "I have been up country, and it was only on arriving back in town to-night that I heard about the murder at all, as my landlady gave me a garbled account of it, but I never for a moment connected it with Whyte, and came down here to see him, as I had agreed to do when I left. Poor fellow! poor fellow! poor fellow!" and much overcome, he buried his face in his hands.
Mr. Gorby was touched by his evident distress, and even Mrs. Hableton permitted a small tear to roll down one hard cheek as a tribute of sorrow and sympathy. Presently Moreland raised his head, and spoke to Gorby in a husky tone.
"Tell me all about it," he said, leaning his cheek on his hand. "Everything you know."
He placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands again, while the detective sat down and related all that he knew about Whyte's murder. When it was done he lifted up his head, and looked sadly at the detective.
"If I had been in town," he said, "this would not have happened, for I was always beside Whyte."
"You knew him very well, sir?" said the detective, in a sympathetic tone.
"We were like brothers," replied Moreland, mournfully. "I came out from England in the same steamer with him, and used to visit him constantly here."
Mrs. Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was the case.
"In fact," said Mr. Moreland, after a moment's thought, "I believe I was with him the night he was murdered."
Mrs. Hableton gave a slight scream, and threw her apron over her face, but the detective sat unmoved, though Moreland's last remark had considerably startled him.
"What's the matter?" said Moreland, turning to Mrs. Hableton. "Don't be afraid; I didn't kill him—no—but I met him last Thursday week, and I left for the country on Friday morning at half-past six."
"And what time did you meet Whyte on Thursday night?" asked Gorby.
"Let me see," said Moreland, crossing his legs and looking thoughtfully up to the ceiling, "it was about half-past nine o'clock. I was in the Orient Hotel, in Bourke Street. We had a drink together, and then went up the street to an hotel in Russell Street, where we had another. In fact," said Moreland, coolly, "we had several other drinks."
"Brutes!" mattered Mrs. Hableton, below her breath.
"Yes," said Gorby, placidly. "Go on."
"Well of—it's hardly the thing to confess it," said Moreland, looking from one to the other with a pleasant smile, "but in a case like this, I feel it my duty to throw all social scruples aside. We both got very drunk."
"Ah! Whyte was, as we know, drunk when he got into the cab—and you—?"
"Was not quite so bad as Whyte," answered the other. "I had my senses about me. I fancy he left the hotel some minutes before one o'clock on Friday morning."
"And what did you do?"
"I remained in the hotel. He left his overcoat behind him, and I picked it up and followed him shortly afterwards, to return it. I was too drunk to see which direction he had gone in, and stood leaning against the hotel door in Bourke Street with the coat in my hand. Then some one came up, and, snatching the coat out of my hand, made off with it, and the last thing I remember was shouting out: 'Stop thief!' Then I must have fallen down, for next morning I was in bed with all my clothes on, and they were very muddy. I got up and left town for the country by the six thirty train, so I knew nothing about the matter until 1 came back to Melbourne to-night. That's all I know."
"And you had no impression that Whyte was watched that night?"
"No, I had not," answered Moreland, frankly. "He was in pretty good spirits, though he was put out at first."
"What was the cause of his being put out?"
Moreland arose, and going to a side table brought Whyte's album, which he laid on the table and opened in silence. The contents were very much the same as the photographs in the room, burlesque actresses and ladies of the ballet predominating; but Mr. Moreland turned over the pages till nearly the end, when he stopped at a large cabinet photograph, and pushed the album towards Mr. Gorby.
"That was the cause," he said.
It was the portrait of a charmingly pretty girl, dressed in white, with a sailor hat on her fair hair, and holding a lawn-tennis racket. She was bending half forward, with a winning smile, and in the background was a mass of some tropical plants. Mrs. Hableton gave a cry of surprise at seeing this.
"Why, it's Miss Frettlby," she said. "How did he know her?"
"Knew her father—letters of introduction, and all that sort of thing," said Mr. Moreland, glibly.
"Ah! indeed," said Mr. Gorby, slowly. "So Mr. Whyte knew Mark Frettlby, the millionaire; but how did he obtain a photograph of the daughter?"
"She gave it to him," said Moreland. "The fact is, Whyte was very much in love with Miss Frettlby."
"And she——"
"Was in love with some one else," finished Moreland.
"Exactly! Yes, she loved a Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, to whom she is now engaged. He was mad on her, and Whyte and he used to quarrel over the young lady desperately."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Gorby. "And do you know this Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Oh, dear no!" answered the other coolly. "Whyte's friends were not mine. He was a rich young man who had good introductions. I am only a poor devil on the outskirts of society, trying to push my way in the world."
"You know his personal appearance, of course?" observed Mr. Gorby.
"Oh, yes, I can tell you that," said Moreland. "In fact, he's not at all unlike me, which I take to be rather a compliment, as he is said to be good-looking. He is tall, rather fair, talks in a bored sort of manner, and is altogether what one would call a heavy swell; but you must have seen him," he went on, turning to Mrs. Hableton, "he was here three or four weeks ago, Whyte told me."
"Oh, that was Mr. Fitzgerald, was it?" said Mrs. Hableton, in surprise. "Yes, he was rather like you; and so the lady they quarrelled over must have been Miss Frettlby."
"Very likely," said Moreland, rising. "Well, I'm off. Here's by address," putting a card in Gorby's hand, "I'm glad to be of any use to you in this matter, as Whyte was my dearest friend, and I'll do all in my power to help you to find out the murderer."
"I don't think that is a very difficult matter," said Mr. Gorby, slowly.
"Oh, you have suspicions?" said Moreland, looking at him.
"I have."
"Then who do you think murdered Whyte? "
Mr. Gorby paused a moment, and then said deliberately:
"I have an idea—but I am not certain—when I am certain, I'll speak."
"You think Fitzgerald killed my friend," said Moreland. "I see it in your face."
Mr. Gorby smiled. "Perhaps," he said, ambiguously. "Wait till I'm certain."
CHAPTER VII.
A WOOL KING.
The old Greek story of Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold, is truer than most people suppose. Medievel superstition changed the human being who possessed such a power into the philosopher's stone, after which so many alchemists went hunting in the dark ages, but we of the nineteenth century have given the miracle of changing everything into gold by the touch, back to its human possessor. We, however, do not ascribe it either to Greek deity or Medieval superstition, but simply call it luck; and he who possesses luck is a happy man, or, at least, he ought to be. Wiseacres who may read this will, of course, repeat the stale proverb that "Riches do not bring happiness." But luck means more than riches—it means happiness in everything which the fortunate possessor may choose to go in for. If he goes into a speculation, it turns out well; if he marries a wife, she is sure to be everything that can be desired; if he aspires to a position, social or political, he attains it with ease—worldly wealth, domestic happiness and good position, all these belong to the men who have luck. Mark Frettlby was one of these fortunate individuals, and his luck was proverbial throughout Australia. If there was any speculation for which Mark Frettlby went in, other men would be sure to follow, and in every case the result turned out as well, and in many cases even better than they expected. He had come out in the early days of the colony with comparatively little money, but his great perseverance and never failing luck had soon changed his hundreds into thousands; and now at the age of fifty-five he did not himself know the extent of his income. He had large stations scattered all over the colony of Victoria, which brought him in a splendid income; a charming country house, where at certain seasons of the year he dispensed hospitality to his friends, like the lord of an English manor, and a magnificent town house down in St. Kilda, which would not have been unworthy of Park Lane.
Nor were his domestic relations less happy—he had a charming wife, who was one of the best known and most popular ladies of Melbourne, and an equally charming daughter, who, being both pretty and an heiress, naturally attracted crowds of suitors. But Madge Frettlby was capricious, and refused innumerable offers. Being an extremely independent young person, with a mind of her own, as she had not yet seen anyone she could love, she decided to remain single, and with her mother continued to dispense the hospitality of the mansion at St. Kilda. But the fairy prince comes to every woman, even if she has to wait a hundred years like the Sleeping Beauty, and in this case he arrived at the appointed time. Ah! what a delightful prince he was, tall, handsome and fair-haired, who came from Ireland, and answered to the name of Brian Fitzgerald. He had left behind him in the old country a ruined castle and a few acres of barren land, inhabited by discontented tenants who refused to pay the rent, and talked darkly about the Land League and other agreeable things. And so, with no rent coming in, and no prospect of doing anything in the future, Brian had left the castle of his forefathers to the rats and the family Banshee, and came out to Australia to make his fortune. He brought letters of introduction to Mark Frettlby, and that gentleman, having taken a fancy to him, assisted him by every means in his power. Under Frettlby's advice Brian bought a station, and, to his astonishment, in a few years found himself growing rich. The Fitzgeralds had always been more famous for spending than for saving, and it was an agreeable surprise to their latest representative to find the money rolling in instead of out. He began to indulge in castles in the air concerning that other castle in Ireland, with the barren acres and discontented tenants. In his mind's-eye he saw the old place rise up in all its pristine splendor out of its ruins; he saw the barren acres well cultivated, and the tenants happy and content—he was rather doubtful on this latter point, but, with the rash confidence of eight and twenty, determined to do his best to perform even the impossible. Having built and furnished his castle in the air, Brian naturally thought of giving it a mistress, and this time actual appearance took the place of vision.
He fell in love with Madge Frettlby, and having decided in his own mind that she and none other was fitted to grace the visionary halls of his renovated castle, he watched his opportunity and declared himself. She, woman-like, coquetted with him for some time, but at last, unable to withstand the impetuosity of her Irish lover, confessed in a low voice, with a pretty smile on her face, that she could not live without him. Whereupon—well—lovers being of a conservative turn of mind, and accustomed to observe the traditional forms of wooing, the result can easily be guessed. Brian hunting all over the jewelers' shops in Melbourne with love-like assiduity, and having obtained a ring wherein were set some turquoise stones, as blue as his own eyes, he placed it on her slender finger, and at last felt that his engagement was an accomplished fact. This being satisfactorily arranged, he next proceeded to interview the father, and had just screwed his courage up to the awful ordeal, when something occurred which postponed the interview indefinitely. Mrs. Frettlby was out driving, when the horses took fright and bolted. The coachman and groom both escaped unhurt, but Mrs. Frettlby was thrown out and killed instantaneously. This was the first really great trouble which had fallen on Mark Frettlby, and he seemed to be stunned by it.
Shutting himself up in his room, he refused to see any one, even his daughter, and appeared at the funeral with white and haggard face, which shocked every one. When everything was over, and the body of the late Mrs. Frettlby was consigned to the earth, with all the pomp and ceremony which money could give, the bereaved husband rode home and resumed his old life. But he was never the same again. His face, which had always been so genial and bright, became stern and sad. He seldom smiled, and when he did, it was a faint, wintry smile, which seemed mechanical. His whole heart seemed centered in his daughter. She became the sole mistress of the St. Kilda mansion, and her father idolized her. She seemed to be the one thing left to him which gave him an interest in life, and had it not been for her bright presence constantly near him Mark Frettlby would have wished himself lying beside his dead wife in the quiet graveyard, wherein there is no trouble or care. After a time had elapsed, Brian again resolved to ask Mr. Frettlby for the hand of his daughter, when for the second time fate interposed. This time it was a rival suitor who made his appearance, and Brian's hot Irish temper rose when he saw another Richmond in the field. The gentleman in question was a Mr. Oliver Whyte, who had come out from England a few months previously, and brought a letter of introduction to Mr. Frettlby, who received him hospitably, as was his custom, and Whyte soon made himself perfectly at home in the St. Kilda mansion.
Brian took a dislike to the new comer the first time he saw him, for Mr. Fitzgerald was a student of Lavater, and prided himself on his reading of character. His opinion of Whyte was anything but flattering to that gentleman, for in spite of his handsome face and suave manners, both Brian and Madge felt the same repulsion towards him as they would have to a snake. Mr. Whyte, however, with true diplomacy, affected not to notice the cold way in which Madge received him, and began to pay marked attention to her, much to Brian's disgust. At last he asked her to be his wife, and notwithstanding her prompt refusal, spoke to Mr. Frettlby on the subject. Much to the daughter's astonishment, that gentleman consented to Whyte's paying his addresses to Madge, and told her that he wished her to consider the young man's proposal favorably. In spite of all Madge could say, he refused to alter his decision, and Whyte, feeling himself safe, began to treat Brian with an insolence which was highly galling to Fitzgerald's proud nature. He called on Whyte at his lodgings, and after a violent quarrel with him had left the house, vowing to kill Whyte should he marry Madge Frettlby. Fitzgerald went along to Mr. Frettlby that same night, and had an interview with him. He confessed that he loved Madge, and that his love was returned. So, when Madge added her entreaties to Brian's, Mr. Frettlby found himself unable to withstand the combined forces, and gave his consent to their engagement. Whyte was absent in the country for the next few days after his stormy interview with Brian, and it was only on his return that he learnt that Madge was engaged to his rival. He saw Mr. Frettlby on the subject, and having learnt from his own lips that such was the case, he left the house at once, and swore that he would never enter it again. He little knew how prophetic his words were, for on that same night he met his death in the hansom cab. He had passed out of the life of both the lovers, and they, glad that he troubled them no more, never suspected for a moment that the body of the unknown man found in Royston's cab was that of Oliver Whyte.
About two weeks after Whyte's disappearance Mr. Frettlby gave a dinner party in honor of his daughter's birthday. It was a delightful evening, and the wide French windows which led on to the verandah were open, letting in a gentle breeze, blowing with a fresh salt odor from the ocean. Outside there was a kind of screen of tropical plants, and through the tangle of the boughs the guests, seated at the table, could just see the waters of the bay glittering like silver in the pale moonlight. Brian was seated opposite to Madge, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of her bright face behind the great silver epergne, filled with fruit and flowers, which stood in the center of the table. Mark Frettlby was at the head of the table, and appeared in very good spirits, for his stern features were somewhat relaxed, and he drank more wine than usual. The soup had just been removed when some one, who was late, entered with apologies and took his seat. Some one in this case was Mr. Felix Rolleston, one of the best known young men in Melbourne. He had an income of his own, scribbled a little for the papers, was to be seen at every house of any pretensions to fashion in Melbourne, and was always bright, happy and full of news. "Whenever any scandal occurred, Felix Rolleston was sure to know it first, and could tell more about it than any one else. He knew everything that was going on both at home and abroad. His knowledge, if not very accurate, was at least extensive, and his conversation was piquant and witty. As Calton, one of the leading lawyers of the city, said: "Rolleston put him in mind of what Beaconsfield said in one of his characters in Lothair, 'He wasn't an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets were always full of sixpences.'"
There was a great deal of truth in Calton's remark, and Felix always distributed his sixpences freely. The conversation had been dull for the last few minutes at the Frettlby dinner-table; consequently, when Felix arrived, everybody brightened up, as they felt certain now that the conversation would be amusing.
"So awfully sorry, don't you know," said Felix, as he slipped into a seat by Madge; "but a fellow like me has got to be careful of his time—so many calls on it."
"So many calls in it, you mean," retorted Madge with a disbelieving smile. "Confess, now, you have been paying a round of visits."
"Well, yes," assented Mr. Rolleston; "that's the disadvantage of having a large circle of acquaintances. They give you weak tea and thin bread and butter, whereas——"
"You would rather have a B. and S. and some deviled kidneys," finished Brian.
There was a laugh at this, but Mr. Rolleston disdained to notice the interruption.
"The only advantage of five o'clock tea," he went on, "is that it brings people together, and one hears what's going on."
"Ah, yes, Rolleston," said Mr. Frettlby, who was looking at him with an amused smile. "What news have you?"
"Good news, bad news, and such news as you have never heard of," quoted Rolleston gravely. "Yes, I have a bit of news—haven't you heard it?"
As no one knew what the news was they could not very well say that they had, so Rolleston was happy, having found out that he could make a sensation.
"Well, do you know," he said, gravely fixing in his eyeglass, "they have found out the name of the fellow that was murdered in the hansom cab."
"Never!" cried every one eagerly.
"Yes," went on Rolleston, "and what's more you all know him."
"It's never Whyte?" said Brian, in a horrified tone.
"Hang it, how did you know?" said Rolleston, rather annoyed at being forestalled. "Why, I just heard it at the St. Kilda station."
"Oh, easily enough," said Brian, rather confused. "I used to see Whyte constantly, and as I had not set eyes on him for the last two weeks, I thought it might be him."
"How did they find out who it was?" asked Mr. Frettlby, idly toying with his wine-glass.
"Oh, one of those detective fellows, you know," answered Felix. "They know everything."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Frettlby, referring to the fact that Whyte was murdered. "He had a letter of introduction to me, and seemed a clever, pushing young fellow."
"A confounded cad," muttered Felix, under his breath; and Brian, who overheard him, seemed inclined to assent.
For the rest of the meal nothing was talked about but the murder, and the mystery in which it was shrouded. When the ladies retired they chatted about it in the drawing-room, but finally dropped it for more agreeable subjects. The gentleman, however, when the cloth had been removed, filled their glasses, and continued their discussion with unabated vigor. Brian alone did not take part in the conversation. He sat moodily staring at his untasted wine, and wrapped in a brown study.
"What I can't make out," observed Rolleston, who was amusing himself cracking nuts, "is how they did not find out who he was before."
That is not hard to answer," said Frettlby, filling his glass; "he was comparatively little known here, as he had been out from England such a short time, and I fancy that this was the only house he visited at."
"And look here, Rolleston," said Calton, who was sitting near him, "if you were to find a man dead in a hansom cab, dressed in evening clothes—which nine men out of ten are in the habit of wearing in the evening—no cards in his pockets, and no name on his linen, I rather think you would find it hard to discover who he was. I consider it reflects great credit on the police for finding out so quickly."
"Puts one in mind of 'The Leavenworth Case,' and all that sort of thing," said Felix, whose reading was of the lightest description. "Awfully exciting, like putting a Chinese puzzle together. Gad, I wouldn't mind being a detective myself."
"I'm afraid if that was the case," said Mr. Frettlby, with an amused smile, "criminals would be pretty safe,"
"Oh, I don't know so much about that," answered Felix, shrewdly; "some fellows are like trifles at a party—froth on top, but something better underneath."
"What a greedy simile," said Calton, sipping his wine; "but I'm afraid the police will have a more difficult task in discovering the man who committed the crime. In my opinion he's a deuced clever fellow."
"Then you don't think he will be discovered?" asked Brian, rousing himself out of his brown study.
"Well, I don't go as far as that," rejoined Calton; "but he has certainly left no trace behind him, and even the Red Indian, in whom instinct for tracking is so highly developed, needs some sort of a trail to find out his enemies. Depend upon it," went on Calton, warming to his subject, "the man who murdered Whyte is no ordinary criminal; the place he chose for the committal of the crime was such a safe one."
"Do you think so?" said Rolleston. "Why, I should think that a hansom cab in a public street would be very unsafe."
"It is that very fact that makes it safer," replied Mr. Calton, epigrammatically. "You read De Quincey's account of the Marr murders in London, and you will see that the more public the place the less risk there is of detection. There was nothing about the gentleman in the light coat who murdered Whyte to excite Royston's suspicions. He got into the cab with Whyte, no noise or anything likely to attract attention was heard, and then he got out. Naturally enough, Royston drove to St. Kilda, and never suspected Whyte was dead till he looked inside and touched him. As to the man in the light coat, he doesn't live in Powlett Street—no—nor in East Melbourne either."
"Why not?" asked Frettlby.
"Because he wouldn't have been such a fool as to leave a trail to his own door; he did what the fox often does—he doubled. My opinion is that he either went right through East Melbourne to Fitzroy, or he walked back through the Fitzroy Gardens into town. There was no one about at that time of the morning, and he could walk home to his lodgings, hotel, or whatever it was, with impunity. Of course, this is a theory that may be wrong; but from what insight into human nature my profession has given me, I think that my idea is a correct one."
All present agreed with Mr. Calton's idea, as it really did seem the most natural thing that would be done by a man desirous of escaping detection.
"Tell you what," said Felix to Brian, as they were on their way to the drawing room, "if the fellow that committed the crime is found out, by gad, he ought to get Calton to defend him."
CHAPTER VIII.
BRIAN TAKES A WALK AND A DRIVE.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room a young lady was engaged in playing one of those detestable pieces of music called Morceau de Salon, in which an unoffending air is taken and variations embroidered on it till it becomes a perfect agony to distinguish the tune amid the perpetual rattle of quavers and demi-semi-quavers. The air in this case was "Over the Garden Wall," with variations by Signor Thumpanini, and the young lady who played it was a pupil of that celebrated Italian musician. When the male portion of the guests entered the air was being played in the bass with a great deal of power (that is, the loud pedal was down), and with a perpetual rattle of treble notes trying with all their shrill power to drown the tune.
"Gad! it's getting over the garden wall in a hailstorm," said Felix, as he strolled over to the piano, for he saw that the musician was Dora Featherweight, an heiress to whom he was then paying attention, in the hopes that she might be induced to take the name of Rolleston, together with the present owner of the same. So, when the fair Dora had paralyzed her audience with one final bang and rattle, as if the gentleman going over the garden wall had tumbled into the cucumber-frame, Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.
"Such power, you know, Miss Featherweight," he said, sinking into a chair, and mentally wondering if any of the piano strings had given way at that last crash. "You put your heart into it—and all your muscle, too, by gad," he added mentally.
"It's nothing but practice," answered Miss Featherweight, with a modest blush; "I am at the piano four hours every day."
"Oh, Lord," groaned Felix, "what a time the family must have of it;" but he kept this remark to himself, and, screwing his eye-glass into his left organ of vision, merely ejaculated, "Lucky piano!"
Miss Featherweight, not being able to think of any answer to this, looked down and blushed, while the ingenious Felix looked up and sighed.
Madge and Brian were in one corner of the room, talking together about Whyte's death.
"I never did like him," she said, "but it was horrible to think of him dying like that."
"I don't know," answered Brian, gloomily; "from all I can hear, chloroform is a very easy death."
"Death can never be easy," replied Madge, "especially to a young man so full of health and spirits as Mr. Whyte was."
"I believe you are sorry he's dead," said Brian, jealously.
"Aren't you?" she asked, in some surprise.
"De mortius nil nisi bonum," quoted Fitzgerald; "but as I detested him when alive, you can't expect me to regret his end."
Madge did not answer him, but glanced quickly at his face, and for the first time it struck her that he looked ill.
"What is the matter with you, dear?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. "You are not looking well."
"Nothing—nothing," he answered hurriedly. "I've been a little worried about business lately—but come," he said, rising, "let us go outside, for I see your father has got that girl with the steam-whistle voice to sing."
The girl with the steamwhistle voice was Julia Featherweight, the sister of Rolleston's inamorata, and Madge stifled a laugh as she went out on to the verandah with Fitzgerald.
"What a shame of you," she said, bursting into a laugh, when they were safely outside; "she's been taught by the best masters."
"How I pity them," retorted Brian, grimly, as Julia wailed out, "Meet me once again," with an ear-piercing shrillness. "I'd much rather listen to our ancestral Banshee, and as to meet her again, one interview would be more than enough."
Madge did not answer, but leaning lightly over the high rail of the verandah looked out into the beautiful moonlight night. There were a number of people passing along the Esplanade, some of whom stopped and listened to Julia's shrill notes, which being mellowed by distance, must have sounded rather nice. One man in particular seemed to have taste for music, for he persistently stared over the fence at the house. Brian and Madge talked of all sorts of things, but every time Madge looked up she saw the man watching the house.
"What does that man want, Brian?" she asked.
"What man?" asked Brian, starting. "Oh," he went on indifferently, as the man moved away from the gate and crossed the road on to the footpath, "he's taken up with the music, I suppose; that's all."
Madge did not say anything, but could not help thinking there was more in it than the music. Presently Julia ceased, and she proposed to go in.
"Why?" asked Brian, who was lying back in a comfortable seat, smoking a cigarette, "It's nice enough here."
"I must attend to my guests," she answered, rising. "You stop here and finish your cigarette," and with a gay laugh she flitted into the house like a shadow.
Brian sat and smoked, staring out into the moonlight meanwhile. Yes, the man was certainly watching the house, for he sat on one of the seats, and kept his eyes fixed on the brilliantly-lighted windows. Brian threw away his cigarette and shivered slightly.
"Could anyone have seen me?" he muttered, rising uneasily. "Pshaw, of course not, and the cabman would never recognise me again. Curse Whyte, I wish I'd never set eyes upon him."
He gave one glance at the dark figure on the seat, and then, with a shiver, passed into the warm, well-lighted room. He did not feel easy in his mind, and he would have felt still less so had he known that the man on the seat was one of the cleverest of the Melbourne detectives.
Mr. Gorby had been watching the Frettlby mansion the whole evening, and was getting rather annoyed. Moreland did not know where Fitzgerald lived, and as the detective wanted to find out, he determined to watch Brian's movements and trace him home.
"If he's that pretty girl's lover, I'll wait till he leaves the house," argued Mr. Gorby to himself, when he first took his seat on the Esplanade. "He won't stay long away from her, and once he leaves the house, I'll follow him up till I find out where he lives."
When Brian made his appearance early in the evening on his way to Mark Frettlby's mansion, he was in evening dress, with a light coat over it, and also had on a soft hat.
"Well, I'm dashed!" ejaculated Mr. Gorby, when he saw Fitzgerald disappear; "if he isn't a fool I don't know who is, to go about in the very clothes he wore when he polished Whyte off, and think he won't be recognized. Melbourne ain't Paris or London, that he can afford to be so careless, and when I put the darbies on him he will be astonished. Ah, well," he went on, lighting his pipe and taking a seat on the Esplanade, "I suppose I'll have to wait here till he comes out."
Mr. Gorby's patience was pretty severely tried, for hour after hour passed, and no one appeared. He smoked several pipes, and watched the people strolling along in the soft silver moonlight. A bevy of girls passed by with their arms round one another's waists, and were giggling to one another. Then a young man and woman came walking slowly along, evidently lovers, for they sat down by Mr. Gorby and looked hard at him, just to hint that he need not stay. But the detective took no notice of their appealing glances, but kept his eyes steadily on the great house opposite to him; so the lovers took themselves off with a very bad grace. Then he saw Madge and Brian come out on to the verandah, and heard Miss Featherweight's shrill voice singing, which sounded weird and unearthly in the stillness of the night. He saw Madge go in, and then Brian, the latter turning and staring at him for a minute or so.
"Ah!" said Gorby to himself, re-lighting his pipe, "your conscience is a-smiting you, is it? wait till you're in gaol."
Then the guests came out of the house and disappeared one by one, black figures in the moonlight, after kisses and handshaking. Shortly afterwards Brian came down the path with Frettlby by his side, and Madge hanging on to her father's arm. Frettlby opened the gate, and held out his hand.
"Good night, Fitzgerald," he said in a hearty voice; "come down soon again."
"Good-night, Brian, dearest," said Madge, kissing him, "and don't forget to-morrow."
Then father and daughter closed the gate, leaving Brian outside, and walked back to the house.
"Ah!" said Mr. Gorby to himself, "if you only knew what I know, you wouldn't be so precious kind to him."
Brian walked, strolled along the Esplanade, and then crossing over, passed by Gorby and walked on till he was opposite the Esplanade Hotel. Then he leaned his arms on the fence, and, taking off his hat, enjoyed the calm beauty of the hour.
"What a good-looking fellow," murmured Mr. Gorby, in a regretful tone. "I can hardly believe it of him, but the proofs are too clear."
Such a still night, not a breath of wind stirring, for the breeze had long since died away, and Brian could see the white waves breaking on the yellow sands, the long narrow pier running out like a black thread into the sheet of gleaming silver, and away in the distance the long line of the Williamstown lights like a fairy illumination. Over all this fantastic scene of land and water was a sky such as Dore loved—great heavy masses of rain clouds heaped one on top of the other like the rocks the Titans piled to reach Olympus. Then a break in the white woof, and a bit of dark blue sky could be seen glittering with stars, in the midst of which sailed the serene moon shedding down her cold light on the fantastical cloudland beneath, and giving to every one a silver lining. Such a weird bizarre sort of sky that Brian gazed up at it for several minutes, admiring the wonderful beauty of the broken masses of light and shadow, much to the annoyance of Mr. Gorby, who had no eye for the picturesque. At last with a sigh, Mr. Fitzgerald withdrew his eyes from the contemplation of the marvelous, and, lighting a cigarette, walked down the steps on to the pier.
"Suicide, is it?" muttered Mr. Gorby to himself, as he saw the tall, black figure striding resolutely on, a long way ahead. "Not if I can help it." So he lighted his pipe, and strolled down the pier in an apparently aimless manner.
He found Brian leaning over the parapet at the end of the pier, and looking at the glittering waters beneath, which kept rising and falling in a dreamy rhythm, that soothed and charmed the ear. "Poor girl! poor girl!" the detective heard him mutter as he came up. "If she only knew all! If she——"
At this moment he heard the approaching step, and turned round sharply. The detective saw that his face was ghastly pale in the moonlight, and his brows wrinkled angrily.
"What the devil do you want?" he burst out, as Gorby paused. "What do you mean by following me all over the place?"
"Saw me watching the house," said Gorby to himself. "I'm not following you, sir," he said, aloud. "I suppose the pier ain't private property. I only came down here for a breath of fresh air."
Fitzgerald did not answer, but turned sharply on his heel, and walked quickly up the pier, leaving Gorby staring after him.
"He's getting frightened," soliloquized the detective to himself, as he strolled easily along, keeping the black figure in front well in view. "I'll have to keep a sharp eye on him or he'll be clearing out of Victoria."
Brian walked quickly up to the St. Kilda station, for on looking at his watch he found that he would just have time to catch the last train. He arrived a few minutes before it started, so, getting into the smoking carriage at the near end of the platform, he lit a cigarette, and leaning back in his seat, watched late comers hurrying into the station. Just as the last bell rang he saw a man rush along, who seemed likely to miss the train. It was the same man who had been watching him the whole evening, and Brian felt confident that he was following him. He comforted himself, however, with the thought that this pertinacious follower would lose the train, and, being in the last carriage himself, he kept a look out along the platform, expecting to see his friend of the Esplanade standing dissappointed on it. There was no appearance of him, however, so Brian, sinking back into his seat, cursed his ill-luck in not having shaken off this man who kept him under such strict surveillance.
"D—— him!" he muttered softly. "I expect he will follow me to East Melbourne, and find out where I live, but he shan't if I can help it."
There was no one in the carriage except himself, on which he felt a sense of relief, for he was in that humor which comes on men sometimes of talking to himself.
"Murdered in a cab," he said, lighting a fresh cigarette, and blowing a cloud of smoke. "A romance in real life, which beats Miss Braddon hollow. There is one thing certain, he won't come between Madge and me again. Poor Madge!" with an impatient sigh. "If she only knew all, there would not be much chance of our marriage; but she can never find out, and I don't suppose anyone else ever will."
Here a sudden thought struck him, and rising out of his seat, he walked to the other end of the carriage, and threw himself on the cushions, as if desirous of escape from himself.
"What grounds can that man have for suspecting me?" he said aloud. "No one knows that I was with Whyte on that night, and the police can't possibly bring forward any evidence to show that I was. Pshaw!" he went on, impatiently buttoning up his coat. "I am like a child, afraid of my shadow—the fellow on the pier is only some one out for a breath of fresh air, as he said himself—I am quite safe."
All the same he did not feel easy in his mind, and when the train arrived at the Melbourne station he stepped out on to the platform with a shiver and a quick look round, as if he expected to feel the detective's hand on his shoulder. He saw no one, however, at all like the man he had met on the St. Kilda pier, and with a sigh of relief left the station. Mr. Gorby, however, was on the watch, and followed him at a safe distance along the platform. Brian left the station and walked slowly along Flinders Street, apparently in deep thought. When he got to Russell Street he turned up there, and did not stop till he came close to the Burke and Wills' monument, in the very place where the cab had stopped on the night of Whyte's murder.
"Ah!" said the detective to himself, as he stood in the shadow on the opposite side of the street. "You're going to have a look at it, are you?—I wouldn't, if I were you—it's dangerous."
Fitzgerald stood for a few minutes at the corner, and then walked up Collins Street. When he got to the cabstand, opposite the Melbourne Club, still suspecting he was followed, he hailed a hansom, and drove away in the direction of Spring Street. Gorby was rather perplexed at this sudden move, but without delay he hailed another cab, and told the driver to follow the first till it stopped.
"Two can play at that game," he said, settling himself back in his cab, "and I'll get the better of you, clever as you are—and you are clever," he went on in a tone of admiration, as he looked round the luxurious hansom, "to choose such a convenient place for a murder; no disturbance and plenty of time for escape after you had finished; it's a pleasure going after a chap like you, instead of men who tumble down like ripe fruit, and ain't got any brains to keep their crime quiet."
While the detective thus soliloquized, his cab, following on the trail of the other, had turned down Spring Street, and was being driven rapidly along the Wellington Parade, in the direction of East Melbourne. It then turned up Powlett Street, at which Mr. Gorby exulted.
"Ain't so clever as I thought," he said to himself. "Shows his nest right off, without any attempt to hide it."
The detective, however, had reckoned without his host, for the cab in front kept driving on, through an interminable maze of streets, until it seemed as if Brian was determined never to stop the whole night.
"Look 'ere, sir!" cried Gorby's cabman, looking through his trap-door in the roof of the hansom, "'ow long's this 'ere game a-goin' to larst? My 'oss is knocked up, 'e is, and 'is blessed old legs a-givin' away under 'im!"
"Go on! go on!" answered the detective, impatiently; "I'll pay you well!"
The cabman's spirits were raised by this, and by dint of coaxing and a liberal use of the silk, he managed to get his jaded horse up to a pretty good pace. They were in Fitzroy by this time, and then both cabs turned out of Gertrude Street into Nicholson Street, thence passed on to Evelyn Street and along Spring Street, until Brian's cab stopped at the corner of Collins Street, and Gorby saw him alight and dismiss his cabman. He then walked down the street and disappeared into the Treasury Gardens.
"Confound it," said the detective, as he got out and paid his fare, which was not by any means a light one, but over which he had no time to argue, "we've come in a circle, and I do believe he lives in Powlett Street after all."
He went into the Gardens, and saw Brian some distance ahead of him, walking rapidly. It was bright moonlight, and he could easily distinguish Fitzgerald by his lightcoat. He went along the noble avenue of Elms, which were in their winter dress, and the moon shining through their branches wrought fantastic tracery on the smooth asphalt beneath. And on either side Gorby could see the dim white forms of the old Greek gods and goddesses—Venus Victrix, with the apple in her hand (which Mr. Gorby, in his happy ignorance of heathen mythology, took for Eve offering Adam the forbidden fruit); Diana, with the hound at her feet, and Bacchus and Ariadne (which the detective imagined were the Babes in the Wood). He knew that each of the statues had queer names, but thought that they were merely allegorical.
Passing over the bridge, with the water rippling quietly underneath, Brian went up the smooth yellow path to where the statue of Hebe, holding the cup, seems instinct with life, and almost stepping off the pedestal, and turning down the path to the right, he left the garden by the end gate, near which stands the statue of the Dancing Faun, with the great bush of scarlet geranium burning like an alter before it. Then he went along the Wellington Parade, and turned up Powlett Street, where he stopped at a house near Cairns' Memorial Church, much to Mr. Gorby's relief, who, being like Hamlet, "fat and scant of breath," found himself rather exhausted. He kept well in the shadow, however, and saw Fitzgerald give one final look around before he disappeared into the house. Then Mr. Gorby, like the Robber Captain in Ali Baba, took careful stock of the house, and fixed its locality and appearance well in his mind, as he intended to call at it on the morrow.
"What I'm going to do," he said, as he walked slowly back to Melbourne, "is to see his landlady when he's out, and find out what time he came in on the night of the murder. If it fits into the time he got out of Rankin's cab I'll get out a warrant, and arrest him straight off."
CHAPTER IX.
MR. GORBY IS SATISFIED AT LAST.
In spite of his long walk, and still longer drive, Brian did not sleep well that night. He kept tossing and turning, or else lying on his back, wide awake, looking into the darkness, and thinking of Whyte. Towards dawn, when the first faint glimmer of morning came through the Venetian blinds, he fell into a sort of uneasy doze, haunted by horrible dreams. He thought he was driving in a hansom, when suddenly he found Whyte by his side, clad in white cerements, grinning and gibbering at him with ghastly merriment. Then the cab went over a precipice, and he fell from a great height, down, down, with the mocking laughter still sounding in his ears, until he awoke with a loud cry, and found that it was broad daylight, and that drops of perspiration were standing on his brow. It was no good trying to sleep any longer, so, with a weary sigh, he arose and went for his tub, feeling jaded and worn out by worry and want of sleep. His bath did him some good, as the cold water brightened him up and pulled him together. Still he could not help giving a start of surprise when he saw his face looking at him from the mirror, old and haggard-looking, with dark circles around the eyes.
"A pleasant life I'm going to have of it if this sort of thing goes on," he said bitterly; "I wish to G— I had never seen or heard of Whyte."
He dressed himself carefully, however, for Brian was a man who never neglected his toilet, however worried and out of sorts he might feel. Yet, notwithstanding his efforts to throw off his gloom and feel cheerful, his landlady was startled when she saw how haggard and wan his handsome face looked in the searching morning light.
She was a small, dried-up little woman, with a wrinkled, yellow face, and looked so parched and brittle that strangers could not help thinking that it would do her good if she were soaked in water for a year, in order to soften her a little. Whenever she moved she crackled, and one was in constant dread of seeing one of her wizen-looking limbs break off short, like the branch of a dead tree. When she spoke it was in a hard, shrill voice, like cricket; and being dressed in a faded brown silk, what with her voice and attenuated body,she was not unlike that noisy insect. She crackled into Brian's sitting room with the Argus and coffee, and a look of dismay came over her stony little face as she saw his altered looks.
"Dear me, sir," she chirped out in her shrill voice, as she placed her burden on the table, "are you took bad?"
Brian shook his head.
"Want of sleep, that's all, Mrs. Sampson," he answered, unfolding the Argus.
"Ah! that's because ye ain't got enough blood in yer 'ead," said Mrs. Sampson, wisely, for she had her own ideas on the subject of health. "If you ain't got blood you ain't got sleep."
Brian looked at her as she said this, for there seemed such an obvious want of blood in her veins that he wondered if she had ever slept in all her life.
"There was my father's brother, which, of course, makes 'im my uncle," went on the landlady, pouring out a cup of coffee for Brian, "an' the blood 'e 'ad was something astoundin', which it made 'im sleep that long as they 'ad to draw pints from 'im afore 'e'd wake in the mornin'."
Brian had the Argus before his face, and under its friendly cover laughed quietly to himself at the very tall story Mrs. Sampson was telling.
"His blood poured out like a river," went on the landlady, still drawing from the rich stores of her imagination, "and the doctor was struck dumb with astonishment at seein' the Niagerer which burst from 'im—but I'm not so full-blooded myself."
Fitzgerald again stifled a laugh, and wondered that Mrs. Sampson was not afraid of being treated in the same manner as Ananias and Sapphira. However, he said nothing, but merely intimated that if she would leave the room he would take his breakfast.
"An' if you wants anythin' else, Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, going to the door, "you knows your way to the bell as easily as I do to the kitching," and, with a final chirrup, she crackled out of the room.
As soon as the door was closed Brian put down his paper and roared, in spite of the worry he was in. He had that extraordinary vivacious Irish temperament, by which a man can put all trouble behind his back, and thoroughly enjoy the present. His landlady, with her Arabian Night-like romances, was a source of great amusement to him, and he felt considerably cheered by the odd turn her humor had taken this morning. After a time, however, his laughter ceased, and all his troubles came crowding on him again. He drank his coffee, but pushed away the food which was before him, and then looked through the Argus, to see the latest report about the murder case. What he read made his cheek turn even paler than it was, and he could feel his heart beating loudly.
"They've found a clue, have they?" he muttered, rising and pacing restlessly up and down. "I wonder what it can be? I threw that man off the scent last night, but if he suspects me, there will be no difficulty in him finding out where I live. Bah! What nonsense I am talking. I am the victim of my own morbid imagination. There is nothing to connect me with the crime, so I need not be afraid of my shadow. I've a good mind to leave town for a time, but if I am suspected that would excite suspicion. Oh, Madge! my darling," he cried, passionately, "if you only knew what I suffer, I know that you would pity me—but you must never know the truth—'Never! Never!'" and sinking into a chair by the window he covered his face with his hands. After remaining in this position for some minutes, occupied with his own gloomy thoughts, he arose and rang the bell. A faint crackle in the distance announced that Mrs. Sampson had heard, and she soon came into the room, looking more like a cricket than ever. Brian had gone into his bedroom, and called out to her from there—
"I am going down to St. Kilda, Mrs. Sampson," he said, "and probably will not be back all day."
"Which I 'opes it 'ull do you good,"answered the cricket, "for you've eaten nothin', an' the sea breezes is miraculous for makin' you take to your vittals. My mother's brother, bein' a sailor, an' wonderful for 'is stomach, which when 'e 'ad done a meal, the table looked as if a low-cuss 'ad gone over it."
"A what?" asked Fitzgerald, buttoning his gloves.
"A low-cuss," replied the landlady, in surprise at his ignorance, "as I've read in 'Oly Writ as 'ow John the Baptist was partial to 'em, not that I think they'd be very fillin', tho', to be sure, 'e 'ad a sweet tooth, and ate 'oney with 'em."
"Oh! you mean locusts," said Brian, now enlightened.
"An' what else?" asked Mrs. Sampson, indignantly; "which, tho' not bein' a scholard, I speaks English, I 'opes, my mother's second cousin 'avin 'ad first prize at a 'spellin' bee, tho' 'e died early through brain fever, 'avin crowded 'is 'ead over much with the dictionary."
"Dear me!" shouted Brian mechanically. "How unfortunate." He was not listening to Mrs. Sampson's remarks, but was thinking of an arrangement which Madge had made, and which he had forgotten till now.
"Mrs. Sampson," he said, turning round at the door, "I am going to bring Mr. Frettlby and his daughter to have a cup of afternoon tea here; so you might have some ready."
"You 'ave only to ask and to 'ave," answered Mrs. Sampson, hospitably, with a gratified crackle of all her joints. "I'll make tea, sir, an' also some of my own pertickler cakes, bein' a special kind I 'ave, which my mother showed me 'ow to make, 'avin' been taught by a lady as she nussed thro' the scarlet fever, tho' bein' of a weak constitution she died soon arter, bein' in the 'abit of contractin' any disease she might chance on."
As Brian did not care about a connection between cooking and scarlet fever, he hurried away, lest Mrs. Sampson should bring out more charnel house horrors, for which she had a Poe-like appreciation. Indeed, at one period of her life, the little woman having been a nurse, she had frightened one of her patients into convulsions by narrating to her the history of all the corpses she had laid out. This ghoul-like tendency having been discovered, she never obtained any more patients to nurse, as they objected when in a weak state to hear such grotesque horrors.
As soon as Fitzgerald had gone, she went over to the window and watched him as he walked slowly down the street—a tall, handsome man of whom any woman would be proud.
"What an awful thing it are to think 'e'll be a corpse some day," she chirped cheerily to herself, "tho' of course bein' a great swell in 'is own place, 'e'll 'ave a nice airy vault, which 'ud be far more comfortable than a close, stuffy grave, even tho' it 'as a tombstone an' vi'lets over it. Ah, now! Who are you, impertinence?" she broke off, as a stout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang the bell, "a-pullin' at the bell as if it were a pump 'andle."
As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby, did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried down the stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage that her bell had received.
Mr. Gorby had seen Brian go out, and deeming it a good opportunity to prosecute inquiries, had lost no time in making a start.
"You nearly tored the bell down," said the fiery cricket, as she presented her thin body and wrinkled face to the view of the detective.
"I'm very sorry," answered Gorby, meekly. "I'll knock next time."
"Oh, no you won't," said the landlady, tossing her head, "me not 'avin' a knocker, an' your 'and a-scratchin' the paint off the door, which it ain't been done over six months by my sister-in-law's cousin, which 'e is a painter, with a shop in Fitzroy, an' a wonderful heye to color."
"Does Mr. Fitzgerald live here?" asked Mr. Gorby quietly.
"He do," replied Mrs. Sampson, "but 'e's gone out, an' won't be back till the arternoon, which any messidge 'ull be delivered to 'im punctual on 'is arrival."
"I'm glad he's not in," said Mr. Gorby. "Would you allow me to have a few moments' conversation?"
"What is it?" asked the cricket, her curiosity being roused."
"I'll tell you when we get inside," answered Mr. Gorby.
The cricket looked at him with her sharp little eyes, and seeing nothing disreputable in him, led the way upstairs, crackling loudly the whole time. This so astonished Mr. Gorby that he cast about in his own mind for an explanation of the phenomena.
"Wants oiling about the joints," was his conclusion, "but I never heard anything like it, and she looks as if she'd snap in two, she's that brittle."
Mrs. Sampson took Gorby into Brian's sitting-room, and having closed the door sat down and prepared to hear what he had to say for himself.
"I 'ope it ain't bills," she said. "Mr. Fitzgerald 'avin' money in the bank, and everythin' respectable like a gentleman as 'e is, tho', to be sure, your bill might come down on him unbeknown, 'e not havin' kept it in mind, which it ain't everybody as 'ave sich a good memory as my aunt on my mother's side, she 'avin bin famous for 'er dates like a 'istory, not to speak of 'er multiplication tables and the numbers of people's 'ouses."
"It's not bills," answered Mr. Gorby, who, having vainly attempted to stem the shrill torrent of words, had given in and waited mildly until she had finished; "I only want to know a little about Mr. Fitzgerald's habits."
"And what for?" asked Mrs. Sampson, with an indignant cackle. "Are you a noospaper a-puttin' in articles about people who don't want to see 'emselves in print, which I knows your 'abits, my late 'usband 'avin bin a printer on a paper which bust up, not 'avin the money to pay wages, thro' which there was doo to him the sum of one pound seven and sixpence half-penny, which I, bein' 'is widder, ought to 'ave, not that I expects to see it on this side of the grave—oh, dear, no!" and she gave a shrill, elfish laugh.
Mr. Gorby, seeing that unless he took the bull by the horns he would never be able to get what he wanted, grew desperate, and plunged in medias res.
"I am an insurance agent," he said rapidly, so as to prevent any interruption by the cricket; "and Mr. Fitzgerald wants to insure his life in our company. Before doing so, I want to find out if he is a good life to insure; does he live temperately? keep early hours? and, in fact, all about him."
"I shall be 'appy to answer any inquiries which may be of use to you, sir," replied Mrs. Sampson; "knowin', as I do, 'how good a insurance is to a family, should the 'ead of it be taken off unexpected, leavin' a widder, which, as I know, Mr. Fitzgerald is a-goin' to be married soon, an' I 'opes 'e'll be 'appy, tho' thro' it I loses a lodger as 'as allays paid regler, an' be'aved like a gentleman."
"So he is a temperate man?" said Mr. Gorby, feeling his way cautiously.
"Not bein' a blue ribbon all the same," answered Mrs. Sampson; "and I never saw 'im the wuss for drink, 'e being allays able to use 'is latch key, and take 'is boots off afore going to bed, which is no more than a woman ought to expect from a lodger, she 'avin to do 'er own washin'."
"And he keeps good hours?"
"Allays in afore the clock strikes twelve," answered the landlady; "tho' to be sure, I uses it as a figger of speech, none of the clocks in the 'ouse strikin' but one, which is bein' mended, 'avin' broke through overwindin'."
"Is he always in before twelve?" asked Mr. Gorby, keenly disappointed at this answer.
Mrs. Sampsom eyed him waggishly, and a smile crept over her wrinkled little face.
"Young men, not bein' old men," she replied, cautiously, "and sinners not bein' saints, it's not nattral as latch keys should be made for ornament instead of use, and Mr. Fitzgerald bein' one of the 'andsomest men in Melbourne, it ain't to be expected as 'e should let 'is latch key git rusty, tho', 'avin' a good moral character, 'e uses it with moderation."
"But I suppose you are generally asleep when he comes in late?" said the detective; "so you can't tell what hour he comes home?"
"Not as a rule," assented Mrs. Sampson; "bein' a 'eavy sleeper, and much disposed for bed, but I 'ave 'eard 'im come in arter twelve, the last time bein' Thursday week."
"Ah!" Mr. Gorby drew a long breath, for Thursday week was the night when the murder was committed.
"Bein' troubled with my 'ead," said Mrs. Sampson, "thro' 'avin' been out in the sun all day a-washin', I did not feel so partial to my bed that night as in general, so went down to the kitchen with the intent of getting a linseed poultice to put at the back of my 'ead, it bein' calculated to remove pain, as was told to me, when a nuss, by a doctor in the horspital, 'e now bein' in business for hisself, at Geelong, with a large family, 'avin' married early. Just as I was leavin' the kitching I 'eard Mr. Fitzgerald a-comin' in, and, turnin' round, looked at the clock, that 'avin' been my custom when my late 'usband came in, in the early mornin,' I bein' a preparin' 'is meal."
"And the time was?" asked Mr. Gorby, breathlessly.
"Five minutes to two o'clock," replied Mrs. Sampson.
Mr. Gorby thought for a moment.
Cab was hailed at one o'clock—started for St. Kilda at about ten minutes past—reached Grammar School, say at twenty-five minutes past—Fitzgerald talks five minutes to cabman, making it half-past—say, he waited ten minutes for other cab to turn up, makes it twenty minutes to two—it would take another twenty minutes to get to East Melbourne—and five minutes to walk up here—that makes it five minutes past two instead of before—confound it. "Was your clock in the kitchen right?" he asked, aloud.
"Well, I think so," answered Mrs. Sampson. "It does get a little slow sometimes, not 'avin been cleaned for some time, which my nevy bein' a watchmaker I allays 'ands it over to 'im."
"Of course it was slow on that night," said Gorby, triumphantly. "He must have come in at five minutes past two—which makes it right."
"Makes what right?" asked the landlady, sharply. "And 'ow do you know my clock was ten minutes wrong?"
"Oh, it was, was it?" asked Gorby, eagerly.
"I'm not denyin' that it wasn't," replied Mrs. Sampson; "clocks ain't allays to be relied on more than men an' women—but it won't be anythin' agin 'is insurance, will it, as in general 'e's in afore twelve?"
"Oh, all that will be quite safe," answered the detective, delighted at having obtained the required information. "Is this Mr. Fitzgerald's room?"
"Yes, it is," replied the landlady; "but 'e furnished it 'imself, bein' of a luxurus turn of mind, not but what 'is taste is good, tho' far be it from me to deny I 'elped 'im to select; but 'avin another room of the same to let, any friends as you might 'ave in search of a 'ome 'ud be well looked arter, my references bein' very 'igh, an' my cookin' tasty—an' if—"
Here a ring at the front door bell called Mrs. Sampson away, so with a hurried word to Gorby she crackled down stairs. Left to himself, Mr. Gorby arose and looked around the room. It was excellently furnished, and the pictures on the wall were all in good taste. There was a writing table at one end of the room under the window, which was covered with papers.
"It's no good looking for the papers he took out of Whyte's pocket, I suppose," said the detective to himself, as he turned over some letters, "as I don't know what they are, and couldn't tell them if I saw them; but I'd like to find that missing glove and the bottle that held the chloroform—unless he's done away with them. There doesn't seem any sign of them here, so I'll have a look in his bed-room."
There was no time to lose, as Mrs. Sampson might return at any moment, so Mr. Gorby walked quickly into the bed-room, which opened off the sitting room. The first thing that caught the detective's eye was a large photograph of Madge Frettlby in a plush frame, which stood on the dressing table. It was the same kind as he had already seen in Whyte's album, and he took it up with a laugh.
"You're a pretty girl," he said, apostrophising the picture, "but you give your photograph to two young men, both in love with you and both hot-tempered. The result is that one is dead, and the other won't survive him long. That's what you've done."
He put it down again, and looking round the room, caught sight of a light covert coat hanging behind the door, and also a soft hat.
"Ah," said the detective, going up to the door, "here is the very coat you wore when you killed that poor fellow. I wonder what you have in the pockets," and he plunged his hand into them in turn. There was an old theatre programme and a pair of brown gloves in one, but in the second pocket Mr. Gorby made a discovery—none other than that of the missing glove. There it was—a soiled white glove for the right hand, with black bands down the back; and the detective smiled in a gratified manner as he put it carefully in his pocket.
"My morning has not been wasted," he said to himself.
"I've found out that he came in at a time which corresponds to all his movements after one o'clock on Thursday night, and this is the missing glove, which clearly belonged to Whyte. If I could only get hold of the chloroform bottle I'd be satisfied."
But the chloroform bottle was not to be found, though he searched most carefully for it. At last, hearing Mrs. Sampson coming up stairs again, he desisted from his search, and came back to the sitting-room.
"Threw it away, I expect," he said, as he sat down in his old place; "but it doesn't matter. I think I can form a chain of evidence, from what I have discovered, which will be sufficient to convict him. Besides, I expect when he is arrested he will confess everything; he seems to have such a lot of remorse for what he has done."
The door opened, and Mrs. Samoson crackled into the room in a state of indignation.
"One of them Chinese 'awkers,'" she explained, "'e's bin a-tryin' to git the better of me over carrots—as if I didn't know what carrots was—and 'im a talkin' about a shillin' in his gibberish, as if 'e 'adn't bin brought up in a place where they don't know what a shillin' is. But I never could abide foreigners ever since a Frenchman, as taught me 'is language, made orf with my mother's silver tea-pot, unbeknown to 'er, it being set out on the sideboard for company."
Mr. Gorby interrupted these domestic reminiscences of Mrs. Sampson's by stating that now she had given him all necessary information, he would take his departure.
"An' I 'opes," said Mrs. Sampson, as she opened the door for him, "as I'll 'ave the pleasure of seein' you again should any business on be'alf of Mr. Fitzgerald require it."
"Oh, I'll see you again," said Mr. Gorby, with a heavy jocularity, "and in a way you won't like, as you'll be called as a witness," he added, mentally. "Did I understand you to say, Mrs. Sampson," he went on, "that Mr. Fitzgerald would be at home this afternoon?"
"Oh yes, sir, 'e will," answered Mrs. Sampson, "a drinkin' tea with his young lady, who is Miss Frettlby, and 'as got no end of money, not but what I mightn't 'ave 'ad the same 'ad I been born in a higher spear."
"You need not tell Mr. Fitzgerald I have been here," said Gorby, closing the gate; "I'll probably call and see him myself this afternoon."
"What a stout person 'e are," said Mrs. Sampson to herself, as the detective walked away, "just like my late father, who was always fleshy, bein' a great eater, and fond of 'is glass, but I took arter my mother's family, they bein' thin-like, and proud of keeping 'emselves so, as the vinegar they drank could testify, not that I indulge in it myself."
She shut the door, and went upstairs to take away the breakfast things, while Gorby was being driven along at a good pace to the police office, in order to get a warrant for Brian's arrest, on a charge of willful murder.
CHAPTER X.
IN THE QUEEN'S NAME.
It was a broiling hot day—one of those cloudless days, with the blazing sun beating down on the arid streets, and casting deep, black shadows. By rights it was a December day, but the clerk of the weather had evidently got a little mixed, and popped it into the middle of August by mistake. The previous week however had been a little chilly, and this delightfully hot day had come as a pleasant surprise and a forecast of summer. It was Saturday morning, and of course all fashionable Melbourne was doing the Block. With regard to its "Block," Collins Street corresponds to New York's Broadway, London's Regent Street and Rotten Row, and to the Boulevards of Paris. It is on the Block that people show off their new dresses, bow to their friends, cut their enemies, and chatter small talk. The same thing no doubt occurred in the Appian Way, the fashionable Street of Imperial Rome, when Catallus talked gay nonsense to Lesbia, and Horace received the congratulations of his friends over his new volume of society verses. History repeats itself, and every city is bound by all the laws of civilization to have one special street wherein the votaries of fashion may congregate. Collins Street is not, of course, such a grand thoroughfare as those above mentioned, but the people who stroll up and down the broad pavement are quite as charmingly dressed, and as pleasant as any of the paripatetics ofthose famous cities. As the sun brings out bright flowers, so the seductive influence of the hot weather had brought out all the ladies in gay dresses of innumerable colors, which made the long street look like a restless rainbow. Carriages were bowling smoothly along, their occupants smiling and bowing as they recognized their friends on the sidewalk; lawyers, their legal quibble finished for the week, were strolling leisurely along, with their black bags in their hands; portly merchants, forgetting Flinders Lane and incoming ships, were walking beside their pretty daughters; and the representatives of sweldom were stalking along in their customary apparel of curly hats, high collars, and masher suits. Altogether, it was a very pleasant and animated scene, and would have delighted the heart of any one who was not dyspeptic, nor in love—dyspeptic people and lovers (disappointed ones, of course) being accustomed to survey the world in a cynical vein.
Madge Frettlby was engaged in that pleasant occupation so dear to every female heart, of shopping. She was in Moubray, Rowan and Hicks', turning over ribbons and laces, while the faithful Brian waited for her outside, and amused himself by looking at the human stream which flowed along the pavement. If there is one thing above another which is dreaded by men it is shopping with ladies, for then a few minutes with them becomes hours, and the weary husband pensively smoking cigarettes outside, while his better half worries the young man at the counter about the last new shade, wonders "What the deuce can be keeping Maria," until that estimable lady makes her appearance, followed by a shopman bending like Atlas under his load of boxes and parcels. Brian disliked shopping quite as much as the rest of his sex, but, being a lover, of course it was his duty to be martyrized, though he could not help thinking of his pleasant club, where he could have been reading and smoking with something cool in a glass beside him. After Madge had purchased a dozen articles she did not want, and had interviewed her dressmaker on the momentous subject of a new dress, she remembered that Brian was waiting, and hurried quickly to the door.
"I haven't been many minutes, have I, dear?" she said, touching him lightly on the arm.
"Oh, dear, no," answered Brian, looking at his watch, "only thirty—a mere nothing, considering a new dress was being discussed."
"I thought I had been longer," said Madge, her brow clearing, "but still I am sure you feel a martyr."
"Not at all," replied Fitzgerald, handing her into the carriage; "I enjoyed myself very much."
"Nonsense," she laughed, opening her sunshade, while Brian took his seat beside her; "that's one of those social stories—which everyone considers themselves bound to tell from a sense of duty. I'm afraid I did keep you waiting—though, after all," she went on, with a true feminine idea as to the flight of time, "I was only a few minutes."
"And the rest," said Brian, quizzically looking at her pretty face, so charmingly flushed under her great white hat.
Madge disdained to notice this interuption.
"James," she cried to the coachman, "drive to the Melbourne Club. Papa will be there, you know," she said to Brian, "and we'll take him off to have afternoon tea with us."
"But it's only one o'clock," said Brian, as the town hall clock came in sight. "Mrs. Sampson won't be ready."
"Oh, anything will do," replied Madge, "a cup of tea and some thin bread and butter isn't hard to prepare. I don't feel like lunch, and papa eats so little in the middle of the day, and you——"
"Eat a great deal at all times," finished Brian, with a laugh. Madge went on chattering in her usual lively manner, and Brian listened to her with delight. It was very pleasant, he thought, lying back among the soft cushions of the carriage, with a pretty girl talking so gaily. He felt like Saul must have done when he heard the harp of David, and Madge with her pleasant talk, drove away the evil spirit which had been with him for the last three weeks. Suddenly Madge made an observation as they were passing the Burke and Wills' monument, which startled him.
"Isn't that the place where Mr. Whyte got into the cab?" she asked, looking at the corner near the Scotch Church, where a vagrant of musical tendencies was playing "Just before the Battle, Mother," on a battered old concertina in a most dismal manner.
"So the papers say," answered Brian, listlessly, without turning his head.
"I wonder who the gentleman in the light coat could have been," said Madge, as she settled herself again.
"No one seems to know," he replied, evasively.
"Ah, but they've got a clue," she said. "Do you know, Brian," she went on, "that he was dressed just like you, in a light overcoat and soft hat?"
"How remarkable," said Fitzgerald, speaking in a slightly sarcastic tone, and as calmly as he was able. He was dressed in the same manner as nine out of every ten young fellows in Melbourne."
Madge looked at him in surprise at the tone in which he spoke, so different from his usual nonchalant way of speaking, and was about to answer, when the carriage stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. Brian, anxious to escape any more remarks about the murder, sprang quickly out and ran up the steps into the building. He found Mr. Frettlby smoking complacently and reading the Age. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, and putting down the paper, held out his hand, which the other took.
"Ah! Fitzgerald," he said, "have you left the attractions of Collins Street for the still greater ones of clubland?"
"Not I," answered Brian. "I've come to carry you off to afternoon tea with Madge and myself."
"I don't mind," answered Mr. Frettlby, rising; "but isn't afternoon tea at half-past one, rather an anomaly?"
"What's in a name?" said Fitzgerald, absently, as they left the room. "What have you been doing all morning?"
"I've been in here for the last half-hour reading," answered the other, carelessly.
"Wool market, I suppose?"
"No, the hansom cab murder."
"Oh, d— that thing!" said Brian, hastily; then, seeing his companion looking at him in surprise, he apologized.
"But, indeed," he went on, "I'm nearly worried to death by people asking all about Whyte, as if I knew all about him, whereas I know nothing."
"Just as well you didn't," answered Mr. Frettlby, as they descended the steps together; "he was not a very desirable companion."
It was on the tip of Brian's tongue to say, "And yet you wanted him to marry your daughter," but he wisely refrained, and they reached the carriage in silence.
"Now then, papa," said Madge when they were all settled in the carriage, and it was rolling along smoothly in the direction of East Melbourne, "what have you been doing?"
"Enjoying myself," answered her father, "until you and Brian came, and dragged me out into this blazing sunshine."
"Well, Brian has been so good of late," said Madge, "that I had to reward him, so I knew that nothing would please him better than to play host."
"Certainly not," said Brian, rousing himself out of a fit of abstraction, "especially when one has such charming visitors."
Madge laughed at this, and made a little grimace.
"If your tea is only equal to your compliments," she said lightly, "I'm sure papa will forgive us for dragging him away from his club."
"Papa will forgive anything," murmured Mr. Frettlby, tilting his hat over his eyes, "as long as he gets somewhere out of the sun. I can't say I care about playing the parts of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace of a Melbourne hot day."
"There now, papa is quite a host in himself," said Madge mischievously, as the carriage drew up at Mrs. Sampson's door.
"No, you are wrong," said Brian, as he alighted and helped her out of the carriage; "I am the host in myself this time."
"If there is one thing I hate above another," observed Miss Frettlby, calmly, "it's puns, and especially bad ones."
Mrs. Sampson was very much astonished at the early arrival of her lodger's guests, and expressed her surprise in shrill tones.
"Bein' taken by surprise," she said, with an apologetic cackle, "it ain't to be supposed as miraculs can be performed with regard to cookin', the fire havin' gone out, not bein' kept alight on account of the 'eat of the day, which was that 'ot as never was, tho', to be sure, bein' a child in the early days, I remember it were that 'ot as my sister's aunt was in the 'abit of roastin' her jints in the sun."
After telling this last romance, and leaving her visitors in doubt whether the joints referred to belonged to an animal, or to her sister's aunt or herself, Mrs. Sampson crackled away downstairs to get things ready.
"What a curious thing that landlady of yours is, Brian," said Madge, from the depths of a huge arm chair, "I believe she's a grasshopper from the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Oh, no, she's a woman," said Mr. Frettlby, cynically. "You can tell that by the length of her tongue."
"A popular error, papa," retorted Madge, sharply. "I know plenty of men who talk far more than any woman."
"I hope I'll never meet them, then," said Mr. Frettlby, "for if I did I would be inclined to agree with De Quincy's essay on murder as one of the fine arts."
Brian shivered at this, and looked apprehensively at Madge, and saw with relief that she was not paying attention to her father, but was listening intently.
"There she is," as a faint rustle at the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Sampson and the tea-tray. "I wonder, Brian, you don't think the house is on fire with that queer noise always going on—she wants oil!"
"Yes, St. Jacob's oil," laughed Brian, as Mrs. Sampson entered, and placed her burden on the table.
"Not 'avin any cake," said that lady, "thro' not being forewarned as to the time of arrival—tho' it's not ofting I'm taken by surprise—except as to 'eadache, which, of course, is accidental to every pusson—I ain't got nothin' but bread and butter, the baker and grocer both bein' all that could be desired, except in the way of worryin' for their money, which they think as 'ow I keeps the bank in the 'ouse, like Allading's cave, as I've 'eard tell in the Arabian Nights, me 'avin gained it as a prize for English in, my early girl'ood, bein' then considered a scholard an' industrus."
Mrs. Sampson's shrill apologies for the absence of cake having been received, she hopped out of the room, and Madge made the tea. The service was a quaint Chinese one, which Brian had picked up in his wanderings, and used for gatherings like these. As he watched her he could not help thinking how pretty she looked, with her hands moving deftly among the cups and saucers, so bizarre-looking with their sprawling dragons of yellow and green. He half smiled to himself as he thought, "If they knew all, I wonder if they would sit with me so cool and unconcerned?" Mr. Frettlby, too, as he looked at his daughter, thought of his dead wife, and sighed.
"Well," said Madge, as she handed them their tea, and helped herself to some thin bread and butter, "you two gentlemen are most delightful company—papa is sighing like a furnace, and Brian is staring at me with his eyes like blue china saucers. You ought both be turned forth to funerals like melancholy."
"Why like melancholy?" queried Brian lazily.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the young lady, with a smile on her pretty black eyes, "that you are not a student of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'"
"Very likely not," answered Brian; "midsummer out here is so hot that one gets no sleep, and, consequently, no dreams; depend upon it, if the four lovers whom Puck treated so badly had lived in Australia they wouldn't have been able to sleep for the mosquitos."
"What nonsense you two young people do talk," said Mr. Frettlby, with an amused smile, as he stirred his tea.
"Dulce est desipere in loco" observed Brian, gravely, "a man who can't carry out that observation is sure not to be up to much."
"I don't like Latin," said Miss Frettlby, shaking her pretty head. "I agree with Heine's remark, that if the Romans had had to learn it they would not have found time to conquer the world."
"Which was a much more agreeable task," said Brian.
"And more profitable" finished Mr. Frettlby.
They went on chattering in this desultory fashion for a considerable time, till at last Madge arose and said they must go. Brian proposed to dine with them at St. Kilda, and then they would all go to the theatre. Madge consented to this, and she was just pulling on her gloves, when suddenly they heard a ring at the front door, and presently heard Mrs. Sampson talking in an excited manner at the pitch of her voice.
"You shan't come in, I tell you," they heard her say, shrilly, "so it's no good trying, which I've allays 'eard as an Englishman's 'ouse is 'is castle, an' you're a breakin' the law, as well as spilin' the carpets, as has bin just put down."
Some one made a reply; then the door of Brian's room was thrown open, and Gorby walked in, followed by another man. Fitzgerald turned as white as a sheet, for he felt instinctively that they had come for him. However, pulling himself together, he demanded, in a haughty tone, the reason of the intrusion. Mr. Gorby walked straight over to where Brian was standing, and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Brian Fitzgerald," he said, in a clear voice, "I arrest you in the Queen's name."
"For what?" asked Brian, steadily.
"The murder of Oliver Whyte."
At this Madge gave a cry.
"It is not true!" she said, wildly. "My God, it's not true."
Brian did not answer, but, ghastly pale, held out his hands. Gorby slipped the handcuffs on to his wrists with a feeling of compunction, in spite of his joy in running his man down. This done, Fitzgerald turned round to where Madge was standing, pale and still, as if she had turned into stone.
"Madge," he said in a clear, low voice, "I am going to prison—perhaps to death; but I swear to you, by all that I hold most sacred, that I am innocent of this murder."
"My darling!" She made a step forward, but her father stepped before her.
"Keep back," he said, in a hard voice; "there is nothing between you and that man now."
She turned round with an ashen face, but with a proud look in her clear eyes.
"You are wrong," she answered, with a touch of scorn in her voice. "I love him more now than I did before." Then before her father could stop her, she placed her arms round her lover's neck, and kissed him wildly on the cheek.
"My darling," she said, with the tears streaming down her white cheeks, "whatever the world may say, you are always dearest of all to me."
Brian kissed her passionately, and then moved away while Madge fell down at her father's feet in a dead faint.
CHAPTER XI.
COUNSEL FOR THE PRISONER.
Brian Fitzgerald was arrested a few minutes past three o'clock, and by five all Melbourne was ringing with the news that the perpetrator of the now famous hansom cab murder had been caught. The evening papers were full of the affair, and the Herald went through several editions, the demand being far in the excess of the supply. Such a crime had not been committed in Melbourne since the Greer shooting case in the Opera House, and the mystery which surrounded it made it even more sensational. The committal of the crime in such an extraordinary place as a hansom cab had been startling enough, but the discovery that the assassin was one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne was still more so. Brian Fitzgerald being well known in society as a wealthy squatter, and the future husband of one of the richest and prettiest girls in Victoria, it was no wonder that his arrest caused quite a sensation. The Herald, which was fortunate enough to obtain the earliest information about the arrest, made the best use of it, and published a flaming article in most sensational type, somewhat after this fashion:
HANSOM CAB TRAGEDY.
ARREST OF THE SUPPOSED MURDERER.
STARTLING REVELATIONS IN HIGH LIFE.
It is needless to say that some of the reporters had painted the lily pretty freely, but the public believed everything that came out in the papers to be gospel truth.
Mr. Frettlby, the day after Brian's arrest, had a long conversation with his daughter, and wanted her to go up to Yabba Yallock Station until the public excitement had somewhat subsided. But this Madge flatly refused to do.
"I'm not going to desert him when he most needs me," she said, resolutely, "everybody has turned against him, even before they have heard the facts of the case. He says he is not guilty, and I believe him."
"Then let him prove his innocence," said her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room; "if he did not get into the cab with Whyte he must have been somewhere else; so he ought to set up the defense of an alibi."
"He can easily do that," said Madge, with a ray of hope lighting up her sad face; "he was here till eleven o'clock on Thursday night."
"Very probably," returned her father, dryly; "but where was he at one o'clock on Friday morning?"
"Besides, Mr. Whyte left the house long before Brian did," she went on rapidly. "You must remember—it was when you quarrelled with Mr. Whyte."
"My dear Madge," said Mr. Frettlby, stopping in front of her with a displeased look, "you are incorrect—Whyte and myself did not quarrel. He asked me if it were true that Fitzgerald was engaged to you, and I answered yes. That was all, and then he left the house."
"Yes, and Brian didn't go until two hours after," said Madge, triumphantly. "He never saw Mr. Whyte the whole night."
"So he says," replied Mr. Frettlby, significantly.
"I believe Brian before anyone else in the world," said his daughter, hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
"Ah! but will a jury," queried her father.
"You have turned against him, too," answered Madge, her eyes filling with tears. "You believe him guilty."
"I am not prepared either to deny or confirm his guilt," said Mr. Frettlby, coldly. "I have done what I could to help him—I have engaged Calton to defend him, and if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind at rest."
"My dear father," said Madge, throwing her arms around his neck, "I knew you would not desert him altogether, for my sake."
"My darling," replied her father, in a faltering voice, as he kissed her, "there is nothing in the world I would not do for your sake."
Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Jail, thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escape except one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.
"It would kill her; it would kill her," he said feverishly, as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones. "Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like a common thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If I engage a lawyer to defend me," he went on, "the first question he will ask me will be where was I on that night, and if I tell him all will be discovered, and then—no—no—I cannot do it; it would kill her, my darling," and throwing himself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.
He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and on looking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a great friend of Fitzgerald's, and Brian was deeply touched by his kindness in coming to see him. Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian, but there was also a touch of self-interest in the matter. He had received a note from Mr. Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald, which he agreed to with avidity, as he foresaw in this case an opportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australian colonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, but his reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw that Fitzgerald's trial for murder would cause a great sensation throughout Australia and New Zealand, therefore determined to take advantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame, wealth and position. So this tall, keen-eyed man, with the clean shaven face and expressive mouth, advanced into the cell, and took Brian by the hand.
"It is kind of you to come and see me," said Fitzgerald; "it is at a time like this that one appreciates friendship."
"Yes, of course," answered the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on the other's haggard face, as if he would read his uttermost thoughts. "I came partly on my own account, and partly because Frettlby asked to see you as to your defense."
"Mr. Frettlby?" said Brian, in a mechanical way. "He is very kind; I thought he believed me guilty."
"No man is considered guilty until he has been proved so," answered Calton, evasively.
Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved an impatient sigh.
"And Miss Frettlby?" he asked, in a hesitating manner. This time he got a decided answer.
"She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear a word said against you."
"God bless her," said Brian, fervently; "she is a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed?" he added, bitterly.
"Nothing else talked about," answered Calton, calmly. "Your arrest has, for the present, suspended all interest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are at the present moment being discussed threadbare in clubs and drawing rooms."
Fitzgerald writhed. He was a singularly proud man, and there was something inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.
"But this is all idle chatter," said Calton, taking a seat. "We must get to business. Of course, you will accept me as your counsel."
"It's no good my doing so," replied Brian, gloomily. "The rope is already round my neck."
"Nonsense," replied the lawyer, cheerfully, "the rope is round no man's neck until he is on the scaffold. Now, you need not say a word," he went on, holding up his hand as Brian was about to speak; "I am going to defend you in this case, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts, except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate so much that one can place no reliance on them. At all events, I believe from my heart that you are innocent, and you must walk out of the prisoner's dock a free man, if only for the sake of that noble girl who loves you."
Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the other grasped warmly.
"I will not deny," went on Calton, "that there is a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case is such an extraordinary one that I feel as if I were unable to let slip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don't care for your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort of thing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting. When you are safe we will together look for the real criminal, and the pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitement when we find him out."
"I agree with everything you say," said Fitzgerald, calmly," "but I have no defence to make."
"No defence? You are not going to confess you killed him?"
"No," with an angry flush, "but there are certain circumstances which prevent me from defending myself."
"What nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply, "as if any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life. But never mind, I like these objections, they make the nut harder to crack—but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now, you have to answer me certain questions."
"I won't promise."
"Well, we shall see," said the lawyer, cheerfully, taking out his note-book, and resting it on his knee. "First, where were you on the Thursday preceding the murder?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St. Kilda, and came up to town by the eleven o'clock train."
"Eleven twenty," corrected Brian.
Calton smiled in a gratified manner as he noted this down.
"A little diplomacy is all that's required," he said mentally. "And where did you go then?" he added, aloud.
"I met Rolleston on the train, and we took a cab from the Flinders Street Station up to the Club."
"What club?"
"The Melbourne Club."
"Yes?" interrogatively.
"Rolleston went home, and I went into the Club and played cards for a time."
"When did you leave the Club?"
"A few minutes to one o'clock in the morning."
"And then, I suppose, you went home?"
"No; I did not."
"Then where did you go?"
"Down the street."
"Rather vague. I presume you mean Collins Street."
"Yes."
"You were going to meet some one, I suppose?"
"I never said so."
"Probably not; but young men don't wander about the streets at night without some object,"
"I was restless, and wanted a walk."
"Indeed! How curious you should prefer going into the heart of the dusty town for a walk to strolling through the Fitzroy Gardens, which were on your way home! It won't do; you had an appointment to meet some one."
"Well—er—yes."
"I thought as much. Man or woman?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Then I must find out for myself."
"You can't."
"Indeed! Why not?"
"You don't know where to look for her."
"Her," cried Calton, delighted at the success of his craftily-put question. "I knew it was a woman."
Brian did not answer, but sat biting his lips with vexation.
"Now, who is the woman?"
No answer.
"Come now, Fitzgerald, I know that young men will be young men, and of course you don't like these things talked about; but in this case your character must be sacrificed to save your neck. What is her name?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh! you know it, then?"
"Well, yes."
"And you won't tell me?"
"No!"
Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him, first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second, it was with a woman. He went on another line.
"When did you last see Whyte?"
Brian answered with great reluctance, "I saw him drunk by the Scotch Church."
"What! you were the man that hailed the hansom?"
"Yes," assented the other, hesitating slightly, "I was!"
The thought flashed through Calton's brain as to whether the young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged to confess things looked very black against him.
"Then what the newspapers said was correct?"
"Partly."
"Ah!" Calton drew a long breath—here was a ray of hope.
"You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lying drunk near the Scotch Church?"
"No, I did not. Had I known it was he, I would not have picked him up."
"Of course, you recognized him afterwards?"
"Yes, I did. And, as the paper stated, dropped him and walked away."
"Why did you leave him so abruptly?"
Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.
"Because I detested him," he said, shortly.
"Why did you detest him?"
No answer.
"Was it because he had admired Miss Frettlby, and, from all appearances, was going to marry her?"
"Well, yes," sullenly.
"And now," said Calton, impressively, "this is the whole point upon which the case turns—Why did you get into the cab with him?"
"I did not get into the cab."
"The cabman declares that you did."
"He is wrong. I never came back after I recognized Whyte."
"Then who was the man who got into the cab with Whyte?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"Not the least."
"You are certain?"
"Yes, perfectly certain."
"He seems to have been dressed exactly like you."
"Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of my acquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, and soft hats."
"Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?"
"No, I don't; I know nothing about him, beyond that he came from England a short time ago with a letter of introduction to Mr. Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marry him."
"Where did Whyte live?"
"Down in St. Kilda, at the end of Grey Street."
"How do you know?"
"It was in the papers, and—and—" hesitatingly, "I called on him."
"Why?"
"To see if he would stop asking Madge to marry him, and to tell him that she was engaged to me."
"And what did he say?"
"Laughed at me. Curse him."
"You had high words, evidently?"
Brian laughed bitterly.
"Yes, we had."
"Did anyone hear you?"
"The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house."
"The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness."
"Very likely," indifferently.
"Did you say anything likely to criminate yourself!"
Fitzgerald turned away his head.
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "I spoke very wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what I said."
"Did you threaten him?"
"Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge."
"Ah! if the landlady can swear that she heard you say so, it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. As far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one—you must prove an alibi."
No answer.
"You say you did not come back and get into the cab?" said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.
"No, it was some one else dressed like me."
"And you have no idea who it was?"
"No, I have not."
"Then, after you left Whyte and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?"
"I can't tell you."
"Were you intoxicated?"
"No!" indignantly.
"Then you remember?"
"Yes."
"And where were you?"
"I can't tell you."
"You refuse?"
"Yes, I do."
"Take time to consider You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal."
"If necessary, I will pay it."
"And you won't tell me where you were?"
"No, I won't."
Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.
"You're very foolish," he said, "sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an alibi."
No answer.
"What time did you get home?"
"About two o'clock in the morning."
"Did you walk home?"
"Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Did you see anyone on your way home?"
"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention."
"Did anyone see you!"
"Not that I know of."
"Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o'clock on Friday morning?"
"Absolutely!"
Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.
"Do you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?"
Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.
"No! I did not know," he said, reluctantly.
The lawyer made a master stroke.
"Then why did you take them from him?"
"What! Had he it with him?"
Calton saw his advantage, and seized it at once.
"Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?"
"I did not take it—didn't even know he had it with him."
"Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what 'it' is?"
Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen.
"No! I will not," he answered steadily.
"Was it a jewel?"
"No."
"Was it an important paper?"
"I don't know."
"Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face. And was that paper of importance to you?"
"Why do you ask?"
Calton fixed his keen gray eyes steadily on Brian's face.
"Because," he answered slowly, "the man to whom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte."
Brian started up, ghastly pale.
"My God!" he almost shrieked, stretching out his hands, "it is true after all," and he fell down on the stone pavement in a dead faint.
Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and between them they placed him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. He recovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he was unfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside he stopped for a moment and looked back on the grim, gray walls."
"Brian Fitzgerald," he said to himself, "you did not commit the murder yourself, but you know who did."
CHAPTER XII.
SHE WAS A TRUE WOMAN.
Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been merely looked upon as a common murder, and one that society need take no cognizance of beyond the fact that it was something new to talk about. But now the affair was assuming gigantic proportions, since the assassin had been discovered to be one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished a viper in her bosom, which had turned unexpectedly and stung her. In Toorak drawing rooms and Melbourne clubs the matter was talked about morn, noon, and night, and Mrs. Grundy declared positively that she never heard of such a thing. Here was a young man, well born—"the Fitzgerald, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins"—well-bred—"most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking" and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne—"pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog." And this young man who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder; it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to, and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for, if men of Fitzgerald's calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing people? And then, of course, everybody kept asking everybody else who Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met Mr. Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of the insane questions which some people will ask. It was talked about everywhere—in fashionable drawing-rooms, at five o'clock tea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, over brandies and sodas and cigarettes; by workingmen over their midday pint, and by their wives in the congenial atmosphere of the back yard over the wash-tub. The papers were full of paragraphs about the famous murder, and the society papers gave an interview with the prisoner by their special reporters, which had been composed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumors which they heard around, and their own fertile imagination. In fact, one young man of literary tendencies had been so struck by the dramatic capabilities of the affair that he thought of writing a five-act drama on it—with a sensation scene of the hanging of Fitzgerald—and had an idea of offering it to Williamson for production at the Theatre Royal. But that astute manager refused to entertain the idea, with the dry remark that as the fifth act had not been played out in real life, he did not see how the dramatist could end it satisfactorily. As to the prisoner's guilt, every one was certain of that. The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the church caught the contagion, and ministers—Anglican, Roman Catholic and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immorality was their own particular church. "Gad," as Calton remarked after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own church as the one special vessel of safety, "there seems to be a whole fleet of arks!"
As to Mr. Felix Rolleston, it was a time of great joy to him, knowing as he did all the circumstances of the case, and the dramatis personæ. When any new evidence came to light, Rolleston was the first to know all about it, and would go round to his friends and relate it, with certain additions of his own, which rendered it more piquant and dramatic. But when asked his opinion as to the guilt of the accused, he would shake his head sagaciously, and hint that both he and his dear friend Calton—he knew Calton to nod to—could not make up their minds upon the matter.
"Fact is, don't you know," observed Mr. Rolleston, wisely, "there is more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing—think 'tective fellers wrong myself—don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly well sure he didn't."
Then, of course, after such an observation, a chorus chiefly feminine would arise: "Then who killed him?"
"Aha," Felix would retort, putting his head on one side, like a meditative sparrow; "'tective fellers can't find out; that's the difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove."
"But do you know anything of the detective business?" some one would ask.
"Oh, dear, yes," with an airy wave of his hand; "I've read Gaboreau, you know; awfully jolly life, 'tectives."
Mr. Rolleston, however, in spite of his asseverations, had no grounds for his belief that Fitzgerald was innocent, and in his heart of hearts thought him guilty. But then he was one of those people who, having either tender hearts or obstinate natures—more particularly the latter—always make a point of coming forward as champions of those in trouble with the world at large. There are, no doubt, many people who think that Nero was a pleasant young man, whose cruelties were merely an overflow of high spirits; and who regard Henry VIII. as a henpecked husband, who was unfortunate in having six wives. It is these kind of people who delight in sympathizing with great criminals of the Ned Kelly sort, and look upon them as embodiments of heroism, badly treated by the narrow understanding of the law. There is a proverb to the effect that the world kicks a man when he is down; but if one-half of the world does act in such a brutal manner, the other consoles the prostrate individual with half-pence. So, taking things as a whole, though the weight of public opinion was dead against the innocence of Fitzgerald, still he had his friends and sympathizers, who stood up for him and declared that he had been wrongly accused.
The opinions of these kindly individuals were told to Madge, and she was much comforted thereby. Other people thought him innocent, and she was firmly convinced that they were right. If the whole of Melbourne had unanimously condemned Brian she would have still believed in his innocence. But then women are so singularly illogical—the world may be against a man, but the woman who loves him will stand boldly forth as his champion. No matter how low, how vile a man may be, if a woman loves him she exalts him to the rank of a demi-god, and refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When all others forsake she clings to him, when all others frown she smiles on him, and when he dies she reverences his memory as that of a saint and a martyr. Young men of the present day are very fond of running down women, and think it a manly thing to sneer at them for their failings; but God help the man who, in time of trouble, has not a woman to stand by his side with cheering words and loving smiles to help him in the battle of life. And so Madge Frettlby, true woman as she was, had nailed her colors to the mast, and refused to surrender to any one, whatever arguments they brought against her. He was innocent, and his innocence would be proved, for she had an intuitive feeling that he would be saved at the eleventh hour. How, she knew not; but she was certain that it would be so. She would have gone and seen Brian in prison, but that her father absolutely forbade her doing so, and she was dependent upon Calton for all the news respecting him, and any message which she wished conveyed.
Calton was very much annoyed at Brian's persistent refusal to set up the defense of an alibi, and, as he felt sure that the young man could do so, he was anxious to find out the reason why he would not do so.
"If it's for the sake of a woman," he said to Brian, "I don't care who she is, it's absurdly Quixotic. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if my neck was in danger I'd spare neither man, woman nor child to save it."
"I dare say," answered Brian; "but if you had my reasons you might think differently."
In his own mind the lawyer had a theory which sufficiently accounted for Brian's refusal to answer for his doings on that night. Fitzgerald had admitted that he had an appointment on that night, and that it was with a woman. He was a handsome fellow, and probably his morals were no better than those of other young men, so Calton thought that Brian had some intrigue with a married woman, and had been with her on the night in question; hence his refusal to speak. If he did so her name would be brought into the matter; the outraged husband, whosoever he might be, would interpose, and the whole affair would probably end in the Divorce Court.
"It's better for him to lose his character than his life," argued Calton, "and that woman ought to speak—it would be hard on her, I admit, but when a man's neck is in danger she ought to risk anything rather than see him hanged."
Full of these perplexing thoughts, Calton went down to St. Kilda to have a talk with Madge over the matter, and also to see if she would help him to obtain the information he wanted. He had a great respect for Madge, knowing what a clever woman she was, and thought that, seeing Brian was so deeply in love with her, if she saw him about the matter he might be induced to confess everything.
The lawyer found Madge waiting anxiously to see him, and when he entered she sprang forward with a cry of delight.
"Oh, where have you been all this time?" she said, anxiously, as they sat down. "I have been counting every moment since I saw you last. How is he—my poor darling?"
"Just the same," answered Calton, taking off his gloves, "still obstinately refusing to save his own life. Where's your father?" he asked, suddenly.
"Out of town," she answered, impatiently. "He will not be back for a week—but what do you mean that he won't save his own life?"
Calton leaned forward, and took her hand.
"Do you want to save his life?" he asked.
"Save his life?" she reiterated, starting up out of her chair with a cry; "God knows, I would die to save him."
"Pish," murmured Calton to himself, as he looked at her glowing face and outstretched hands, "these women are always in extremes. The fact is," he said aloud, "Fitzgerald is able to prove an alibi, but he refuses.
"But why?"
Calton shrugged his shoulders.
"That is best known to himself—some Quixotic idea of honor, I fancy. Now, he refuses to tell me where he was on that night; perhaps he won't refuse to tell you—so you must come up and see him with me, and perhaps he will recover his senses, and confess."
"But my father," she faltered.
"Did you not say he was out of town?" asked Calton.
"Yes," hesitated Madge. "But he told me not to go."
"In that case," said Calton, rising and taking up his hat and gloves, "I won't ask you."
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Stop! will it do any good?"
Calton hesitated a moment, for he thought that if the reason of Brian's silence was, as he surmised, an intrigue with a married woman, he would certainly not tell the girl he was engaged to about it—but, on the other hand, there might be some other reason, and Calton trusted to Madge to find it out. With these thoughts in his mind he turned round.
"Yes," he answered, boldly, "it may save his life."
"Then I will go," she answered, recklessly. "He is more to me than my father, and if I can save him, I will. Wait," and she ran out of the room.
"An uncommonly plucky girl," murmured the lawyer, as he looked out of the window. "If Fitzgerald is not a fool he will certainly tell her all—that is, of course, if he is able to—queer things these women are—I quite agree with Balzac's saying that no wonder man couldn't understand woman, seeing that God who created her failed to do so."
Madge came back dressed to go out, with a heavy veil over her face.
"Shall I order the carriage?" she asked, pulling on her gloves with trembling fingers.
"Hardly," answered Calton dryly, "unless you want to see a paragraph in the society papers to the effect that Miss Madge Frettlby visited Mr. Fitzgerald in gaol. No—no—no—we'll get a cab. Come, my dear," and taking her arm he led her away.
They reached the station, and caught a train just as it started, yet notwithstanding this, Madge was in a fever of impatience.
"How slow it goes," she said, fretfully.
"Hush, my dear," said Calton, laying his hand on her arm. "You'll betray yourself—we'll arrive soon—and save him."
"Oh, God grant we may," she said, with a low cry, clasping her hands tightly together, while Calton could see the tears falling from under her thick veil.
"This is not the way to do," he said, almost roughly, "you'll go into hysterics soon—control yourself for his sake."
"For his sake," she muttered, and with a powerful effort of will, calmed herself. They soon arrived in Melbourne, and, getting a hansom, drove up quickly to the gaol. After going through the usual formula they entered the cell where Brian was, and, when the warder who accompanied them opened the door, found the young man seated on his bed, with his face buried in his hands. He looked up, and, on seeing Madge, rose and held out his hands with a cry of delight. She ran forward, and threw herself on his breast with a stifled sob. For a short time no one spoke—Calton being at the other end of the cell, busy with some notes which he had taken from his pocket, and the warder having retired.
"My poor darling," said Madge, stroking back the soft fair hair from his flushed forehead, "how ill you look."
"Yes!" answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh. "Prison does not improve a man—does it?
"Don't speak in that tone, Brian," she said; "it is not like you—let us sit down and talk calmly over the matter."
"I don't see what good that will do," he answered, wearily, as they sat down hand-in-hand. "I have talked about it to Calton till my head aches, and it is no good."
"Of course not," retorted the lawyer, sharply, as he also sat down. "Nor will it be any good until you come to your senses, and tell us where you were on that night."
"I tell you I cannot."
"Brian, dear," said Madge, softly, taking his hand, "you must tell all—for my sake."
Fitzgerald sighed—this was the hardest temptation he had yet been subjected to— he felt half inclined to yield, and chance the result—but one look at Madge's pure face steeled him against doing so. What could his confession bring but sorrow and regret to one whom he loved better than his life.
"Madge!" he answered, gravely, taking her hand again, "you do not know what you ask."
"Yes, I do!" she replied, quickly. "I ask you to save yourself—to prove that you are not guilty of this terrible crime, and not to sacrifice your life for the sake of——"
Here she stopped, and looked helplessly at Calton, for she had no idea of the reason of Fitzgerald's refusal to speak.
"For the sake of a woman," finished Calton, bluntly.
"A woman!" she faltered, still holding her lover's hand. "Is—is—is that the reason?"
Brian averted his face.
"Yes!" he said, in a low, rough voice.
A sharp expression of anguish crossed her pale face, and sinking her head on her hands, she wept bitterly. Brian looked at her in a dogged kind of way, and Calton stared grimly at them both.
"Look here," he said, at length, to Brian, in an angry voice; "if you want my opinion of your conduct, I think you're an infernal scoundrel—begging your pardon, my dear, for the expression. Here is this noble girl, who loves you with her whole heart, and is ready to sacrifice everything for your sake, come to implore you to save your life, and you coolly turn round, and acknowledge that you love another woman."
Brian lifted his head haughtily, and his face flushed.
"You are wrong," he said, turning round sharply; "there is the woman for whose sake I keep silence;" and, rising up from the bed, he pointed to Madge, as she sobbed bitterly on it.
She lifted up her haggard face with an air of surprise.
"For my sake!" she cried, in a startled voice.
"Oh, he's mad," said Calton, shrugging his shoulders; "I will put in a defence of insanity."
"No, I'm not mad," cried Fitzgerald, wildly, as he caught Madge in his arms. "My darling! My darling! It is for your sake that I keep silence, and will do so though my life pays the penalty. I could tell you where I was on that night and save myself; but if I did, you would learn a secret which would curse your life, and I dare not speak,—I dare not."
Madge looked up into his face with a pitiful smile as her tears fell fast.
"Dearest!" she said, softly. "Do not think of me, but only of yourself; better that I should endure misery than that you should die. I do not know what the secret can be, but if the telling of it will save your life, do not hesitate. See," she cried, falling on her knees, "I am at your feet—I implore you by all the love you ever had for me, save yourself, whatever the consequences may be to me."
"Madge," said Fitzgerald as he raised her in his arms, "at one time I might have done so, but now it is too late. There is another and stronger reason for my silence, which I have only found out since my arrest. I know that I am closing up the one way of escape from this charge of murder, of which I am innocent; but as there is a God in heaven, I swear that I will not speak."
There was a silence in the cell, only broken by Madge's convulsive sobs, and even Calton, cynical man of the world though he was, felt his eyes growing wet. Brian led Madge over to him, and placed her in his arms.
"Take her away," he said, in a broken voice, "or I shall forget I am a man;" and turning away he threw himself on his bed, and covered his face with his hands. Calton did not answer him, but summoned the warder, and tried to lead Madge away. But just as they reached the door she broke away from him, and, running back, flung herself on her lover's breast.
"My darling! My darling!" she sobbed, kissing him, "you shall not die. I will save you in spite of yourself;" and, as if afraid to trust herself any longer, she ran out of the cell, followed by the barrister.
CHAPTER XIII.
MADGE MAKES A DISCOVERY.
Madge stepped into the cab, and Calton paused a moment to tell the cabman to drive to the railway station, when she stopped him.
"Tell him to drive to Brian's lodgings in Powlett Street," she said, laying her hand on Calton's arm.
"What for?" asked the lawyer, in astonishment.
"And also to go past the Melbourne Club, as I want to stop there."
"What the deuce does she mean?" muttered Calton, as he gave the necessary orders and stepped into the cab.
"And now," he asked, looking at his companion, who had let down her veil, while the cab rattled quickly down the street, "what do you intend to do?"
She threw back her veil, and he was astonished to see the sudden change which had come over her. There were no tears now, and her eyes were hard and glittering, while her mouth was firmly closed. She looked like a woman who had determined to do a certain thing, and would carry out her intention at whatever cost.
"I am going to save Brian in spite of himself," she said, very distinctly.
"But how?"
"Ah, you think that, being a woman, I can do nothing," she said, bitterly. "Well, you shall see."
"I beg your pardon," retorted Calton, with a grim smile; "my opinion of your sex has always been an excellent one—every lawyer's is; stands to reason that it should be so, seeing that a woman is at the bottom of nine cases out of ten."
"The old cry."
"Nevertheless a true one," answered Calton. "Ever since the time of Father Adam it has been acknowledged that women influence the world, either for good or evil, more than men. But this is not the point," he went on, rather impatiently. "What do you propose to do? "
"Simply this," she answered. "In the first place, I may tell you that I do not understand Brian's statement that he keeps silence for my sake, as there are no secrets in my life that can justify him saying so, but the facts of the case are simply these: Brian, on the night in question, left our place, at St. Kilda, at eleven o'clock. He told me he would call at the Club to see if there were any letters for him, and then go straight home."
"But he might have said that merely as a blind."
Madge shook her head.
"No, I don't think so. I never asked him where he was going, and he told me quite spontaneously. I know Brian's character, and he would not go and tell a deliberate lie, especially when there was no necessity for it. I am quite certain that be intended to do as he said, and go straight home. When he got to the Club, he found a letter there, which caused him to alter his mind."
"But who did he receive the letter from?"
"Can't you guess," she said impatiently. "From the person, man or woman, who wanted to see him and reveal this secret about me, whatever it is. He got the letter at his Club, and went down Collins Street to meet the writer. At the corner of the Scotch Church he found Mr. Whyte, and on recognizing him, left in disgust, and walked down Russell Street to keep his appointment."
"Then you don't think he came back?"
"I am certain he did not, for, as Brian told you, there are plenty of young men who wear the same kind of coat and hat as he does. Who the second man who got into the cab was I do not know, but I will swear that it was not Brian."
"And you are going to look for that letter?"
"Yes, in Brian's Lodgings."
"He might have burnt it."
"He might have done a thousand things, but he did not," she answered. "Brian is the most careless man in the world; he would put the letter into his pocket, or throw it into the waste paper basket, and never think of it again."
"In this case he did, however."
"Yes, he thought of the conversation he had with the writer, but not of the letter itself. Depend upon it, we will find it in his desk, or in one of the pockets of the clothes he wore that night,"
"Then there's another thing," said Calton, thoughtfully. "The letter might have been delivered to him between the Elizabeth Street Railway Station and the Club."
"We can soon find out about that," answered Madge; "for Mr. Rolleston was with him at that time."
"So he was," answered Calton; "and here is Rolleston coming down the street. We'll ask him now."
The cab was just passing the Burke and Wills' Monument, and Calton's quick eye had caught a glimpse of Rolleston coming down the street on the left-hand side. What first attracted Calton's attention was the glittering appearance of Felix. His well-brushed top-hat glittered, his varnished boots glittered, and his diamond rings and scarf-pin glittered; in fact, so resplendent was his appearance that he looked like an animated diamond coming along in the blazing sunshine. The cab drove up to the curbing, and Rolleston stopped short, as Calton sprang out directly in front of him. Madge lay back in the cab and pulled down her veil, not wishing to be recognized by Felix, as she knew that if he did it would soon be all over town.
"Hallo! old chap," said Rolleston, in considerable astonishment. "Where did you spring from?"
"From the cab, of course," answered Calton, with a laugh.
"A kind of Deus ex machina," replied Rolleston, attempting a bad pun.
"Exactly," said Calton. "Look here, Rolleston, do you remember the night of Whyte's murder—you met Fitzgerald at the railway station."
"In the train," corrected Felix.
"Well, well, no matter; you came up with him to the Club?"
"Yes, and left him there."
"Did you notice if he received any message while he was with you?"
"Any message?" repeated Felix. "No, he did not; we were talking together the whole time, and he spoke to no one but me."
"Was he in good spirits?"
"Excellent—made me laugh awfully; but why all this thusness?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Calton, getting back into the cab. "I wanted a little information from you; I'll explain next time I see you! Good bye."
"But I say," began Felix, but the cab had already rattled away; so Mr. Rolleston turned angrily away.
"I never saw anything like these lawyers," he said to himself. "Calton's a perfect whirlwind, by Jove."
Meanwhile Calton was talking to Madge.
"You were right," he said, "there must have been a message for him at the Club, for he got none from the time he left your place."
"And what shall we do now?" asked Madge, who, having heard all the conversation, did not trouble about questioning the lawyer about it.
"Find out at the Club if any letter was waiting for him on that night," said Calton, as the cab stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. "Here we are," and with a hasty word to Madge, he ran up the steps.
He went to the office of the Club to find out if any letters had been waiting for Fitzgerald, and found there a waiter with whom he was pretty well acquainted.
"Look here. Brown," said the lawyer, "do you remember on that Thursday night when the hansom cab murder took place if any letters were waiting here for Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Well, really, sir," hesitated Brown, "it's so long ago that I almost forget."
Calton gave him a sovereign.
"Oh! it's not that, Mr. Calton," said the waiter, pocketing the coin, nevertheless. "But I really do forget."
"Try and remember," said Calton, shortly.
Brown made a tremendous effort of memory, and at last gave a satisfactory answer.
"No, sir, there were none!"
"Are you sure?" said Calton, feeling a thrill of disappointment.
"Quite sure, sir," replied the other, confidently, "I went to the letter rack several times that night, and I am sure there was none for Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Ah! I thought as much," said Calton, heaving a sigh.
"Stop!" said Brown, as though struck with a sudden idea. "Though there was no letter came by post, sir, there was one brought to him on that night."
"Ah!" said Calton, turning sharply. "At what time?"
"Just before twelve o'clock, sir."
"Who brought it?"
"A young woman, sir," said Brown, in a tone of disgust.
"A bold thing, beggin' your pardon, sir; and no better than she could be. She bounded in at the door as bold as brass, and sings out, 'Is he in?' 'Get out,' I says, 'or I'll call the perlice.' 'Oh no, you won't,' says she, 'You'll give him that,' and she shoves a letter in my hands. 'Who's him?' I asks. 'I dunno,' she answers. 'It's written there, and I can't read; give it him at once.' And then she clears out before I could stop her."
"And the letter was for Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Yes, sir; and a precious dirty letter it was, too."
"You gave it to him, of course!"
"I did, sir. He was playing cards, and he put it in his pocket, after having looked at the outside of it, and went on with his game."
"Didn't he open it?"
"Not then, sir; but he did later on, about a quarter to one o'clock. I was in the room, and he opens it and reads it. Then he says to himself, ' What d——d impertinence,' and puts it into his pocket."
"Wasn't he disturbed?"
"Well, sir, he looked angry like, and put his coat and hat on, and walked out about five minutes to one."
"Ah! and he met Whyte at one," muttered Calton, "There's no doubt about it. The letter was an appointment, and he was going to keep it. What kind of a letter was it?" he asked.
"Very dirty, sir, in a square envelope; but the paper was good, and so was the writing."
"That will do," said Calton; "I am much obliged to you," and he hurried down to where Madge awaited him in the cab.
"You were right," he said to her, when the cab was once more in motion. "He got a letter on that night, and went to keep his appointment at the time he met Whyte."
"I knew it," cried Madge with delight. "You see, we will find it in his lodgings."
"I hope so," answered Calton; "but we must not be top sanguine; he may have destroyed it,"
"No, he has not," she replied. "I am convinced it is there."
"Well," answered Calton, looking at her, "I won't contradict you, for your feminine instincts have done more to discover the truth than my reasonings; but that is often the case with women—they jump in the dark where a man would hesitate, and in nine cases out of ten land safely."
"Alas for the tenth!" said Miss Frettlby. "She has to be the one exception to prove the rule."
She had in a great measure recovered her spirits, and seemed confident that she would save her lover. But Mr. Calton saw that her nerves were strung up to the highest pitch, and that it was only her strong will that kept her from breaking down altogether.
"By Jove," he muttered, in an admiring tone, as he watched her. "She's a plucky girl, and Fitzgerald is a lucky man to have a woman like that in love with him."
They soon arrived at Brian's lodgings, and the door was opened by Mrs. Sampson, who looked very disconsolate indeed. The poor cricket had been blaming herself severely for the information she had given to the false insurance agent, and the floods of tears which she had wept had apparently had an effect on her physical condition, for she crackled less loudly than usual though her voice was as shrill as ever.
"That sich a thing should 'ave 'appened to 'im," she wailed, in her thin high voice. "An' me that proud of 'im, not 'avin any family of my own, except one as died and went up to 'eaving arter 'is father, which I 'opes as they both are now angels, an' frienly, as 'is nature 'ad not developed in this valley of the shadder to determine 'is feelin's towards 'is father when 'e died, bein' carried of by a chill, caused by the change from 'ot to cold, the weather bein' that contrary."
They had arrived in Brian's sitting-room by this time, and Madge sank into a chair, while Calton, anxious to begin the search, hinted to Mrs. Sampson that she could go.
"I'm departin', sir," piped the cricket, with a sad shake of her head, as she opened the door; "knowin', as I do, as 'e's as innocent as an unborn babe, an' to think of me 'avin' told that 'orrid pusson who 'ad no regard for the truth all about 'im as is now in a cold cell, not as what the weather ain't warm, an' 'e won't want a fire as long as they allows 'im blankets."
"What did you tell him?" asked Calton, sharply.
"Ah! you may well say that," lamented Mrs. Sampson, rolling her dingy handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes, which had quite a bacchanalian look about them, though, poor soul, it was owing to grief, and not to liquor. "'Avin' been beguiled by that serping in light clothes as wanted to know if 'e allays come 'ome afore twelve, which I said 'e was in the 'abit of doin', tho,' to be sure, 'e did sometimes use 'is latch-key."
"The night of the murder for instance."
"Oh! don't say that, sir," said Mrs. Sampson, with a terrified cackle. "Me bein' weak an' ailin' tho' comin' of a strong family, as allays lived to a good age, thro' bein' in the 'abit of wearin' flannels, which my mother's father thought better nor a-spilin the inside with chemistry."
"Clever man, that detective," muttered Calton to himself. "He got out of her by strategy what he never would have done by force. It's a strong piece of evidence against Fitzgerald, but it does not matter much if he can prove an alibi. You'll likely be called as a witness for the prosecution," he said aloud.
"Me, sir!" squeaked Mrs. Sampson, trembling violently, and thereby producing a subdued rustle, as of wind in the trees. "As I've never bin in the court, 'cept the time as father took me for a treat, to 'ear a murder, which there's no denying is as good as a play, 'e bein' hung, 'avin' 'it 'is wife over the head with the poker when she weren't lookin', and a berryin' 'er corpse in a back garding, without even a stone to mark the place, let alone a line from the Psalms and a renumeration of 'er virtues."
"Well, well," said Calton, rather impatiently, as he opened the door for her. "Leave us for a short time, there's a good soul; Miss Frettlby and I want to have a rest, and we will ring for you when we are going."
"Thank you, sir," said the lachrymose landlady, "an' I 'opes they won't 'ang 'im, which is sich a choky way of dyin'; but in life we are in death," she went on, rather incoherently, "as is well known to them as 'as diseases, an' may be corpsed at any minute, and as——"
Here Calton, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, shut the door, and they heard Mrs. Sampson's shrill voice and subdued cracklings die away in the distance.
"Now then," he said, "now that we have got rid of that woman and her tongue, where are we to begin?"
"The desk," replied Madge, going over to it; "it's the most likely place."
"Don't think so," said Calton, shaking his head. "If, as you say, Fitzgerald is a careless man, he would not have troubled to put it there. However, perhaps we'd better look."
The desk was very untidy ("Just like Brain," as Madge remarked)—full of paid and unpaid bills, old letters, playbills, ball-programmes, and several withered flowers. "Reminiscences of former flirtations," said Calton with a laugh, pointing to these.
"I should not wonder," retorted Miss Frettlby, coolly. "Brian always was in love, with some one or other; but you know what Lytton says—'There are many counterfeits, but only one Eros;' so I can afford to forget these things."
The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was it in the sitting-room; they tried the bedroom, but with no better result; so Madge was nearly giving up the search in despair, when Calton's eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which, by some unaccountable reason, they had overlooked in their search. The basket was half full, in fact, more than half, and, on looking at it, a sudden thought struck the lawyer. He rang the bell, and presently Mrs. Sampson made her appearance.
"How long has that waste-paper basket been standing like that?" he asked, pointing to it.
"It bein' the only fault I 'ad to find with 'im," said Mrs. Sampson, "'e bein' that untidy that 'e never let me clean it out until 'e told me pussonly. 'E said as 'ow 'e throwed things into it as 'e might 'ave to look up again; an' I 'aven't touched it for more nor six weeks, 'opin' you won't think me a bad 'ousekeeper, it bein' 'is own wish—bein' fond of litter an' sich like."
"Six weeks," repeated Calton, with a look at Madge.
"Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago. Depend upon it, we shall find it there."
Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basket out on the floor, and both she and Calton were soon as busy among the fragments of paper as though they were rag-pickers.
"'Opin' they ain't orf their 'eads," murmured Mrs. Sampson, as she went to the door, "but it looks like it, they bein'—
Suddenly a cry broke from Madge, as she drew out of the mass of paper a half-burnt letter, written on thick and creamy-looking paper.
"At last," she cried, rising off her knees, and smoothing it out, "I knew he had not destroyed it."
"Pretty nearly, however," said Calton, as his eye glanced rapidly over it; "it's almost useless as it is, seeing there's no name to it."
He took it over to the window and spread it out upon the table. It was dirty, and half burnt, but still it was a clue. The above is fac simile of the letter.
"There's not much to be gained from that, I'm afraid," said Madge, sadly. "It shows he had an appointment—but where?"
Calton did not answer, but leaning his head on his hands, stared hard at the paper. At last he jumped up with a cry—
"I have it," he said, in an excited tone. "Look at that paper; see how creamy and white it is, and, above all, look at the printing in the corner—'ot villa, toorak.'"
"Then he went down to Toorak?"
"In an hour, and back again—hardly."
"Then it was not written from Toorak?"
"No, it was written in one of the Melbourne back slums."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the girl who brought it," said Calton, quickly. "A disreputable woman, one far more likely to come from the back slums than Toorak. As to the paper, three months ago there was a robbery at Toorak, and this is some of the paper that was stolen by the thieves."
Madge said nothing, but her sparkling eyes and nervous trembling of the hands showed her excitement.
"I will see a detective this evening," said Calton, exultingly, "find out where this letter came from, and go and see who wrote it. We'll save him yet," he said, placing the precious letter carefully in his pocket-book.
"You think that you will be able to find the woman who wrote that?"
"Hum," said the lawyer, looking thoughtful, "she may be dead, as the letter says she is in a dying condition. However, if I can find the woman who delivered the letter at the Club, and who waited for Fitzgerald at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, that will be sufficient. All I want to prove is that he was not in the hansom cab with Whyte.
"And do you think you can do that?"
"Depends upon this letter," said Calton, enigmatically, tapping his pocket-book with his finger. "I'll tell you to-morrow."
Shortly afterwards they left the house, and when Calton put Madge safely into the St. Kilda train, her heart felt lighter than it had done since Fitzgerald's arrest.
CHAPTER XIV.
ANOTHER RICHMOND IN THE FIELD.
There is an old adage that "like draws to like," and the antithesis of this would probably be that unlike keeps as far away from unlike as it possibly can. Sometimes, however, Fate, who seems to take malignant pleasure in worrying humanity, throws them together, and the result is an eternal conflict between the uncongenial elements. Mr. Gorby was a very clever detective, and got on well with every one with the exception of Kilsip. The latter, on the other hand, was equally as clever in his own way, and was a favorite with everyone but Gorby. One was fire and the other water, so when they came together there was sure to be trouble. Kilsip, in his outward appearance, was quite different from Gorby, being tall and slender, whereas the other was short and stout. Kilsip was dark and clever-looking, Gorby was not, his face wearing a complacent and satisfied smile, which one would not expect to find on the features of a man who was looked upon as a clever detective. But it was this very smile that was Mr. Gorby's greatest aid in getting information, as people were more ready to tell a kindly and apparently simple man like him all they knew than a sharp-looking fellow like Kilsip, whose ears and eyes seemed always on the alert. The hearts of all went forth to Gorby's sweet smile and insinuating manner, but when Kilsip appeared every one shut up like an oyster, and each retired promptly into his or her shell like an alarmed snail. The face is not always the index of the mind, in spite of the saying to that effect, and the student of Lavater is not invariably right in his readings of character by means of the features. The only thing sharp about Mr. Gorby's appearance was his keen little gray eyes, which he knew how to use so well, and a glance from which startled any unsuspecting person who had been beguiled by the complacent smile and sweet manner. Kilsip, on the contrary, had one of those hawklike faces which always seem seeking for prey, with brilliant black eyes, hooked nose, and small, thin-lipped mouth. His complexion was quite colorless, and his hair jet black, so that with his tall, slender figure and snake-like movements he was hardly a pleasant object to look upon. He also possessed in a great measure the craft and cunning of the snake, and as long as he conducted his movements in secret was successful, but once he appeared personally on the scene his strange looks seemed to warn people that they might be too communicative. So, taking things all around, although Kilsip was the more clever of the two, yet Gorby, owing to his physical advantages, was the most successful. They each had their followers and admirers, but both men cordially detested one another, seldom meeting without a quarrel. When Gorby, therefore, had the hansom cab murder case put into his hands, the soul of Kilsip was smitten with envy, and when Fitzgerald was arrested, and all the evidence collected by Gorby seemed to point so conclusively to his guilt, Kilsip writhed in secret over the triumph of his enemy. Though he would only have been too glad to have said Gorby had got hold of the wrong man, yet the evidence was so conclusive that such a thought had never entered his head until he received a note from Mr. Calton, asking him to call at his ofBce that evening at eight o'clock, with reference to the hansom cab murder. Kilsip knew that Calton was counsel for the prisoner, and instantly guessed that a clue had been discovered, which he was wanted to follow up, and which might prove the prisoner's innocence. Full of this idea, he had determined to devote himself, heart and soul, to whatever Calton wanted him to do, and if he only could prove Gorby wrong, what a triumph it would be. He was so pleased with the possibility of such a thing that, accidentally meeting his rival, he asked him to have a glass. As such a thing had not occurred before, Gorby was somewhat suspicious of such sudden hospitality, but as he flattered himself that he was more than a match for Kilsip, doth mentally and physically, he accepted the invitation.
"Ah!" said Kilsip, in his soft, low voice, rubbing his lean white hands together, as they sat over their drinks; "you are a lucky man to have laid your hands on that hansom cab murderer so quickly."
"Yes; I flatter myself I did manage it pretty well," said Gorby, lighting his pipe. "I had no idea that it would be so simple—though, mind you, it required a lot of thought before I got a proper start."
"I suppose you're pretty sure he's the man you want?" pursued Kilsip, softly, with a brilliant flash of his black eyes.
"Pretty sure, indeed!" retorted Mr. Gorby, scornfully, "there ain't no pretty sure about it. I'd take my Bible oath he's the man. He and Whyte hated one another. He says to Whyte, 'I'll kill you if I've got to do it in the open street.' He meets Whyte drunk, a fact which he acknowledges himself; he clears out, and the cabman swears he comes back; then he gets into the cab with a living man, and when he comes out leaves a dead one; he drives to East Melbourne and gets into the house at a time which his landlady can prove—just the time that a cab would take to drive from the Grammar School on the St. Kilda Road. If you ain't a fool, Kilsip, you'll see as there's no doubt about it."
"It looks all square enough," said Kilsip, who wondered what evidence Calton should have found to contradict such a plain statement. "And what's his defence?"
"Mr Calton is the only man as knows that," answered Gorby, finishing his drink; "but, clever and all as he is, he can't put anything in that can go against my evidence."
"Don't you be too sure of that," sneered Kilsip, whose soul was devoured with envy.
"Oh! but I am," retorted Gorby, getting as red as a turkey-cock at the sneer. "You're jealous, you are, because you haven't got a finger in the pie!"
"Ah! but I may have yet."
"Going a-hunting yourself, are you?" said Gorby, with an indignant snort. "A-hunting for what—for a man as is already caught?"
"I don't believe you've got the right man," remarked Kilsip, deliberately.
Mr. Gorby looked upon him with a smile of pity.
"No! of course you don't, just because I've caught him; perhaps, when you see him hanged, you'll believe it then?"
"You're a smart man, you are," retorted Kilsip; "but you ain't the Pope to be infallible."
"And what grounds have you for saying he's not the right man?" demanded Gorby.
Kilsip smiled, and stole softly across the room like a cat.
"I'm not going to tell you all I know, but you ain't so safe nor clever as you think," and with another irritating smile, he went out.
Mr. Gorby started after him in indignant surprise. The fact is, Kilsip had believed firmly that Fitzgerald was the right man, but a doubt having been put into his mind by Calton, he thought he would irritate Gorby by these insinuations, though he himself knew nothing that could justify them.
"He's a cat and a snake," said Gorby to himself, when the door was closed on his brother detective; "but it's only brag; there isn't a link missing in the chain of evidence against Fitzgerald, so I defy him to do his worst."
At eight o'clock on that night the soft-footed and soft-voiced detective presented himself at Calton's office, and found the lawyer impatiently waiting for him. Kilsip closed the door softly, and then taking a seat opposite to Calton, waited for him to speak. The lawyer, however, first handed him a cigar, and then producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses from some mysterious recess, he filled one and pushed it toward the detective. Kilsip accepted these little attentions with the utmost gravity, yet they were not without their effect on him, as the keen-eyed lawyer saw. Calton was a great believer in diplomacy, and never lost an opportunity of inculcating it into young men starting in life. "Diplomacy," said Calton to one young aspirant for legal honors, "is the oil we cast on the troubled waters of social, professional and political life; and if you can, by a little tact, manage mankind, you are pretty certain to get on in this world." Of course, he practiced what he preached, and knowing that Kilsip had that feline nature which likes to be stroked and made much of, he paid him these little attentions, which he well knew would make the detective willing to do everything in his power to help him. Calton also knew the dislike that Kilsip entertained for Gorby, and so, by dextrous management, he calculated upon twisting him, clever as he was, round his finger, and, as subsequent events showed, he had not reckoned wrongly. Having thus got into a sympathetic frame of mind, and in a humor to bend his best energies to the work he wanted him to do, Calton started the conversation.
"I suppose," he said, leaning back in his chair, and watching the wreaths of blue smoke curling from his cigar, "I suppose you know all the ins and outs of the hansom cab murder?"
"I should rather think so," said Kilsip, with a curious light in his queer eyes. "Why, Gorby does nothing but brag about it, and his smartness in catching the supposed murderer!"
"Aha!" said Calton, leaning forward, and putting his arms on the table. "Supposed murderer. Eh! Does that mean that he hasn't been convicted by a jury, or do you think Fitzgerald is innocent?"
Kilsip stared hard at the lawyer, in a vague kind of way, slowly rubbing his hands together.
"Well," he said at length, in a deliberate manner, "before I got your note, I was convinced Gorby had got hold of the right man, but when I heard that you wanted to see me, and knowing that you are defending the prissoner, I guessed that you must have found something in his favor which you want me to look after."
"Right!" said Calton, laconically.
"As Mr. Fitzgerald said he met Whyte at the corner and hailed the cab——" went on the detective.
"How do you know that?" interrupted Calton, sharply.
"Gorby told me."
"How the devil did he find out?" cried the lawyer, with genuine surprise.
"Because he is always poking and prying about," said Kilsip, forgetting, in his indignation, that such poking and prying formed part of detective business. "But at any rate," he went on quickly, "if Mr. Fitzgerald did leave Mr. Whyte, the only chance he's got of proving his innocence is that he did not come back, as the cabman alleged."
"Then, I suppose, you think, that Fitzgerald will prove an alibi," said Calton.
"Well, sir," answered Kilsip, modestly, of course you know more about the case than I do, but that is the only defence I can see he can make."
"Well, he's not going to put in such a defence."
"Then he must be guilty," said Kilsip, promptly.
"Not necessarily," returned the barrister, dryly.
"But if he wants to save his neck, he'll have to prove an alibi" persisted the other.
"That's just where the point is," answered Calton. "He doesn't want to save his neck."
Kilsip, looking rather bewildered, took a sip of wine, and waited to hear what Mr. Calton had to say on the subject.
"The fact is," said Calton, lighting a fresh cigar, "he's got some extraordinary idea in his head about keeping where he was that night a secret."
"I understand," said Kilsip, gravely nodding his head. "Women!"
"Nothing of the sort," retorted Calton, hastily. "That's what I thought at first, but I was wrong; he went to see a dying woman who wanted to tell him something."
"What about?"
"That's just what I can't tell you," answered Calton, quickly. "It must have been something important, for she sent for him in great haste—and he was by her bedside between the hours of one and two on Friday morning."
"Then he did not return to the cab?"
"No, he did not; he went to keep his appointment, but, for some reason or another, won't tell where this appointment was. I went to his rooms to-day and found this half-burnt letter, asking him to come."
Calton handed the letter to Kilsip, who placed it on the table and examined it carefully.
"This was written on Thursday," said the detective.
"Of course—you can see that from the date; and Whyte was murdered on Friday, the 27th."
"It was written at something Villa, Toorak," pursued Kilsip, still examining the paper. "Oh! I understand, he went down there."
"Hardly," retorted Calton, in a sarcastic tone. "He couldn't very well go down there, have an interview and be back in East Melbourne in one hour—the cabman Royston can prove that he was at Russell Street at one o'clock, and his landlady that he entered his lodging in East Melbourne at two— no, he wasn't at Toorak."
"When was this letter delivered?"
"Shortly before twelve o'clock, at the Melbourne Club, by a girl, who, from what the waiter saw of her, appears to be a disreputable individual—you will see it says bearer will wait him at Bourke Street, and as another street is mentioned, and as Fitzgerald, after leaving Whyte, went down Russell Street to keep his appointment, the most logical conclusion is that the bearer of the letter waited for him at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. Now," went on the lawyer, "I want to find out who the girl that brought the letter is?"
"But how!"
"God bless my soul, Kilsip! How stupid you are," cried Calton, his irritation getting the better of diplomacy. "Can't you understand—that paper came from one of the back slums—therefore it must have been stolen."
A sudden light flashed into Kilsip's eyes.
"Talbot Villa, Toorak," he cried quickly, snatching up the letter again, and examining it with great attention, "where that burglary took place."
"Exactly," said Calton, smiling complacently. "Now do you understand what I want—you must take me to the crib in the back slums where the articles stolen from the house in Toorak were hidden. This paper"—pointing to the letter—"is part of the swag left behind, and must have been used by someone there. Brian Fitzgerald obeyed the directions given in the letter, and he was there at the time of the murder."
"I understand," said Kilsip, with a gratified purr. "There were four men engaged in that burglary, and they hid the swag at Mother Guttersnipe's crib, in a lane off Little Bourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr. Fitzgerald, in evening dress, couldn't very well have gone down there unless——"
"He had some one with him well known in the locality," finished Calton, rapidly. "Exactly, that woman who delivered the letter at the Club guided him. Judging from the waiter's description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums."
"Well," said Kilsip, rising and looking at his watch, "it is now nine o'clock, so if you like we will go to the old hag's place at once—dying woman," he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, "there was a woman died there about four weeks ago."
"Who was she?" asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.
"Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe's, I fancy," answered Kilsip, as they left the office. "I don't know exactly what she was—she was called the 'Queen,' and a precious handsome woman she must have been—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England; died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder."
"Then she must have been the woman who wrote the letter."
"No doubt of it," replied Kilsip; "but if Fitzgerald was there on that night, we can get plenty of witnesses to prove an alibi. I am sure of two at least, Mother Guttersnipe and her granddaughter, Sal."
But Mr. Calton was not listening—as he stepped along beside his companion, he was thinking—
"What on earth could a woman just from England, living in a Melbourne back slum, have to tell Fitzgerald about Madge Frettlby?"
CHAPTER XV.
A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE.
Bourke Street is always more crowded than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres are there, and of course there is invariably a large crowd collected under the electric lights. Fashion does not come out after dark to walk about the streets, but prefers to roll along in her carriage; therefore the block in Bourke Street at night is slightly different from that of Collins Street in the day. The restless crowd which jostles and pushes along the pavements is grimy in the main, but the griminess is lightened in many places by the presence of the ladies of the demi-monde, who flaunt about in gorgeous robes of the brightest colors. These gay-plumaged birds of ill-omen collect at the corners of the streets, and converse loudly with their male acquaintances till desired by some white-helmeted policemen to move on, which they do, after a good deal of unnecessary chatter. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, who lean against the walls criticizing the crowd, and waiting till some of their friends ask them to have a glass—a request they obey with suspicious alacrity. Further on, a crowd' of horsy-looking men are standing under the Opera House verandah, and one hears nothing but sporting talk about the cup, and odds being given and taken on the cracks of the day. Then here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, "'Erald, third 'dition, one penny!" until the ear wearies of the constant repetition. Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club—there a dingy looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which straggles blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement, a band, consisting of three violins and a harp, is stationed, which is playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators. If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music, their fondness for which is only equalled by their admiration for horse-racing. Any street band which plays at all decently, may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their playing. Some writer has described Melbourne as Glasgow, with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon. In spite of the dismal prognostications of Marcus Clark regarding the future Australian, whom he describes as being "a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship," it is more likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarian principles. Climatic influence should be taken into account with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will be no more like us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands of the Adriatic.
This was the conclusion Mr. Calton arrived at as he followed his guide through the crowded streets, and saw with what deep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling melodies of Offeenbach. The brilliantly lit street, with the never-ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles and the fitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character constantly passing before his eyes. But his guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the narrowness of the street, with the high buildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas lamps, and the few ragged-looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene they had just left. Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane, which felt like a furnace, owing to the heat of the night; but on looking up, Calton caught a glimpse of the blue sky far above, glittering with stars, which gave him quite a sensation of coolness.
"Keep close to me," whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the arm; "we may meet some nasty customers about here."
Mr. Calton, however, did not need such a warning, for the neighborhood through which they were passing was so like that of the Seven Dials in London, that he kept as closely to the side of his guide as did Dante to that of Virgil in the Infernal Regions. It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of haze so observable in Australian twilight, and this weird light was just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and the barrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring upon them unawares, and they could see sometimes on the one side, a man cowering back into the black shadow, or, on the other, a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a breath of fresh air. There were also some children playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill young voices came echoing strangely through the gloom, mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song a man was singing, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones. Now and then a mild looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad in their dull hued blue blouses, either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy on their yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm light through an open door, and within, the Mongolians were gathered round the gambling tables, playing fan-tan, or else leaving the seductions of their favorite pastime and gliding soft-footed to the many cook-shops, where enticing looking fowls and turkeys already cooked were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip, turning to the left, led the barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in them.
"It is like walking in the valley of the shadow of death," he muttered to himself, as they brushed past a woman who was crouching down in a dark corner, and who looked up at them with an evil scowl on her white face. And, indeed, it was not unlike the description in Bunyan's famous allegory; what, with the semi-darkness, the wild lights and shadows, and the vague undefinable forms of men and women flitting to and fro in the dusky twilight.
At last, to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow. Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark, ill smelling passage, at the end of which they saw a faint light. Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along the passage. There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just as they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete darkness.
"Light that," cried the detective in a peremptory tone of voice. "What do you mean by dowsing the glim?"
Thieves' argot was, evidently, well understood here, for there was a shuffle in the dark, a muttered voice, and then some one lit the candle with a match. This time Calton saw the light was held by an elfish-looking child, with a scowling white face, and tangled masses of black hair, which hung over her eyes. She was crouching down on the floor, against the damp wall, and looked up at the detective defiantly, yet with a certain fear in her eyes, as though she were a wild animal, cowed against her will.
"Where's Mother Guttersnipe?" asked the detective sharply, touching her with his foot, an indignity she resented with a malignant glance, and arose quickly to her feet.
"Upstairs," she replied, jerking her head in the direction of the right wall, in which Calton, his eyes being more accustomed to the flickering light of the candle, could see a gaping black chasm, which he presumed was the stair alluded to. "You won't get much out of her to-night she's a-goin' to start 'er booze, she is."
"Never mind what she's doing," said Kilsip, sharply, "take me to her at once."
The girl gave him a sullen look, and with reluctant feet led the way into the black chasm and up the stairs, which were so shaky that Calton was in terror lest they should be precipitated into unknown depths. He held on firmly to his companion's arm, as they toiled slowly up the broken steps, and at last stopped at a door, through the cracks of which a faint glimmer of light could be seen. Here the girl gave a shrill whistle, and the door opened as if by magic. Still preceded by their elfish guide, Calton and the detective stepped through the doorway, and a curious scene was presented to their view. It was a small, square room, with a low roof, from which the paper, mildewed and torn, hung in tatters; on the left hand, at the far end, was a kind of low stretcher, upon which a woman, almost naked, was lying, amid a heap of frowsy greasy clothes. She appeared to be ill, for she kept her head tossing from side to side restlessly, and every now and then she sang snatches of old songs in a shrill, cracked voice. In the center of the room was a rough deal-table, upon which stood a guttering tallow candle, which but faintly illuminated the scene, and a half-empty, square bottle of schnapps, with a broken cup beside it. In front of these signs of festivity sat an old woman with a pack of cards spread out before her, and from which she had evidently been telling the fortune of a villainous-looking young man who had opened the door, and who stood looking at the detective with no very friendly expression of countenance. He was dressed in a greasy brown velvet coat, much patched, and a black wide-awake hat, which was pulled down over his eyes. He looked like one of those Italians who retail icecream on the street, or carry round organs with monkeys on them, and his expression was so scowling and vindictive that the barrister thought it was not very hard to tell his ultimate destiny—Pentridge, or the gallows.
As they entered, the fortune-teller raised her head, and, shading her eye with one skinny hand, looked curiously at the new comers. Calton thought he had never seen such a repulsive looking old crone; and, indeed, she was worthy of the pencil of Dore to depict, such was the grotesque ugliness which she exhibited. Her face was seamed and lined with innumerable wrinkles, clearly defined by the dirt which was in them; bushy gray eyebrows, drawn frowningly over two piercing black eyes, whose light was undimmed by age; a hook nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and a thin-lipped mouth, with two long yellow tusks sticking out like those of a wild boar. Her hair was very luxurious and almost white, and was tied up in a great bunch by a greasy bit of black ribbon. As to her chin, Calton, when he saw it wagging to and fro, involuntarily quoted Macbeth's lines about the witches—
"Ye should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That ye are so."
And, indeed, she was no bad representative of the weird sisters.
This lady looked viciously at them when they entered, and demanded sulkily—"What the 'ell they wanted?"
"Want your booze," cried the child, with an elfish laugh, as she shook back her tangled hair.
"Get out, you whelp," croaked the old hag, shaking one skinny fist at her, "or I'll tear your heart out, cuss you."
"Yes, she can go," said Kilsip, nodding to the girl, "and you can clear, too," he added, sharply, turning to the young man, who still stood holding the door open. At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective's order, but ultimately obeyed him, muttering as he went out, something about "the bloomin' cheek of showin' swells cove's cribs." The child followed him out, her exit being accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a rapidity only attained by long practice, seized the shoe off one of her feet, and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.
"Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer," she shrieked, with a volley of curses, "I'll break yer 'ead, blarst ye!"
Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanished through the shaky door, which she closed after her.
When she had disappeared. Mother Guttersnipe took a drink out of the broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in a business-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with a suggestive leer.
"It's the future ye want unveiled, dearie?" she croaked, rapidly shuffling the cards; "an' old mother 'ud tell——"
"No she won't," interrupted the detective, sharply. "I've come on business."
The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her bushy eyebrows.
"What 'av the boys been up to now?" she asked harshly. "There ain't no swag 'ere this time, blarst ye."
Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of Barbara Allen—
"Oh, mither, mither, mak' my bed,
An' mak' it saft an' narrow;
Since my true love died for me to-day,
I'll die for him to-morrow."
"Shut up, cuss you!" yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, "or I'll knock yer bloomin' 'ead orf," and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.
"The woman seems ill," said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the stretcher.
"So she are!" growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily. "She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin' 'ere, an' singin' them beastly things, which makes my blood run cold. Just 'ear 'er," she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more—
"Oh, little did my mither think,
When first she cradled me,
I'd die sa far away fra' home,
Upon the gallows tree."
"Yah!" said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the cup. "She's allays a-talkin' of dyin' an' gallers, as if they were nice things to jawr about."
"Who was the woman who died here three or four weeks ago?" asked Kilsip, sharply.
"'Ow the 'ell should I know," retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly. "I didn't kill 'er, did I? It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin', cuss 'er."
"Do you remember the night she died?"
"No, I don't," answered the beldame, frankly. "I were drunk—blind, bloomin', blazin' drunk—s'elp me G—."
"You're always drunk," said Kilsip.
"What if I am?" snarled the woman, seizing her bottle. "You don't pay fur it. Yes, I'm drunk. I'm allays drunk, I was drunk last night, an' the night before, an' I'm a-goin' to git drunk to-night"—with an impressive look at the bottle—"an' to-morrow night, an' I'll keep it up till I'm rottin' in the grave, blarst an' cuss ye."
Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed malignity was her voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.
"More fool you," he said, briefly. "Come now, on the night the 'Queen,' as you called her, died, there was a gentleman came to see her?"
"So she said," retorted Mother Guttersnipe; "but lor', I dunno anythin', I were drunk."
"Who said— the 'Queen?'"
"No, my gran'darter, Sal. The 'Queen' sent 'er to fetch the toff to see 'er cut 'er lucky. Wanted 'im to look at 'is work I s'pose, cuss 'im; and Sal prigged some paper from my box," she shrieked, indignantly; "prigged it w'en I were too drunk to stop 'er."
The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with a gratified expression on his face. They were right as to the paper having been stolen from the Villa at Toorak.
"You did not see the gentleman who came?" said Kilsip, turning again to the old hag.
"Not I, cuss you," she retorted, politely. "'E came about 'alf-past one in the morning, an' you don't expects we can stop up all night, blarst ye."
"Half-past one o'clock," repeated Calton, quickly. "The very time. Is this true?"
"Wish I may die if it ain't," said Mother Guttersnipe, graciously. "My gran'darter Sal kin tell ye."
"Where is she?" asked Kilsip, sharply.
At this the woman threw back her head, and howled in a dismal manner.
"She's 'ooked it," she wailed, drumming on the ground with her feet. "Gon' an' left 'er pore old gran' an' joined the army, cuss 'em, a-comin' round an' a-spilin' business."
Here the woman on the bed broke out again—
"Since the flowers o' the forest are a' wed awa'."
"Fur G—'s sake 'old yer jawr," yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising and making a dart at the bed. "I'll choke the life out of ye, s'elp me. D'ye want me to murder ye, singin' 'em blarsted funeral things?"
Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.
"The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was here between one and two o'clock," he said, quickly, "is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I'll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for her."
"I hope you'll find her," answered Calton, drawing a long breath. "A man's life hangs on her evidence."
They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some loose silver, which she siezed with an avaricious clutch.
"You'll drink it, I suppose?" said the barrister, shrinking back from her.
"Werry likely," retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose. "I'm a fortin' to the public 'ouse, I am, an' it's the only pleasure I 'ave in my life, cuss it."
The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs as they went down, so that they should not break their heads. As they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, "The Last Rose of Summer," and then a volley of curses from Mother Guttersnipe.
The street door was open, and after groping their way along the dark passage with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.
"Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!"
"At all events our journey has not been wasted," said the detective as they walked along. "We've found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was the night of the murder, so he will be safe."
"That depends upon Sal Rawlins," answered Calton, gravely; "but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience of low life."
CHAPTER XVI.
MISSING.
The next day Kilsip called at Calton's office late in the afternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him. The detective's face, however, looked rather dismal, and Calton was not reassured by its expression.
"Well!" he said, impatiently, when Kilsip had closed the door and taken his seat. "Where is she?"
"That's just what I want to know," answered the detective, coolly; "I went to the Salvation Army headquarters and made inquiries about her. It appears that she had been in the Army as a hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in a week, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney. She carried on her old life of dissipation, but, ultimately, her friend got sick of her, and the last thing they heard about her was that she had taken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums. I telegraphed at once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of the name of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said they would make inquiries, and let me know the result."
"Ah! she has, no doubt, changed her name," said Calton, thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I wonder what for?"
"Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect," answered Kilsip, dryly. "The straying lamb did not care about being hunted back to the fold."
"And when did she join the Army?"
"The very day after the murder."
"Rather sudden conversion?"
"Yes, but she said the death of the woman on Thursday night had so startled her, that she went straight off to the Army to get her religion properly fixed up."
"The effects of fright, no doubt," said Calton, dryly. "I've met a good many examples of these sudden conversions, but they never last long as a rule—it's a case of the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be, more than anything else. Good looking?"
"So-so, I believe," replied Kilsip, shrugging his shoulders. "Very ignorant—could neither read nor write."
"That accounts for her not asking for Fitzgerald when she called at the Club—she probably did not know whom she had been sent for. It will resolve itself into a question of identification, I expect. However, if the police can't find her, we will put an advertisement in the paper offering a reward, and send out handbills to the same effect. She must be found. Brian Fitzgerald's life hangs on a thread, and that thread is Sal Rawlins."
"Yes!" assented Kilsip, rubbing his hands together. "Even if Mr. Fitzgerald acknowledges that he was at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night in question, she will have to prove that he was there, as no one else saw him."
"Are you sure of that? "
"As sure as any one can be in such a case. It was a late hour when he came, and every one seems to have been asleep except the dying woman and Sal; and as one is dead, the other is the only person that can prove that he was there at the time when the murder was being committed in the hansom."
"And Mother Guttersnipe? "
"Was drunk, as she acknowledged last night. She thought that if a gentleman did call it must have been the other one."
"The other one?" repeated Calton, in a puzzled voice. "What other one?"
"Oliver Whyte."
Calton arose from his seat with a blank air of astonishment. "Oliver Whyte!" he said as soon as he could find his voice. "Was he in the habit of going there?"
Kilsip curled himself up in his seat like a sleek cat, and pushing forward his head till his nose looked like the beak of a bird of prey, looked keenly at Calton.
"Look here, sir," he said, in his low, purring voice, "there's a good deal in this case which don't seem plain—in fact, the further we go into it, the more mixed up it seems to get. I went to see Mother Guttersnipe this morning, and she told me that Whyte had visited the 'Queen' several times while she lay ill, and seemed to be pretty well acquainted with her."
"But who the devil is this woman they call the 'Queen?'" said Calton, irritably. "She seems to be at the bottom of the whole affair—every path we take leads to her."
"I know hardly anything about her," replied Kilsip, "except that she was a good-looking woman of about forty-nine—she came out from England to Sydney a few months ago, then onto here—how she got to Mother Guttersnipe's I can't find out, though I've tried to pump that old woman, but she's as close as wax, and it's my belief she knows more about this dead woman than she chooses to tell."
"But what could she have told Fitzgerald to make him act in this silly manner. A stranger who comes from England and dies in a Melbourne slum, can't possibly know anything about Miss Frettlby."
"Not unless Miss Frettlby was secretly married to Whyte," suggested Kilsip, "and the 'Queen' knew it."
"Nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply. "Why, she hated him and loves Fitzgerald; besides, why on earth should she marry secretly, and make a confidant of a woman in one of the lowest parts of Melbourne? At one time her father wanted her to marry Whyte, but she made such strong opposition, that he eventually gave his consent to her engagement with Fitzgerald."
"And Whyte?"
"Oh, he had a row with Mr. Frettlby, and left the house in a rage. He was murdered the same night, for the sake of some papers he carried."
"Oh, that's Gorby's idea," said Kilsip scornfully, with a vicious snarl.
"And it's mine, too," answered Calton, firmly. "Whyte had some valuable papers, which he always carried about with him. The woman who died evidently told Fitzgerald that he did, as I gathered as much from an accidental admission he made."
Kilsip looked puzzled.
"I must confess that it is a riddle," he said at length; "but if Mr. Fitzgerald would only speak, it would clear everything up."
"What, about who murdered Whyte? "
"Well, it might not go so far as that, but it might supply the motive for the crime."
"I dare say you are right," answered Calton, thoughtfully, as the detective rose and put on his hat. "But it's no use. Fitzgerald, for some reason or another, has evidently made up his mind not to speak; so our only hope in saving him lies in finding this girl."
"If she's anywhere in Australia you may be sure she'll be found," answered Kilsip, confidently, as he took his departure. "Australia isn't so overcrowded as all that."
If Sal Rawlins was in Australia, she certainly must have been in some remote spot, for in spite of all efforts she could not be found anywhere. Whether she was alive or dead was an open question, for she seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed her up. The last seen of her was in a Sydney den, with a Chinaman, whom she afterwards left, and since then had neither been seen nor heard of. Notices were put in the papers, both in Australia and New Zealand, offering large rewards for her discovery, but nothing came of them. As she was unable to read herself, she would, of course, be ignorant that she was wanted, and if, as Calton had surmised, she had changed her name, no one else would tell her about it, unless she happened to hear it by chance. Altogether, it seemed as if there was no hope except the forlorn one of Sal turning up of her own accord. If she came back to Melbourne she would be certain to go to her grandmother's place, as she had no motive in keeping away from it; so Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, much to Mrs. Rawlins' disgust, for, with true English pride, she objected to this system of espionage.
"Blarst 'im," she croaked over her evening drink, to an old crone, as withered and evil looking as herself, "Why, in G—'s name, can't 'e stop in 'is own bloomin' 'ouse an' leave mine alone—a-coming round 'ere a-pokin' and pryin' an' a-prewenting people from earnin' their livin' an' agittin' drunk when they ain't well, cuss 'im."
"What do 'e want?" asked her friend, rubbing her weak old knees.
"Wants, cuss 'im—'e wants 'is d——d throat cut," said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously. "An' s'elp me G—, I'll do for 'im some night w'en 'e's a watchin' round 'ere as if it were Pentridge—'e can git what he can out of that whelp as ran away, cuss 'er; but I knows suthin' 'e don't know, blarst 'im." She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having taken advantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the broken cup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by the hair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against the wall.
"I'll have the perlice in at yer," whimpered the assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as her rheumatics would let her. "See if I don't."
"Go to 'ell," retorted Mother Guttersnipe, indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup. "You come a-falutin' round 'ere agin priggin' my drinks, cuss you, an' I'll cut yer throat an' wring yer wicked old 'ead orf, blarst you."
The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasant proposal to end her, and tottered out as quickly as possible, leaving Mother Guttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.
Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used every argument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he maintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered, "It would only break her heart."
He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that he had been to Mother Guttersnipe's on the night of the murder. After he left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, and as the cabman—Royston—had stated, he had gone along Russell Street, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel. She had taken him to Mother Guttersnipe's, where he had seen the dying woman, who had told him something he could not reveal.
"Well," said Mr. Calton, after hearing the admission, "you might have saved us all this trouble by admitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it may be. Had you done so, we might have got hold of Sal Rawlins before she left Melbourne; but now it's only chance whether she turns up or not."
Brian did not answer to this, and, in fact, hardly seemed to be thinking of what the lawyer was saying; but, just as Calton was leaving, he asked—
"How is Madge?"
"How can you expect her to be?" said Calton, turning angrily on him. "She is very ill, owing to the worry she has been in over this affair."
"My darling! my darling!" cried Brian, in agony, clasping his hands over his head. "I only did it to save you."
Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.
"My dear fellow," he said, gravely, "the confidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as those between priest and penitent. You must tell me this secret which concerns Miss Frettlby so deeply."
"No," said Brian, firmly, "I will never reveal what that cursed woman told me. When I would not tell you before, in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now, when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling it."
"I will never ask you again," said Calton, rather annoyed, as he walked to the door. "And to this accusation of murder, if I can find this girl, you are safe."
When the lawyer left the gaol, he went to the Detective Office to see Kilsip, and ascertain if there was any news of Sal Rawlins; but, as usual, there was none.
"It is fighting against fate," he said, sadly, as he went away; "his life hangs on a mere chance."
The trial was fixed to come off in September, and, of course, there was great excitement in Melbourne over the matter. Great, therefore, was the disappointment when it was discovered that the prisoner's counsel had applied for an adjournment of the trial till October, on the ground that an important witness for the defence could not be found.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE TRIAL.
In spite of the utmost vigilance on the part of the police, and the offer of a large reward, both by Calton, on behalf of the accused, and by Mr. Frettlby, the much desired Sal Rawlins still remained hidden. The millionaire had maintained a most friendly attitude toward Brian throughout the whole affair. He refused to believe him guilty, and when Calton told him of the defence of proving an alibi by means of Sal Rawlins, he immediately offered a large reward, which was enough in itself to set every person with any time on their hands hunting for the missing witness. All Australia and New Zealand rang with the extremely plebeian name of Sal Rawlins, the papers being full of notices offering rewards; and handbills of staring red letters were posted up in all railway stations, in conjunction with Lewis's Egg Powder and someone else's Pale Ale. She had become famous without knowing it, unless, indeed, she had kept herself concealed on purpose; but this was hardly probable, as there was no apparent motive for her doing so. If she was above ground she must certainly have seen the handbills, if not the papers; and, though not being able to read, could hardly help hearing something about the one topic of conversation throughout Australia. Notwithstanding all this, Sal Rawlins was still undiscovered, and Calton, in despair, began to think that she must be dead. But Madge, though at times her courage gave way, was still hopeful.
"God will not permit such a judicial crime to be committed as the murder of an innocent man," she declared.
Mr. Calton, to whom she said this, shook his head doubtfully. "God has permitted it to take place before," he answered, softly; "and we can only judge the future by the past."
At last the day of the long expected trial came, and as Calton sat in his office looking over his brief, a clerk entered and told him Mr. Frettlby and his daughter wished to see him. When they came in, the barrister saw the millionaire looked haggard and ill, and there was a look of worry on his face.
"There is my daughter, Calton," he said, after hurried greetings had been exchanged. "She wants to be present in Court during Fitzgerald's trial, and nothing I can say will dissuade her."
Calton turned, and looked at the girl in some surprise.
"Yes!" she answered, meeting his look steadily, though her face was very pale; "I must be there. I shall go mad with anxiety unless I know how the trial goes on."
"But think of the disagreeable amount of attention you will attract," urged the lawyer.
"No one will recognize me," she said, calmly; "I am very plainly dressed, and I will wear this veil;" and, drawing one from her pocket, she went over to a small looking glass that was hanging on the wall and tied it on her face.
Calton looked in a perplexed manner at Mr. Frettlby.
"I'm afraid you must consent," he said.
"Very well," replied the other, almost sternly, while a look of annoyance passed over his face. "I will leave her in your charge."
"And you?"
"I'm not coming," answered Frettlby, quickly, putting on his hat. "I don't care about seeing a man whom I have had at my dinner-table in the prisoner's dock, much as I sympathize with him. Good-day;" and with a curt nod he took his leave.
When the door closed on her father, Madge placed her hand on Calton's arm.
"Any hope?" she whispered, looking at him through the black veil.
"The merest chance," answered Calton, putting his brief into his bag. "We have done everything in our power to discover this girl, but without effect. If she does not come at the eleventh hour I'm afraid Brian Fitzgerald is a doomed man."
Madge fell on her knees with a stifled cry.
"Oh, God of mercy," she cried, raising her hands as if in prayer, "save him. Save my darling, and let him not die for the crime of another. God——"
She dropped her face in her hands and wept convulsively, as the lawyer touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Come!" he said, kindly. "Be the brave girl you were, and we may save him yet. The hour is the darkest before the dawn, you know."
Madge dried her tears, and followed the lawyer to the cab, which was waiting for them at the door. They drove quickly up to the Court, and Calton put her in a quiet place, where she could see the dock, and yet be unobserved by the people in the body of the Court. Just as he was leaving her she touched his arm.
"Tell him," she whispered, in a trembling voice, "tell my darling I am here."
Calton nodded and hurried away to put on his wig and gown, while Madge looked hurriedly around the Court from her point of vantage. It was crowded with fashionable Melbourne of both sexes, and they were all talking together in subdued whispers. The popular character of the prisoner, his good looks, and engagement to Madge Frettlby, together with the extraordinary circumstances of the case, had raised public curiosity to the highest pitch, and, consequently, everybody who could possibly manage to gain admission was there. Felix Rolleston had secured an excellent seat beside the pretty Miss Featherweight, whom he admired so much, and he was chattering to her with the utmost volubility.
"Puts me in mind of the Coliseum and all that sort of thing, you know," he said, putting up his eye-glass and staring round. "Butchered to make a Roman holiday, by Jove."
"Don't say such horrid things, you frivolous creature," simpered Miss Featherweight, using her smelling-bottle. "We are all here out of sympathy for that poor dear Mr. Fitzgerald."
The mercurial Felix, who had more cleverness in him than people gave him credit for, smiled outright at this eminently feminine way of covering an overpowering curiosity.
"Ah, yes," he said lightly; "exactly! I dare say Eve only ate the apple because she didn't like to see such a lot of good fruit go to waste."
Miss Featherweight looked at him doubtfully, as though she was not quite certain if he was in jest or earnest, but just as she was about to reply that she thought it wicked to make jokes on the Bible, the judge entered, and all the Court arose to receive him. When the prisoner was brought in, there was a great flutter among the ladies, and some of them even had the bad taste to produce opera-glasses. Brian noticed this, and he flushed to the roots of his fair hair, for he felt his degradation acutely. He was an intensely proud man, and to be placed in the criminal dock with a lot of frivolous people, who had called themselves his friends, looking at him as though he were a new actor or a wild animal, was galling in the extreme. He was dressed in black, and looked pale and wan, but all the ladies declared that he was as good looking as ever, and they were sure he was innocent.
The jury was sworn in, and the Crown Prosecutor arose to deliver his opening address. As all present in the Court only knew the facts of the case through the medium of the newspapers and floating rumors, each of which contradicted the other, they were unaware of the true history of the events which had led to Fitzgerald's arrest, and they therefore prepared to listen to the speech with profound attention. The ladies ceased to talk, the men to stare round, and nothing could be seen but row after row of eager and attentive faces, hanging on the words that issued from the lips of the Crown Prosecutor. He was not a great orator, but he spoke clearly and distinctly, and every word could be heard in the dead silence.
He gave a rapid sketch of the crime, which was merely a repetition of what had been published in the newspapers, and then proceeded to enumerate the witnesses who could prove the prisoner guilty. He would call the landlady of the deceased to show that ill-blood existed between the prisoner and the murdered man, and that the accused had called on the deceased a week prior to the committal of the crime, and threatened his life. (There was great excitement at this, and several ladies decided, on the spur of the moment, that the horrid man was guilty, but the majority of the female spectators still refused to believe in the guilt of such a good-looking young fellow.) He would call a witness who could prove that Whyte was drunk on the night of the murder, and went along Russell street, in the direction of Collins street; the cabman Royston could swear to the fact that the prisoner had hailed the cab, and after going away for a short time, returned and entered the cab with the deceased. He would also prove that the prisoner left the cab at the Grammar School, in the St. Kilda Road, and on the arrival of the cab at the junction, he discovered the deceased had been murdered. The cabman Rankin would prove that he drove the prisoner from the St. Kilda Road to Powlett Street in East Melbourne, where he got out, and he would call the prisoner's landlady to prove that the prisoner resided in Powlett Street, and that on the night of the murder he had not reached home till shortly after two o'clock. He would also call the detective, who had charge of the case, to prove the finding of a glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the coat which the prisoner wore on the night of the murder; and the doctor who had examined the body of the deceased would give evidence that the death was caused by inhalation of chloroform. As he had now fully shown the chain of evidence which he proposed to prove, he would call the first witness, Malcolm Royston.
Royston, on being sworn, gave the same evidence as he had given at the inquest, from the time that the cab was hailed up to his arrival at the St. Kilda Police Station with the dead body of Whyte. In the cross-examination, Calton asked him if he was prepared to swear that the man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in with the deceased, were one and the same person.
Witness: I am.
Calton: You are quite certain?
Witness: Yes; quite certain.
Calton: Do you, then, recognize the prisoner as the man who hailed the cab?
Witness (hesitatingly): I cannot swear to that. The gentleman who hailed the cab had his hat pulled down over his eyes, so that I could not see his face; but the height and general appearance of the prisoner are the same."
Calton: Then it is only because the man who got into the cab was dressed like the prisoner on that night that you thought that they were both the same?
Witness: It never struck me for a minute that they were not the same; besides, he spoke as if he had been there before. I said, "Oh, you've come back," and he said, "Yes; I'm going to take him home," and got into my cab.
Calton: Did you notice any difference in his voice?
Witness: No; except that the first time I saw him he spoke in a loud voice, and the second time he came back, very low.
Calton: You were sober, I suppose?
Witness (indignantly): Yes; quite sober.
Calton: Ah! You did not have a drink, say at the Oriental Hotel, which, I believe, is near the rank where your cab stands?
Witness (hesitatingly): Well, I might have had a glass.
Calton: So you might; you might have had several.
Witness (sulkily): Well, there's no law against a cove feeling thirsty.
Calton: Certainly not, and I suppose you took advantage of the absence of such a law.
Witness (defiantly): Yes, I did.
Calton: And you were elevated.
Witness: Yes; on my cab. [Laughter.]
Calton (severely): You are here to give evidence, sir, not to make jokes, however clever they may be. Were you, or were you not, slightly the worse for drink?
Witness: I might have been.
Calton: So you were in such a condition that you did not observe very closely the man who hailed you?
Witness: No, I didn't—there was no reason why I should—I didn't know a murder was going to be committed.
Calton: And it never struck you it might be a different man?
Witness: No, I thought it was the same man the whole time.
This closed Royston's evidence, and Calton sat down very dissatisfied at not being able to elicit anything more definite from him. One thing appeared clear, that someone must have dressed himself to resemble Brian, and spoke in a low voice, because he was afraid of betraying himself.
Clement Rankin, the next witness, deposed of having picked up the prisoner on the St. Kilda Road, between one and two on Friday morning, and driven him to Powlett Street, East Melbourne. In the cross-examination Calton elicited one point in the prisoner's favor.
Calton: Is the prisoner the same gentleman you drove to Powlett Street?
Witness (confidently): Oh, yes.
Galton: How do you know? Did you see his face?
Witness: No, his hat was pulled down over his eyes, and I could only see the ends of his mustache and his chin,, but he carried himself the same as the prisoner, and his mustache is the same light color.
Calton: When you drove up to him on the St. Kilda Road, where was he, and what was he doing?
Witness: He was near the Grammar School, walking in the direction of Melbourne, and was smoking a cigarette.
Calton: Had he gloves on?
Witness: Yes, one on the left hand, the other was bare.
Calton: Did he wear any rings on the right hand?
Witness: Yes, a large diamond one on the forefinger.
Calton: Are you sure?
Witness: Yes, because I thought it a curious place for a gentleman to wear a ring, and when he was paying me my fare I saw the diamond glitter on his finger in the moonlight.
Calton: That will do.
The counsel for the defence was pleased with this bit of evidence, as Fitzgerald detested rings and never wore any; so he made a note of the matter on his brief.
Mrs. Hableton, the landlady of the deceased, was then called, and deposed that Oliver Whyte had lived with her for nearly two months. He seemed a quiet enough young man, but often came home drunk. The only friend she knew he had was Mr. Moreland, who was often with him. On the 14th July, the prisoner called to see Mr. Whyte, and they had a quarrel. She heard Whyte say, "she is mine, you can't do anything with her," and the prisoner answered, "I can kill you, and if you marry her I will do so in the open street." She had no idea at the time of the name of the lady they were talking about.
There was a great sensation in the court at these words, and half the people present looked upon such evidence as being sufficient in itself to prove the guilt of the prisoner.
In cross-examination, Calton was unable to shake the evidence of the witness, as she merely reiterated the same statements over and over again.
The next witness was Mrs. Sampson, who crackled into the witness box, dissolved in tears, and gave her answers in a piercingly shrill tone of anguish. She stated that the prisoner was in the habit of coming home early, but on the night of the murder, had come in shortly before two o'clock.
Crown Prosecutor (referring to his brief): You mean after two.
Witness: 'Avin' made a mistake once, by saying five minutes after two to the policeman as called himself a insurance agent, which 'e put the words into my mouth, I ain't a goin' to do so again, it bein' five minutes afore two, as I can swear to.
Crown Prosecutor: You are sure your clock was right?
Witness: It 'adn't been, but my nevvy bein' a watchmaker, called unbeknown to me and made it right on Thursday night, which it was Friday mornin' when Mr. Fitzgerald came 'ome.
Mrs. Sampson bravely stuck to this statement, and ultimately left the witness box in triumph, the rest of her evidence being comparatively unimportant as compared with this point of time. The witness Rankin, who drove the prisoner to Powlett Street (as sworn to by him) was recalled, and gave evidence that it was two o'clock when the prisoner got down from his cab in Powlett street.
Crown Prosecutor: How do you know that?
Witness: Because I heard the post office clock strike.
Crown Prosecutor: Could you hear it at East Melbourne?
Witness: It was a very still night, and I heard the chimes and then the hour strike quite plainly.
This conflicting evidence as to time was a strong point in Brian's favor. If, as the landlady stated, on the authority of the kitchen clock, which had been put right on the day previous to the murder, Fitzgerald had come into the house at five minutes to two, he could not possibly be the man who had alighted from Rankin's cab at two o'clock at Powlett Street.
The next witness was Dr. Chinston, who swore to the death of the deceased by means of chloroform administered in a large quantity, and he was followed by Mr. Gorby, who deposed as to the finding of the glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the prisoner's coat.
Roger Moreland, an intimate friend of the deceased, was next called. He stated that he had known the deceased in London, and had met him in Melbourne. He was with him a great deal. On the night of the murder he was in the Oriental Hotel in Bourke Street. Whyte came in, and was greatly excited. He was in evening dress, and wore a light coat. They had several drinks together, and then went up to a hotel in Russell Street, and had some more drinks there. Both witness and deceased were intoxicated. Whyte took off his light coat, saying he felt warm, and went out shortly afterwards, leaving witness asleep in the bar. He was awoke by the barman, who wanted him to leave the hotel. He saw that Whyte had left his coat behind him, and took it up with the intention of giving it to him. As he stood in the street some one snatched the coat from him, and made off with it. He tried to follow the thief, but he could not do so, being too intoxicated. He then went home and to bed, as he had to leave early for the country in the morning. In cross-examination:
Calton: When you went into the street, after leaving the hotel, did you see the deceased?
Witness: No, I did not; but I was very drunk, and unless deceased had spoken to me, would not have noticed him.
Calton: What was the deceased excited about when you met him?
Witness: I don't know. He did not say.
Calton: What were you talking about.
Witness: All sorts of things. London principally.
Calton: Did the deceased mention anything about papers?
Witness (surprised): No, he did not.
Calton: Are you sure?
Witness: Quite sure.
Calton: What time did you get home?
Witness: I don't know; I was too drunk to remember.
This closed the case for the Crown, and as it was now late, the Court was adjourned till the next day. The Court was soon emptied of the busy, chattering crowd, and Calton, on looking over his notes, found that the result of the first day's trial was two points in favor of Fitzgerald. First: The discrepancy of time in the evidence of Rankin and the landlady, Mrs. Sampson. Second: The evidence of the cabman, Rankin, as to the wearing of the ring on the forefinger of the right hand by the man who murdered Whyte, whereas the prisoner never wore rings.
These were slender proofs of innocence to put against the overwhelming mass of evidence in favor of the prisoner's guilt. The opinions of all were pretty well divided, some being in favor and others against, when suddenly an event happened which surprised everyone. All over Melbourne extras were posted, and the news passed from lip to lip like wildfire—"Return of the Missing Witness, Sal Rawlins!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
SAL RAWLINS TELLS ALL SHE KNOWS.
And, indeed, such was the case. Sal Rawlins had made her appearance at the eleventh hour, to the heartfelt thankfulness of Calton, who saw in her an angel from heaven, sent to save the life of an innocent man.
It was at the conclusion of the trial, and, together with Madge, he had gone down to his office, when his clerk entered with a telegram. The lawyer tore it open, and with a silent look of pleasure on his face handed the telegram to Madge. She, woman-like, being more impulsive, gave a cry when she read it, and falling on her knees, thanked God for having heard her prayers, and saved her lover's life.
"Take me to her at once," she implored the lawyer, being anxious to hear from Sal Rawlins' own lips the joyful words which would save Brian from a felon's death.
"No, my dear," answered Calton, firmly, but kindly, "I can hardly take a lady to where Sal Rawlins lives. You will know all to morrow, but meanwhile you must go home and get some sleep."
"And you will tell him?" she whispered, clasping her hands on Calton's arm.
"At once," he answered, promptly. "And I will see Sal Rawlins to-night, and hear what she has to say. Rest content, my dear," he added, as he placed her in the carriage; "he is perfectly safe now."
Brian heard the good news with a deep feeling of gratitude, knowing that his life was safe, and that he could still keep his secret. It was the natural revulsion of feeling after the unnatural life he had been leading since his arrest. When one is young and healthy, and has all the world before him, it is a terrible thing to contemplate with serenity a sudden death. And yet, in spite of his joy at being delivered from the hangman's rope, there mingled with his delight the horror of that secret which the dying woman had told him with such malignant joy.
"Why did she tell me? Oh! why did she tell me?" he cried, wringing his hands, as he paced restlessly up and down his dark cell. "It would have been better for her to have died in silence, and not bequeathed me this legacy of sorrow."
He was so greatly disturbed over the matter that the gaoler seeing his haggard face next morning, muttered to himself that "He war blest if the swell warn't sorry he war safe."
So, while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the weary watches of the night, Madge in her own room, was kneeling beside her bed and thanking God for His great mercy; while Calton, the good fairy of the two lovers, was hurrying towards the humble abode of Mrs. Rawlins, familiarly known as Mother Guttersnipe. Kilsip was beside him, and they were talking eagerly about the providential appearance of the invaluable witness.
"What I like," observed Kilsip, in his soft purring tone, "is the sell it will be for that Gorby. He was so certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the man, and when he gets off to-morrow he will be in a rage."
"Where was Sal the whole time," asked Calton, absently, not thinking what the detective was saying.
"Ill," answered Kilsip. "After she left the Chinaman she went into the country, caught cold by falling into some river, and then ended up by getting brain fever. Some people found her, took her in, and nursed her. When she got well she came back to her grandmother's."
"But why didn't the people who nursed her tell her she was wanted? They must have seen the papers."
"Not they," retorted the detective "They knew nothing."
"Vegetables!" muttered Calton, contemptuously. "How can people be so ignorant? Why, all Australia has been ringing with the case. At any rate, it's money out of their pocket. Well?"
"There's nothing more to tell," said Kilsip, "except that she turned up to-night at five o'clock, looking more like a corpse than anything else."
When they entered the squalid, dingy passage that led to Mother Guttersnipe's abode, they saw a faint light streaming down the stair. As they climbed up the shaky stair they could hear the rancorous voice of the old hag pouring forth alternate blessings and curses on her prodigal offspring, and the low tones of a girl's voice in reply. On entering the room Calton saw that the sick woman who had been lying in the corner on the occasion of his last visit was gone. Mother Guttersnipe was seated in front of the deal table, with a broken cup and her favorite bottle of spirits before her. She was evidently going to have a night of it, in order to celebrate Sal's return, and had commenced early, so as to lose no time. Sal herself was seated on a broken chair, and leaned wearily against the wall. She stood up as Calton and the detective entered, and they saw she was a tall, slender woman of about twenty-five, not bad-looking, but with a pallid and haggard face, which showed how ill she had been. She was dressed in a kind of tawdry blue dress, much soiled and torn, and had an old tartan shawl over her shoulders, which she drew tightly across her breast as the strangers entered. Her grandmother, who looked more weird and grotesquely horrible than ever, saluted Calton and the detective on their entrance with a shrill yell, and a volley of choice language.
"Oh, you've come agin, blarst ye," she screeched, raising her skinny arms, "to take my gal away from 'er pore old gran'mother, as nussed 'er, cuss 'er, when 'er own mother 'ad gone a-gallivantin' with swells. I'll 'av the lawr of ye both, s'elp me G—, I will."
Kilsip paid no attention to this outbreak of the old fury, but turned to the girl.
"This is the gentleman who wants to speak to you," he said, gently, making the girl sit on the chair, for indeed she looked too ill to stand. "Just tell him what you told me."
"'Bout the 'Queen,' sir? ' said Sal, in a low, hoarse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton. "If I'd only known as you was a-wantin' me I'd 'ave come afore."
"Where were you?" asked Calton, in a pitying tone.
"Noo South Wales," answered the girl, with a shiver. "The cove as I went with t' Sydney left me—yes, left me to die like a dog in the gutter."
"Blarst 'im!" croaked the old woman in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.
"I tooked up with a Chinerman," went on her granddaughter, wearily, "an' lived with 'im for a bit—it's orful, ain't it?" she said, with a dreary laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer's face. "But Chinermen ain't bad; they treat a pore girl a dashed sight better nor a white cove does. They don't beat the life out of 'em with their fists, nor drag 'em about the floor by the 'air."
"Cuss em!" croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily, "I'll tear their 'earts out."
"I think I must have gone mad, I must," said Sal, pushing her tangled hair off her forehead, "for after I left the Chiner cove I went on walkin' and walkin' right into the bush, a-tryin' to cool my 'ead, for it felt on fire like. I went into a river an' got wet, an' then I took my 'at and boots orf an' lay down on the grass, an' then the rain comed on, an' I walked to a 'ouse as was near, where they tooked me in. Oh, sich kind people," she sobbed, stretching out her hands, "that didn't badger me 'bout my soul, but gave me good food to eat. I gave 'em a wrong name. I was so 'fraid of that Army a-findin' me. Then I got ill, an' know'd nothin' for weeks. They said I was off my chump. An' then I came back 'ere to see gran'."
"Cuss ye," said the old woman, but in such a tender tone that it sounded like a blessing; then, rather ashamed of the momentary emotion, she hastily wound up, "Go to 'ell."
"And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder?" asked Calton. Sal shook her head.
"No, it were a long way in the country, and they never know'd anythin', they didn't."
"Ah! that explains it," muttered Calton to himself. "Come now," he said cheerfully, "tell me all that happened on the night you brought Mr. Fitzgerald to see the 'Queen.'"
"Who's 'e?" asked Sal, puzzled.
"Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for to the Melbourne Club."
"Oh, 'im?" said Sal, a sudden light breaking over her wan face. "I never know'd his name afore."
Calton nodded, complacently.
"I knew you didn't," he said, "that's why you didn't ask for him at the Club."
"She never told me 'is name," said Sal, jerking her head in the direction of the bed.
"Then who did she ask you to bring to her?" asked Calton, eagerly.
"No one," replied the girl. "This was the way of it: On that night she was orfil ill, an' I sat beside 'er while gran' was asleep."
"I was drunk, blarst ye," broke in gran', fiercely; "none of yer d——d lies; I was blazin' drunk, glory hallelujah."
"An' she ses to me, she ses," went on the girl, indifferent to her grandmother's interruption, "'Get me some paper an' a pencil, an' I'll write a note to 'im, I will.' So I goes an' gits 'er what she arsks fur out of gran's box."
"Stole it, blarst ye," shrieked the old hag, shaking her fist.
"Hold your tongue," said Kilsip, in a peremptory tone. Mother Guttersnipe burst into a volley of oaths, and, having run rapidly through all she knew, subsided into a sulky silence.
"She wrote on it," went on Sal, "and then asked me to take it to the Melbourne Club an' give it to 'im. Ses I, 'Who's 'im?' Ses she, 'It's on the letter; don't you arsk no questions an' you won't 'ear no lies, but give it to 'im at the Club, an' wait for 'im at the corner of Bourke Street and Russell Street.' So out I goes, and gives it to a cove at the Club, an' then 'e comes along, and ses 'e 'Take me to 'er,' and I tooked 'im."
"And what like was the gentleman?"
"Oh, werry good lookin'," said Sal. "Werry tall, with yeller 'air an' mustache. He 'ad party clothes on, an' a masher coat, and a soft 'at."
"That's Fitzgerald right enough," muttered Calton. "And what did he do when he came?"
"He goes right up to 'er, and she ses, 'Are you 'e'? and 'e ses, 'I am.' Then ses she, 'Do you know what I'm a-goin' to tell you?' an' 'e says, 'No.' Then she ses, 'It's about 'er;' an' ses 'e, lookin' very white, ''Ow dare you 'ave 'er name on your vile lips?' an' she gits up an' screeches, 'Turn that gal out, an' I'll tell you;' an' 'e takes me by the arm, an' ses 'e, 'Ere git out,' an' I gits out, an' that's all I knows."
"And how long was he with her?" asked Calton, who had been listening attentively.
"'Bout arf-a-hour," answered Sal. "I takes 'im back to Russell Street about twenty-five minutes to two, 'cause I looked at the clock on the post office, an' 'e gives me a sov., an' then he goes a-tearing up the street like anything."
"Take him about twenty minutes to walk to East Melbourne," said Calton to himself. "So he must just have got in at the time Mrs. Sampson said. He was in with the 'Queen' the whole time, I suppose?" he asked, looking keenly at Sal.
"I was at that door," said Sal, pointing to it, "an’ 'e couldn't 'ave got out unless I'd seen 'im."
"Oh, it's all right," said Calton, nodding to Kilsip, "there won't be any difficulty in proving an alibi. But I say," he added, turning to Sal, "what were they talking about?"
"I dunno," answered Sal. "I was at the door, an' they talks that quiet I couldn't 'ear 'em. Then he sings out, 'My G—, it's too horrible!' an' I 'ear a larfin' like to bust, an' then 'e comes to me, and ses, quite wild like, 'Take me out of this 'ell!' an' I tooked 'im."
"And when you came back?"
"She was dead."
"Dead?"
"As a blessed door-nail," said Sal, cheerfully.
"An' I never know'd I was in the room with a blarsted corpse," wailed Mother Guttersnipe, waking up. "Cuss 'er, she was allays a-doin' contrary things."
"How do you know?" said Calton, sharply, rising to go.
"I know'd 'er longer nor you, cuss ye," croaked the old woman, fixing one evil eye on the lawyer; "an' I know what you'd like to know; but ye shan't, ye shan't."
Calton turned from her with a shrug of his shoulders.
"You will come to the Court to-morrow with Mr. Kilsip," he said to Sal, "and tell what you have just now told me."
"It's all true, s'elp me," said Sal, eagerly; "'e was 'ere all the time."
Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, when Mother Guttersnipe arose.
"Where's the money for finin' 'er?" she screeched, pointing one skinny finger at Sal.
"Well, considering the girl found herself," said Calton, dryly, "the money is in the bank, and will remain there."
"An' I'm to be done out of my 'ard earned tin, s'elp me?" howled the old fury. "Cuss ye, I'll 'ave the lawr of ye, and get you put in quod."
"You'll go there yourself, if you don't take care," said Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones.
"Yah!" shrieked Mother Guttersnipe, snapping her fingers at him." What do I care about your d——d quod? Ain't I bin in Pentrig', an' it ain't 'urt me, it ain't? I'm as lively as a gal, blarst ye and cuss ye."
And the old fury, to prove the truth of her words danced a sort of war dance in front of Mr. Calton, snapping her lingers and yelling out curses, as an accompaniment to her ballet. Her luxurious white hair got loose, and streamed out during her gyrations, and what with her grotesque looks and the faint light of the candle, she looked a gruesome spectacle. Calton, remembering the tales he had heard of the women of Paris, at the revolution, and the way they danced "La Carmagnole," thought that Mother Guttersnipe would have been in her element in that sea of blood and turbulence. He, however, merely shrugged his shoulders, and walked out of the room, as with a final curse, delivered in a hoarse voice, Mother Guttersnipe sank exhausted on the floor, and yelled for gin.
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