The Mystery of a Hansom Cab Part 2

CHAPTER XIX.

THE VERDICT OF THE JURY.

It is needless to say that the court next morning was crowded, and numbers were unable to gain admission. The news that Sal Rawlins, who alone could prove the innocence of the prisoner, had been found, and would appear in court that morning, had spread like wildfire, and the acquittal of the prisoner was confidently expected by a large ​number of sympathizing friends,who seemed to have sprung up on all sides, like mushrooms, in a single night. There were, of course, plenty of cautious people left who wanted to hear the verdict of the jury before giving their opinion, and who still believed him guilty. The sudden appearance of Sal Rawlins had turned the great tide of public feeling in favor of the prisoner, and many who had been loudest in their denunciations of Fitzgerald were now more than half convinced of his innocence. Pious clergymen talked in an incoherent way about the finger of God and the innocent not suffering unjustly, which was a case of counting unhatched chickens, as the verdict had yet to be given.

Felix Rolleston awoke, and found himself famous in a small way. Out of good-natured sympathy and a spice of contrariness, he had declared his belief in Brian's innocence, and now, to his astonishment, found that his view of the matter was likely to be a correct one. He received so much praise on all sides for his presumed cleverness, that he soon began to think that he had believed in Fitzgerald's innocence by a calm course of reasoning, and not because of a desire to differ from everyone else in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolleston is not the only man who has been astonished to find greatness thrust upon him, and come to believe himself worthy of it. He was a wise man, however, and while in the full tide of prosperity seized the flying moment, and proposed to Miss Featherweight, who, after some hesitation, agreed to endow him with herself and her thousands. She decided that her future husband was a man of no common intellect, seeing that he had long ago arrived at a conclusion which the rest of Melbourne were only beginning to discover now, so she determined that, as soon as she assumed marital authority, Felix, like Strephon in "Iolanthe," should go into Parliament, and with her money and his brains she might some day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolleston had no idea of the political honors which his future spouse intended he should have, and was seated in his old place in the court, talking about the case.

"Knew he was innocent, don't you know," he said with a complacent smile. "Fitzgerald's too jolly good-looking a fellow, and all that sort of thing, to commit murder."

Whereupon a clergyman, happening to overhear the ​lively Felix make this flippant remark, disagreed with it entirely, and preached a sermon to prove that good looks and crime were closely connected, and that both Judas Iscariot and Nero were beauty-men.

"Ah!" said Calton, when he heard the sermon, "if this unique theory is a true one, what a truly pious man that clergyman must be!" which allusion to the looks of the reverend gentleman was rather unkind, as he was by no means bad looking. But then Calton was one of those witty men who would rather lose a friend than suppress an epigram.

When the prisoner was brought in a murmur of sympathy ran through the crowded court, so ill and worn out he looked; but Calton was puzzled to account for the expression of his face, so different from that of a man whose life had been saved, or rather, was going to be saved, for in truth it was a foregone conclusion.

"You know who stole those papers," he thought, as he looked at Fitzgerald keenly, "and the man who did so is the murderer of Whyte."

The judge having entered and the court being opened, Calton arose to make his speech, and stated in a few words the line of defense he intended to take.

He would first call Albert Dendy, a watchmaker, to prove that on Thursday night at eight o'clock in the evening, he had called at the prisoner's lodgings while the landlady was out, and while there had put the kitchen clock right, and had regulated the same. He would also call Felix Rolleston, a friend of the prisoner's, to prove that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings, and frequently expressed his detestation of such a custom. Sebastian Brown, a waiter at the Melbourne Club, would be called to prove that on Thursday night a letter was delivered to the prisoner at the Club by one Sarah Rawlins, and that the prisoner left the Club shortly before one o'clock on Friday morning. He would also call Sarah Rawlins, to prove that she had delivered a note to Sebastian Brown for the prisoner, at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve on Thursday night, and that a few minutes past one o'clock on Friday morning she had conducted the prisoner to a slum off Little Bourke Street, and that he was there between one and two on Friday morning, the ​hour at which the murder was alleged to have taken place. This being his defence to the charge brought against the prisoner, he would call Albert Dendy.

Albert Dendy, duly sworn, stated—

I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I remember Thursday, the 26th of July last. On the evening of that day I called at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who is the landlady of the prisoner. She was out at the time I called, and I waited in the kitchen till her return. I looked at the kitchen clock to see if it was too late to wait, and then at my watch. I found that the clock was ten minutes fast, upon which I put it right, and regulated it properly.

Calton: At what time did you put it right?

Witness: About eight o'clock.

Calton: Between that time and two in the morning was it possible for the clock to gain ten minutes?

Witness: No, it was not possible.

Calton: Would it gain at all?

Witness: Not between eight and two o'clock—the time was not long enough.

Calton: Did you see your aunt that night?

Witness: Yes; I waited till she came in.

Calton: And did you tell her you had put the clock right?

Witness: No, I did not; I forgot all about it.

Calton: Then she was still under the impression that it was ten minutes fast?

Witness: Yes, I suppose so.

After Dendy had been cross-examined, Felix Rolleston was called, and deposed as follows:—

I am an intimate friend of the prisoner. I have known him for five or six years, and I never saw him wearing a ring during that time. He has frequently told me he did not care for rings, and would never wear them.

In cross-examination:—

Crown Prosecutor: You have never seen the prisoner wearing a diamond ring?

Witness: No, never.

Crown Prosecutor: Have you ever seen any such ring in his possession?

Witness: No, I have seen him buying rings for ladies, ​but I never saw him with any ring such as a gentleman would wear.

Crown Prosecutor: Not even a seal ring.

Witness: No, not even a seal ring.

Sarah Rawlins was then placed in the witness-box, and, after having been sworn, deposed—

I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter addressed to him at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve o'clock on Thursday, 26th July. I did not know what his name was. He met me shortly after one, at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, where I had been told to wait for him. I took him to my grandmother's place, in a lane off Little Bourke Street. There was a dying woman there, who had sent for him. He went in and saw her for about twenty minutes, and then I took him back to the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quarters strike shortly after I left him.

Crown Prosecutor: You are quite certain that the prisoner was the man you met on that night?

Witness: Quite certin', s'elp me G—.

Crown Prosecutor: And he met you a few minutes past one o'clock?

Witness: Yes, 'bout five minutes—I 'eard the clock a-strikin one just afore he come down the street, and when I leaves 'im again it were about twenty-five to two, 'cause it took me ten minits to git 'ome, and I 'eard the clock go three-quarters, just as I gets to the door.

Crown Prosecutor: How do you know it was exactly twenty-five to two when you left him?

Witness: 'Cause I sawr the clocks—I left 'im at the corner of Russell Street, and comes down Bourke Street, so I could see the Post Orffice clock as plain as day, an' when I gets into Swanton Street I looks at the Town 'All premiscus like, and see the same time there.

Crown Prosecutor: And you never lost sight of the prisoner the whole time?

Witness: No, there's only one door by the room, 'an I was a-sittin' outside it, an 'when he comes out he falls over me.

Crown Prosecutor: Were you asleep?

Witness: Not a blessed wink.

Calton then directed Sebastian Brown to be called, who deposed—

​I know the prisoner. He is a member of the Melbourne Club, at which I am a waiter. I remember Thursday, 26th July. On that night the last witness came with a letter to the prisoner. It was about a quarter to twelve. She just gave it to me, and went away. I delivered it to Mr. Fitzgerald. He left the Club at about ten minutes to one.

This closed the evidence for the defence, and after the Crown Prosecutor had made his speech, in which he pointed out the strong evidence against the prisoner, Calton arose to address the jury. He was a fine speaker and made a splendid defence. Not a single point escaped him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is still remembered and spoken of admiringly in the perlieus of Temple Court and Chancery Lane.

He began by giving a vivid description of the circumstances of the murder—of the meeting of the murderer and his victim in Collins Street East—the cab driving down to St. Kilda—the getting out of the cab of the murderer after committing the crime—and the way in which he had secured himself against pursuit. Having thus enchained the attention of the jury by the graphic manner in which he described the crime, he pointed out that the evidence brought forward by the prosecution was purely circumstantial, and that they had utterly failed to identify the man who entered the cab with the prisoner in the dock. The supposition that the prisoner and the man in the light coat being one and the same person, rested solely upon the evidence of the cabman, Royston, who, although not intoxicated, was, judging from his own statements, not in a fit state to distinguish between the man who hailed the cab and the man who got in. The crime was committed by means of chloroform; therefore if the prisoner was guilty, he must have purchased the chloroform in some shop, or obtained it from some friends. At all events, the prosecution had not brought forward a single piece of evidence to show how and where the chloroform was obtained. With regard to the glove belonging to the murdered man found in the prisoner's pocket, he picked it up off the ground at the time when he first met Whyte, when the deceased was lying drunk near the Scotch Church. Certainly there was no evidence to show that the prisoner had picked it up before the deceased ​entered the cab; but, on the other hand, there was no evidence to show that it had been picked up in the cab. It was far more likely that the glove, and especially a white glove, would be picked up under the light of the lamp near the Scotch Church, where it was easily noticeable, than in the darkness of a cab, where there was very little room, and where it would be quite dark, as the blinds were drawn down. The cabman, Royston, swore positively that the man who got out of his cab on the St. Kilda Road wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand, and the cabman, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who got out at Powlett Street. Against this could be placed the evidence of one of the prisoner's most intimate friends—one who had seen him almost daily for the last five years—and he had sworn positively that the prisoner never was in the habit of wearing rings. The cabman Rankin had also sworn that the man who entered his cab on the St. Kilda Road alighted at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, at two o'clock on Friday morning, as he heard that hour strike from the post office clock, whereas the evidence of the prisoner's landlady showed plainly that he entered the house five minutes previously, and her evidence was further supported by that of the watchmaker Dendy. Mrs. Sampson saw the hand of her kitchen clock point to five minutes to two, and, thinking it was ten minutes slow, told the detective the prisoner did not enter the house till five minutes past two, which would just give the man who alighted from the cab, presuming it to have been the prisoner, sufficient time to walk up to his lodgings. The evidence of the watchmaker, Dendy, however, showed clearly that he had put the clock right at the hour of eight on Thursday night; that it was impossible for it to gain ten minutes before two on Friday morning, and, therefore, the time, five minutes to two, seen by the landlady, was correct, and the prisoner was in the house five minutes before the other man alighted from the cab in Powlett Street. These points in themselves were sufficient to show that the prisoner was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Rawlins must prove conclusively to the jury that the prisoner was not the man who committed the crime. The witness Brown had proved that the woman Rawlins had delivered a letter to him, which he gave to the ​prisoner, and that the prisoner left the club, personally, to keep the appointment spoken of in the letter, which letter, or, rather, the remains of it, had been put in evidence. The woman Rawlins swore that the prisoner met her at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, and had gone with her to one of the back slums, there to see the writer of the letter. She also proved that at the time of the committal of the crime the prisoner was still in the back slum, by the bed of the dying woman, and, there being only one door to the room, could not possibly have left without the witness seeing him. The woman Rawlins further proved that she left the prisoner at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets at twenty-five minutes to two o'clock, which was five minutes before Royston drove his cab up to the St. Kilda Police Station, with the dead body inside. Finally, the woman Rawlins proved her words by stating she saw both the Post Oflice and Town Hall clocks; and supposing the prisoner started from the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, as she says he did, he would reach East Melbourne in twenty minutes, which made it five minutes to two on Friday morning, the time at which, according to the landlady's statement, he entered the house. All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreed completely, and formed a chain which showed the whole of the prisoner's movements at the time of the committal of the murder. Therefore it was absolutely impossible that the murder could have been committed by the man in the dock. The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that of the witness Hableton, who swore that the prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the language was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner. The defence which the prisoner set up was that of an alibi, and the evidence of the witnesses for the defence proved conclusively that the prisoner could not, and did not, commit the murder. Finally, Calton wound up his elaborate and exhaustive speech, which lasted for over two hours, by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to base their verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did so they could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of "Not guilty."

​When Calton sat down a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, which he did strongly in favor of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, and immediately there was a dead silence in the crowded court—an unnatural silence, such as must have fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long, lithe forms of lion and panther creeping stealthily toward their prey. The hour being late, the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glare through the wide hall, which added to the singularity of the scene. Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, which seemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and then the quick-drawn breath of some timid onlooker. Suddenly a woman, whose nerves were overstrung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence, every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury would come with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock moved slowly round—a quarter—a half—three-quarters—and then the hour sounded with a silvery ring which startled every one. Madge, sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her highly strung nerves would give way. "My God," she muttered softly to herself; "will this suspense never end?"

Just then the door opened, and the jury re-entered. The prisoner was again placed in the dock, and the judge again resumed his seat, this time with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.

The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman of the jury stood up every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed a little, and then grew pale as death, giving a quick, nervous glance at the quiet figure in black, of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then came in the verdict, sharp and decisive, "Not Guilty."

​On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong was the sympathy with Brian.

In vain the crier of the court yelled, "Order!" until he was red in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court—his voice being inaudible, it did not matter much—the enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment, and discharged the prisoner, in accordance with the verdict. Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed Fitzgerald innocent.

And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the court, where a woman was waiting for him—a woman who clung round his neck, and sobbed out—

"My darling! My darling! I knew that God would save you."

 CHAPTER XX.

THE "ARGUS" GIVES ITS OPINION.

The morning after the trial was concluded the following article in reference to the matter appeared in the Argus:

"During the past few months we have frequently in our columns commented on the extraordinary case which is now so widely known as 'The Hansom Cab Tragedy.' We can safely say that it is the most remarkable case which has ever come under the notice of our Criminal Court, and the verdict given by the jury yesterday has enveloped the matter in a still deeper mystery. By a train of strange coincidences, Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, a young squatter, was suspected of having murdered Whyte, and had it not been for the timely appearance of the woman Rawlins who turned up at the eleventh hour, we feel sure that a verdict of guilty would have been given, and an innocent man would have suffered punishment for the crime of another. Fortunately for the prisoner, and for the interest of justice, his counsel, Mr. Calton, by unwearied​diligence, was able to discover the last witness, and prove an alibi. Had it not been for this, in spite of the remarks made by the learned counsel in his brilliant speech yesterday, which resulted in the acquittal of the prisoner, we question very much if the rest of the evidence in favor of the accused would have been sufficient to persuade the jury that he was innocent. The only points in favor of Mr. Fitzgerald were the inability of the cabman Royston to swear to him as the man who had got into the cab with Whyte, the wearing of a dianond ring on the forefinger of the right hand (whereas Mr. Fitzgerald wears no rings), and the difference in time sworn to by the cabman Rankin and the landlady. Against these points, however, the prosecution placed a mass of evidence, which seemed to conclusively prove the guilt of the prisoner; but the appearance of Sal Rawlins in the witness-box put an end to all doubt. In language which could not be mistaken for anything else than the truth, she positively swore that Mr. Fitzgerald was in one of the slums off Bourke Street between the hours of one and two on Friday morning, at which time the murder was committed. Under these circumstances, the jury unanimously agreed in the verdict, 'Not guilty,' and the prisoner was forthwith acquitted. We have to congratulate his counsel, Mr. Calton, for the able speech he made for the defense, and also Mr. Fitzgerald for his providential escape from a dishonorable and undeserved punishment. He leaves the court without a stain on his character, and with the respect and sympathy of all Australians, for the courage and dignity with which he comported himself throughout, while resting under the shadow of such a serious charge.

"But now that it has been conclusively proved that he is innocent, the question arises in everyone's mind, 'Who is the murderer of Oliver Whyte?' The man who committed this dastardly crime is still at large, and for all we know, may be in our midst. Emboldened by the impunity with which he has escaped the hands of justice, he may be walking securely down our streets and talking of the very crime of which he was the perpetrator. Secure in the thought that all traces of him have been lost forever, from the time he alighted from Rankin's cab, at Powlett Street, he has likely ventured to remain in Melbourne, and, for ​all that anyone knows, may have been in the court during the late trial. Nay, this very article, for which his crime has furnished the necessity of its being written, may meet his eye, and he may rejoice at the futile efforts which have been made to find him. But let him beware, Justice is not blind, but blindfolded, and when he least expects it she will tear the bandage from her keen eyes, and drag him forth to the light of day to receive the reward of his deed. Owing to the strong evidence against Fitzgerald, that is the only direction in which the detectives have hitherto looked, but baffled on one side, they will look on the other, and this time may be successful.

"That such a man as the murderer of Oliver Whyte should be at large is a matter of danger, not only to the individual citizens, but to the community at large; for it is a well-known fact that a tiger who once tastes human blood never overcomes his craving for it; and, without doubt, the man who so daringly and coolly murdered a drunken, and therefore defenceless man, will not hesitate about committing a second crime. The present feeling of all classes in Melbourne must be one of terror that such a man should be at large, and must, in a great measure, resemble the fear which filled everyone's heart in London when the Marr murders were committed, and it was known that the murderer had escaped. Anyone who has read De Quincy's graphic description of the crime perpetrated by Williams must tremble to think that such another devil incarnate is in our midst. It is an imperative necessity that such a feeling should be done away with. But how is this to be managed? It is one thing to speak, and another to act. There seems to be no possible clue discoverable at present which can lead to the discovery of the real murderer. The man in the light coat who got out of Rankin's cab at Powlett street, East Melbourne (designedly, as it now appears, in order to throw suspicion on Fitzgerald), has vanished as completely as the witches in Macbeth, and left no trace behind. It was two o'clock in the morning when he left the cab, and, in a quiet suburb like East Melbourne, no one would be about, so that he could easily escape unseen. There seems to be only one chance of ever tracing him, and that is to be found in the papers which were stolen from the pocket of the dead man. ​What they were, only two persons knew, and one knows now. The first two were Whyte and the woman who was called 'The Queen,' and both of them are now dead. The other who knows now is the man who committed the crime. There can be no doubt in the minds of our readers that these papers were the motive of the crime, as no money was taken from the pockets of the deceased. The fact, also, that the papers were carried in a pocket made inside the waistcoat of the deceased shows that they were of value.

"Now, the reason, we think, that the dead woman knew of the existence of those papers is simply this: It appears that she came out from England with Whyte as his mistress, and after staying some time in Sydney came on to Melbourne. How she came into such a foul and squalid den as that she died in, we are unable to say, unless, seeing that she was given to drink, she was taken up drunk by some Samaritan of the slums, and carried to Mrs. Rawlins' humble abode. Whyte visited her there frequently, but appears to have made no attempt to remove her to a better place, alleging as his reason that the doctor said she would die if taken into the air. Our reporter learned from one of the detectives that the dead woman was in the habit of talking to Whyte about certain papers, and on one occasion was overheard to say to him, 'They'll make your fortune if you play your cards well.' This was told to the detective by the woman Rawlins, to whose providential appearance Mr. Fitzgerald owes his escape. From this it can be gathered that the papers—whatever they might be—were of value and sufficient to tempt another to commit a murder in order to obtain them. Whyte, therefore, being dead, and his murderer escaped, the only way of discovering the secret which lies at the root of this tree of crime, is to find out the history of the woman who died in the slum. Traced back for some years, circumstances may be discovered which will reveal what these papers contained, and once that is found, we can confidently say that the murderer will soon be discovered. This is the only chance of finding out the cause and the author of this mysterious murder; and if it fails, we fear the hansom cab tragedy will have to be relegated to the list of those undiscovered crimes, and the assassin of Whyte will have no other punishment than the remorse of his own conscience."

CHAPTER XXI.

THREE MONTHS AFTERWARDS.

A hot December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazing down on the earth clothed in all the beauty of summer garments. Such a description of snowy December must sound strange to English ears; and a hot Christmas day must strike them as being as fantastic as the play in a Midsummer Night's Dream did to Demetrius, when he remarked of it, "This is hot ice and wondrous cold fire." But here in Australia is the realm of topsy-turvydom, and many things, like dreams, go by contraries. Here black swans are an established fact, and the proverb concerning them, when they were considered as mythical a bird as the Phoenix, has been rendered null and void by the discoveries of Captain Cook. Out here ironwood sinks and pumice stone floats, which must strike the curious spectator as a queer freak on the part of Dame Nature. At home the Edinburgh mail bears the hardy traveler to a cold climate, with snowy mountains and wintry blasts; but here the further north one goes the hotter it gets, till it terminates in Queensland, where the heat is so great that a profane traveller of an epigramatic turn of mind once fittingly called it, "An amateur Hell." But however contrary, as Mrs. Gamp would say, Nature may be in her dealings, the English race out in this great continent are much the same as in the old country—John Bull, Paddy, and Sandy, all, being of a conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinions as to the keeping up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmas day, with the sun one hundred odd in the shade, Australian revellers sit down to the roast beef and plum pudding of old England, which they eat contentedly as the orthodox thing, and on New Year's eve the festive Celt repairs to the indoors of his "friends" with a bottle of whiskey and a cheering verse of Auld Lang Syne. However, it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy, and keeps his Christmas in the old fashion, and wears his ​clothes in the new fashion, without regard to heat or cold. A nation that never surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to give in to the fire of the sun, but if some ingenious mortal would only invent some light and airy costume, after the fashion of the Greek dress, and Australians would consent to adopt the same, life in Melbourne and her sister cities would be much cooler than it is at present.

Madge was thinking somewhat after this fashion as she sat on the wide verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazing sun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, hanging midway between heaven and earth, and through its tremendous veil the distant hills looked æriel and unreal. Just before her was the garden, which made her hot to look at, so vivid were the colors of the flowers. Great bushes of oleanders with their bright pink blossoms, luxurious rose trees, with their yellow, red and white flowers, and all along the border a rainbow of flowers, with such brilliant tints that the eye ached to see them in the hot sunshine, and turned restfully to the cool green of the trees which encircled the lawn. In the center was a round pool, surrounded by a ring of white marble, and containing a sheet of still water, which flashed like a mirror in the blinding light. The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long, low house with no upstairs, and with a wide verandah running nearly round it. Cool green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out the sun, and all along were scattered lounging-chairs of basket-work, with rugs, novels, empty sodawater bottles, and all the other evidences that Mr. Frettlby's guests had been wise, and stayed inside during the noonday heat. Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs, and divided her attention between the glowing beauty of the world outside, which she could see through a narrow slit in the blind, and a new novel from Mullen's lying open on her knee. This latter did not interest her much, and no wonder, being one of the polyglot productions of the present day, which contains quotations from the language of every nation under the sun, and where the characters speak in a barbarous jangle of English and French, with an occasional scrap of German thrown in. The powerful and flexible English tongue, which was sufficient for the ​brilliant thoughts of Macaulay and Addison, is much despised by many of our modern novelists, who express themselves in a foolish mixture of French and English, which is as irritating as it is pedantic. With one of these literary curiosities on her knee, it is not surprising that Miss Frettlby let "Tristan, a Romance by Zoe," fall unheeded on the ground, and gave herself up to her own sad thoughts. She was not looking well, for the trial through which she had passed had been very great, and had left its impress of sorrow on her beautiful face. In her eyes, too, usually so calm, there was a troubled look, as leaning her head upon her hands, she thought of the bitterness of the past year.

After Brian's acquittal of the murder of Oliver Whyte, she had been taken by her father up to the station, in the hope that it would restore her to health. The mental strain which had been on her during the trial had nearly brought on an attack of brain fever, but here, far from the excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country, she had recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are more impressionable than men, and it is, perhaps, for this reason that they age quicker. A trouble which would pass lightly over a man leaves an indelible mark on a woman, both physically and mentally, and the terrible episode of Whyte's murder had changed Madge from a bright and merry girl into a grave and beautiful woman. Ah! sorrow is a potent enchantress, and once she touches the heart, life can never be the same again, for we nevermore surrender ourselves entirely to the pleasures of life, but find that many things which we have longed for, when obtained, are but dead sea fruit. Sorrow is the veiled Isis of the world, and once we penetrate her mystery and see her deeply furrowed face and mournful eyes, the magic light of romance dies away from the world, and we see the hard, bitter facts of life in their harsh nakedness. This was the way Madge felt, and she saw the world now, not as the fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful vale of tears through which we must all walk till we reach the "Promised Land." And Brian, he also had undergone a change, for there were a few white hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character, from being gay and bright, had become moody and irritable.

​After the trial he had left town immediately, in order to avoid meeting with his friends, and had gone up to his station, which was next to that of the Frettlbys'. There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking over the cursed secret which the dead woman had told him, and which had threatened to overshadow his life. Every now and then he rode over and saw Madge, but only when he knew her father was away in Melbourne, for he seemed to have taken a dislike to the millionaire, which Madge could not help condemning as unjust, remembering how her father had stood beside him in his trouble. But there was another reason why Brian keep aloof from Yabba Tallook Station, and that was he did not wish to meet any of the gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial he was an object of curiosity and sympathy to every one—a position that was very galling to his proud nature. At Christmas time Mr. Frettlby had asked a lot of people up from Melbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yet she could not refuse her father, and had to play hostess with a smiling brow and aching heart. Felix Rolleston, who a month since had joined the noble army of benedicts, was there with Mrs. Rolleston, nee Miss Featherweight, who ruled him with a rod of iron. Having bought Felix with her money she determined to make good use of him, and being ambitious to shine in Melbourne society had insisted upon Felix studying politics, so that when the next general election came round he could enter Parliament. Felix had rebelled at first, but ultimately gave way, as he found that when he had a good novel concealed among his parliamentary papers time passed very pleasantly, and he got the reputation of a hard worker at little cost. They had brought up Julia with them, and this young person had made up her mind to become the second Mrs. Frettlby. She had not received much encouragement, but, like the English at Waterloo, did not know when she was beaten, and carried on the siege of Mr. Frettlby's heart in an undaunted manner. Dr. Chinston had come up for a little relaxation, and never gave a thought to his anxious patients or the many sick-rooms he was in the habit of visiting. A young English fellow, called Paterson, who amused himself by traveling; an old colonist, full of reminiscences of the ​old days, when, "by gad, sir, we hadn't a gas lamp in the whole of Melbourne," and several other people, completed the party. They had all gone off to the billiard room, and left Madge in her comfortable chair, half asleep.

Suddenly she started as she heard a step behind her, and turning, saw Sal Rawlins, in the neatest of black gowns, with a coquettish white cap and apron, and an open book. The fact is, Madge had been so delighted with Sal for saving Brian's life that she had taken her into her service as maid. Mr. Frettlby had offered strong opposition at first that a fallen woman like Sal should be near his daughter; but Madge determined to rescue the unhappy girl from the life of sin she was leading, and so at last he reluctantly consented. Brian, too, had objected, but ultimately yielded, as he saw that Madge had set her heart on it. Mother Guttersnipe objected at first, characterizing the whole affair as "blarsted 'umbug," but she, likewise, gave in, and Sal became maid to Miss Frettlby, who immediately set to work to remedy Sal's defective education by teaching her to read. The book she held in her hand was a spelling-book, and this she handed to Madge.

"I think I know it now. Miss," she said, respectfully, as Madge looked up with a smile.

"Do you, indeed?" said Madge, gaily. "You will be able to read in no time, Sal."

"This?" said Sal, touching Tristan: A Romance, by Zoe.

"Hardly!" said Madge, picking it up with a look of contempt. "I want you to learn English, and not a confusion of tongues like this thing. But it's too hot to do lessons, Sal," she went on, leaning back in her seat "so get a chair and talk to me."

Sal complied, and Madge looked out on the brilliant flower-beds, and at the black shadow of the tall witch elm which grew on one side of the lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very much of late, and, with the quick instinct of her sex, she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum. Anxious to share his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian, which affected him so deeply.

​"Sal," she said, after a short pause, turning her clear gray eyes on the woman, "I want to ask you something."

The other shivered and turned pale.

"About—about that?"

Madge nodded.

Sal hesitated for a moment and then flung herself at the feet of her mistress.

"I will tell you," she cried. "You have been kind to me, an' have a right to know. I will tell you all I know."

"Then," asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her hands tightly together, "who was this woman whom Mr. Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she come from?"

"Gran an' me found her one evenin' in Little Bourke Street," answered Sal, "just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, an' we took her home with us."

"How kind of you," said Madge.

"Oh, it wasn't that," replied the other, dryly. "Gran' wanted her clothes; she was awful swell dressed."

"And she took the clothes—how wicked!"

"Any one would have done it down our way," answered Sal, indifferently; "but Gran' changed her mind when she got her home. I went out to get some gin for Gran', and when I came back she was huggin' and kissin' the woman."

"She recognized her?"

"Yes, I s'pose so," replied Sal, "an' next mornin', when the lady got square, she made a grab at Gran', an' hollered out, 'I was comin' to see you.'"

"And then?"

"Gran' chucked me out of the room, an' they had a long jaw; and then, when I come back, Gran' tells me the lady is a-going to stay with us 'cause she is ill, and sent me for Mr. Whyte."

"And he came?"

"Oh, yes—often," said Sal. "He kicked up a row when he first turned up, but when he found she was ill, sent a doctor, but it warn't no good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the morning she saw Mr. Fitzgerald."

"I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?"

"Lots," returned Sal; "but he always turned Gran' an' I out of the room afore he started."

​"And"—hesitating—" did you ever overhear one of these conversations?"

"Yes—one," answered the other, with a nod. "I got riled at the way he cleared us out of our own room, and once, when he shut the door and Gran' went off to get some gin I sat down at the door and listened. He wanted her to give up some papers and she wouldn't. She said she'd die first. But at last he got 'em. and took 'em away with him."

"Did you see them?" asked Madge, as the assertion of Gorby that Whyte had been murdered for certain papers flashed across her mind.

"Rather," said Sal, "I was looking through a hole in the door, an' she takes 'em from under her piller, an' 'e takes 'em to the table, where the candle was, an' looks at 'em—they were in a large blue envelop, with writing on it in red ink—then he puts 'em in his pocket, an' she sings out: 'You'll lose 'em,' an' 'e says: ' No, I'll always have 'em with me, an' if 'e wants 'em 'e'll have to kill me fust afore he gits 'em.'"

"And you did not know who the man was to whom the papers were of such importance?"

"No, I didn't; they never said no names."

"And when was it Whyte got the papers?"

"About a week before he was murdered," said Sal after a moment's thought. "An' after that he never turned up again. She kept watching for him night an' day, an' 'cause he didn't come, got mad at him. I heard her sayin', 'You think you've done with me, my gentleman, an' leaves me here to die, but I'll spoil your little game,' an' then she wrote that letter to Mr. Fitzgerald, and I brought him to her, as you know."

"Yes, yes," said Madge, rather impatiently. "I heard all that at the trial, but what conversation passed between Mr. Fitzgerald and this woman? Did you hear it?"

"Bits of it," replied the other. "I didn't split in court, 'cause I thought the lawyer would be down on me for listening. The fust thing I heard Mr. Fitzgerald sayin' was, 'You're mad—it ain't true,' an' she ses, 'S'elp me G—, it is; Whyte's got the proof;' an' then he sings out, 'My poor girl,' an' she ses, 'Will you marry her now?' and ses he, 'I will; I love her more than ever;' and then she ​makes a grab at him and says, 'Spile his game if you can,' and ses he, 'What's yer name?' and she says——"

"What?" asked Madge, breathlessly.

"'Rosanna Moore!'"

There was a sharp exclamation as Sal said the name, and turning round quickly Madge found Brian standing beside her, pale as death, with his eyes fixed on the woman, who had risen to her feet.

"Go on!" he said sharply.

"That's all I know," she replied in a sullen tone.

Brian gave a sigh of relief.

"You can go," he said slowly; "I wish to speak with Miss Frettlby alone."

Sal looked at him for a moment, and then glanced at her mistress, who nodded to her as a sign that she might withdraw. She picked up her book, and with another sharp, inquiring look at Brian, turned and walked slowly into the house.

CHAPTER XXII.

A DAUGHTER OF EVE.

After Sal had vanished into the house, Brian sank into a chair beside Madge, with a weary sigh, He was in riding dress, which became his stalwart figure well, and looked remarkably handsome—but ill and worried.

"What on earth were you asking that girl about?" he said abruptly, taking his hat off, and tossing it and his gloves on the floor.

Madge flushed crimson for a moment, and then taking Brian's two strong hands in her own, looked steadily into his frowning face.

"Why don't you trust me?" she asked, in a quiet tone.

"But it is not necessary that I should," he answered, moodily. "The secret that Rosanna Moore told me on her death-bed is nothing that would benefit you to know."

"Is it about me?" she persisted.

"It is, and it is not," he answered, epigrammatically.

"I suppose that means that it is about a third person and concerns me," she said, calmly, releasing his hands.

"Well, yes," impatiently striking his boot with his riding whip. "But it is nothing that can harm you as long ​as you do not know it, but God help you should anyone tell it to you, for it would embitter your life."

"My life being so very sweet now," answered Madge, with a light sneer. "You are trying to put out a fire by pouring oil on it, and what you say only makes me more determined to find out what it is."

"Madge, I implore you not to persist in this foolish curiosity," he said, almost fiercely, "It will only bring you misery."

"If it concerns me I have a right to know it," she answered curtly. "When I marry you how can we be happy together, with the shadow of a secret between us?"

Brian rose, and leaned against the verandah post, with a dark frown on his face.

"Do you remember that verse of Browning's," he said, coolly—

"Where the apple reddens
⁠Never pry,
⁠Lest we lose our Edens,
⁠Eve and I."

Singularly applicable to our present conversation, I think."

"Ah," she said, her pale face flushing with anger, "you want me to live in a fool's paradise, which may end at any moment."

"That depends upon yourself," he answered coldly. "I never roused your curiosity by telling you that there was a secret, but betrayed it inadvertendly to Calton's cross-questioning. I tell you candidly that I did learn something from Rosanna Moore, and it concerns you, but only indirectly through a third person. But it would do no good to reveal it, and would ruin both our lives."

She did not answer, but looked straight before her into the glowing sunshine.

Brian fell on his knees beside her, and stretched out his hands with an entreating gesture.

"Oh my darling," he cried sadly, "cannot you trust me? The love which has stood such a test as yours cannot fail like this. Let me bear the misery of knowing it alone, without blighting your young life with the knowledge of it. I would tell you if I could, but, God help me, I cannot—I cannot," and he buried his face in his hands.

​Madge closed her mouth firmly, and touched his comely head with her cool, white fingers. There was a struggle going on in her breast between her feminine curiosity and her love for the man at her feet—the latter conquered, and she bowed her head over his.

"Brian," she whispered softly, "let it be as you wish. I will never again try and learn this secret, since you do not desire it."

He arose to his feet, and caught her in his strong arms, with a glad smile.

"My dearest!" he said, kissing her passionately, and then for a few moments neither of them spoke. "We will begin a new life," he said, at length. "We will put the sad past away from us, and only think of it as a dream."

"But the secret will still fret you," she murmured.

"It will wear away with time and with change of scene," he answered, sadly.

"Change of scene!" she repeated, in a startled tone. "Are you going away?"

"Yes; I have sold my station, and will leave Australia forever during the next three months."

"And where are you going?" asked the girl, rather bewildered.

"Anywhere," he said, a little bitterly. "I am going to follow the example of Cain, and be a wanderer on the face of the earth!"

"Alone?"

"That is what I have come to see you about," said Brian, looking steadily at her. "I have cone to ask you if you will marry me at once, and we will leave Australia together."

She hesitated.

"I know it is asking a great deal," he said hurriedly, "to leave your friends, your position, and"—with hesitation—"your father; but think of my life without you—think how lonely I shall be wandering around the world by myself; but you will not desert me now I have so much need of you; you will come with me and be my good angel in the future as you have been in the past?"

She put her hand on his arm, and looking at him with her clear, gray eyes, said, "Yes!"

"Thank God for that," said Brian, reverently, and there was again silence.

​Then they sat down and talked about their plans, and built castles in the air after the fashion of lovers.

"I wonder what papa will say?" observed Madge, idly twisting her engagement ring round and round.

Brian frowned, and a dark look passed over his face.

"I suppose I must speak to him about it," he said at length, reluctantly.

"Yes, of course!" she replied, lightly. "It is merely a formality; still, one that must be observed."

"And where is Mr. Frettlby?" asked Fitzgerald, rising.

"In the billiard-room," she answered, as she followed his example. "No!" she continued, as she saw her father step onto the verandah. "Here he is."

Brian had not seen Mark Frettlby for some time, and was astonished at the change which had taken place in his appearance. Formerly, he had been as straight as an arrow, with a stern fresh-colored face; but now he had a slight stoop, and his face looked old and withered. His thick, black hair was streaked here and there with white, and the only thing unchanged about him were his eyes, which were as keen and bright as ever. Remembering how old his own face looked, and how altered Madge was, now seeing her father, he wondered if this sudden change was traceable to the same source, namely, the murder of Oliver Whyte. Mr. Frettlby's face looked sad and thoughtful as he came along; but, catching sight of his daughter, a smile of affection broke over it.

"My dear Fitzgerald," he said, holding out his hand, "this is indeed a surprise! When did you come over?"

"About half an hour ago," replied Brian, reluctantly, taking the extended hand of the millionaire. "I came to see Madge, and have a talk with you."

"Ah!" that's right," said the other, putting his arm round his daughter's waist. "So that's what has brought the roses to your face, young lady?" he went on, pinching her cheek playfully. "You will stay to dinner, of course, Fitzgerald?"

"Thank you, no!" answered Brian, hastily; "my dress——"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Frettlby, hospitably; "we are not in Melbourne, and I am sure Madge will excuse your dress. You must stay."

​"Yes, do," said Madge, in a beseeching tone, touching his hand lightiy. "I don't see so much of you that I can let you off with half-an-hour's conversation."

Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.

"Very well," he said, in a low voice; "I will stay."

"And now," said Frettlby, in a brisk tone, as he sat down, "the important question of dinner being settled, what is it you want to see me about? Your station?"

"No!" answered Brian, leaning against the verandah post, while Madge slipped her hand through his arm, "I have sold it."

"Sold it!" echoed Frettlby, aghast. "What for?"

"I felt restless, and wanted a change."

"Ah! a rolling stone," said the millionaire, shaking his head, "gathers no moss, you know."

"Stones don't roll on their own accord," replied Brian, in a gloomy tone. "They are impelled by a force over which they have no control."

"Oh, indeed!" said the millionaire, in a joking tone. "And may I ask what is your propelling force?"

Brian looked at the old man's face with such a steady gaze that the latter's eyes dropped after an uneasy attempt to return it.

"Well," he said, impatiently, looking at the two tall young people standing before him. "What do you want to see me about?"

"Madge has agreed to marry me at once, and I want your consent."

"Impossible!" said Frettlby, curtly.

"There is no such word as impossible," retorted Brian, coolly, thinking of the famous remark in Richelieu. "Why should you refuse? I am rich now."

"Pshaw!" said Frettlby, rising impatiently. "It's not money I'm thinking about. I've got enough for both of you; but I cannot live without Madge."

"Then come with us," said his daughter, kissing him.

Her lover, however, did not second the invitation, but stood moodily twisting his tawny mustache, and staring out into the garden in an absent sort of manner.

"What do you say, Fitzgerald?" said Frettlby, who was eyeing him keenly.

"Oh, delighted of course," answered Brian confusedly.

​"In that case," returned the other, coolly, "I will tell you what we will do. I have bought a steam yacht, and she will be ready for sea about the end of January. You will marry my daughter at once, and go round New Zealand for your honey-moon. When you return and I feel inclined, and you two turtle-doves don't object, I will join you, and we will make a tour of the world.

"Oh, how delightful," cried Madge, clasping her hands. "I am so fond of the ocean—with a companion, of course," she added, with a saucy glance at her lover.

Brian's face had brightened considerably, for he was a born sailor, and a pleasing yachting voyage in the blue waters of the Pacific, with Madge as his companion, was, to his mind, as near Paradise as any mortal could get.

"And what is the name of the yacht?" he asked, with deep interest.

"Her name," repeated Mr. Frettlby, hastily. "Oh, a very ugly name, and which I intend to change. At present she is called the 'Rosanna!'"

"Rosanna!"

Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the former stared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidence between the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in the Melbourne slum.

Mr. Frettlby flushed a little when he saw Brian's eye fixed on him with such an inquiring gaze, and arose with an embarrassed laugh.

"You are a pair of moon-struck lovers," he said, gaily, taking an arm of each and leading them into the house; "but you forget dinner will soon be ready."

CHAPTER XXIII.

ACROSS THE WALNUTS AND THE WINE.

Moore, sweetest of bards, sings—

⁠"Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream."

But he evidently made this assertion to his callow days, and before he had learned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth, love's young dream is, no ​doubt, very charming, lovers, as a rule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world, and drank deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. "A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy." This remark was made by Talleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art of love—Brillat-Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, ten to one, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value that hour as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four when, seated at an artistically laid table, with delicately cooked viands, good wines, and pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a delightful sense of absolute enjoyment? Dinner with the English people is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred rite. But there are men—alas! few and far between—who possess the rare art of giving good dinners—good in the sense of sociality as well as of cookery. Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals; he had an innate genius for getting pleasant people together, who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of a pink-globed lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation.

On one side of the dining-room there were French windows opening on the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the dazzling colors of the flowers, somewhat tempered by the soft hazy glow of the twilight. Brian had made himself as respectable as possible, under the odd circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge, contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter that was going on around him. Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the ​more so as Mrs. Rolleston was at the further end of the table, hidden from his view by an epergne of fruit and flowers. Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him so persistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumb devil. Dr. Chinston and Paterson were seated on the other side of the table, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post of honor on Mr. Frettlby's right hand. The conversation had turned on to the subject, ever green and fascinating, of politics, and Mr. Rolleston thought it a good opportunity to air his views as to the government of the colony, and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish, and become a power in the polittical world.

"By Jove, you know," he said, with a wave of his hand, as though he were addressing the House, "the country is going to the dogs, and all that sort of thing. What we want is a man like Beaconsfield."

"Ah! but you can't pick up a man like that every day," said Frettlby, who was listening with an amused smile to Rolleston's disquisitions.

"Rather a good thing, too," observed Dr. Chinston, dryly. "Genius would become too common."

"Well, when I am elected," said Felix, who had his own views, which modesty forbade him to publish, on the subject of the coming colonial Disraeli, "I will probably form a party."

"To advocate what?" asked Paterson, curiously.

"Oh, well, you see," hesitated Felix, "I haven't drawn up a programme yet, so can't say at present."

"Yes, you can hardly give a performance without a programme," said the doctor, taking a sip of wine, and then everybody laughed.

"And on what are your political opinions founded?" asked Mr. Frettlby, absently, without looking at Felix.

"Oh, you see, I've read the Parliamentary reports and constitutional history, and—and Vivian Grey," said Felix, who began to feel himself somewhat at sea.

"The last of which is what the author called it, a lusus naturæ," observed Chinston. "Don't erect your political schemes on such bubble foundations as there are in that novel, for you won't find a Marquis Carabas out here."

​"Unfortunately, no," observed Felix, mournfully; "but we may find a Vivian Grey."

Everyone smothered a smile, the illusion was so patent.

"Well, he didn't succeed in the end," cried Paterson.

"Of course he didn't," retorted Felix, disdainfully; "he made an enemy of a woman, and a man who is such a fool as to do that deserves to fall."

"You have an excellent opinion of our sex, Mr. Rolleston," said Madge, with a wicked glance at the wife of that gentleman, who was listening complacently to her husband's aimless chatter.

"No better than they deserve," replied Rolleston, gallantly.

"But you have never gone in for politics, Mr. Frettlby?"

"Who?—I—no," said the host, rousing himself out of the brown study into which he had fallen. "I'm afraid I'm not sufficiently patriotic, and my business did not permit me."

"And now?"

"Now," echoed Mr. Frettlby, glancing at his daughter, "I am going to travel."

"The jolliest thing out," said Paterson eagerly. "One never tires seeing the queer things there are in the world."

"I've seen queer enough things in Melbourne in the early days," said the old colonist, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh!" cried Julia, putting her hands up to her ears, "don't tell me them for I'm sure they're naughty."

"We wern't saints then," said Old Valpy, with a senile chuckle.

"Ah, then, we haven't changed much in that respect," retorted Frettlby, dryly.

"You talk of your theatres now,' went on Valpy, with the garrulousness of old age; "why, you haven't got a dancer like Rosanna."

Brian started on hearing this name again, and he felt Madge's cold hand touch his.

"And who was Rosanna?" asked Felix, curiously, looking up.

"A dancer and burlesque actress," replied Valpy, vivaciously nodding his old head. "Such a beauty; we were all mad about her—such hair and eyes. You remember her, Frettlby?"

​"Yes," answered the host, in a curiously dry voice.

As the conversation seemed to be getting too much of the after dinner style, Madge arose, and all the other ladies followed her example. The ever polite Felix held the door open for them, and received a bright smile from his wife for, what she considered, his brilliant talk at the dinner table. Brian sat still, and wondered why Frettlby changed color on hearing the name—he supposed that the millionaire had been mixed up with the actress, and did not care about being reminded of his early indiscretions—and, after all, who does?

"She was as light as a fairy," said Valpy, with a chuckle.

"What became of her?" asked Brian, abruptly.

Mark Frettlby looked up suddenly, as Fitzgerald asked this question.

"She went to England in 1858," said the aged one. "I'm not quite sure if it was July or August, but it was 1858."

"You will excuse me, Valpy but I hardly think that these reminiscences of a ballet-dancer are amusing," said Frettlby, curtly, pouring himself out a glass of wine. "Let us drop the subject."

When a man expresses a wish at his own table, it is hardly the proper thing for anyone to go contrary to it, but Brian felt strongly inclined to pursue the conversation. Politeness, however, forbade him to make any further remark, and he consoled himself with the reflection that, after dinner, he would ask Old Valpy about the ballet-dancer whose name caused Mark Frettlby to exhibit such strong emotion. But, to his annoyance, when the gentlemen went into the drawing-room, Frettlby took the old colonist off to his study, where he sat with him the whole evening, talking over old times.

Fitzgerald found Madge seated at the piano in the drawing-room, playing one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without words."

"What a dismal thing that is you are playing, Madge," he said lightly, as he sank into a seat beside her. "It is more like a funeral than anything else."

"Gad, so it is," said Felix, who came up at this moment. "I don't care myself about 'Op. 84' and all that classical humbug. Give me something light—'Belle Helene,' with Emelie Melville, and all that sort of thing."

​"Felix!" said his wife, in a stern tone.

"My dear," he answered, recklessly, rendered bold by the champagne he had taken, "you observed——"

"Nothing particular," answered Mrs. Rolleston, glancing at him with a stony eye, "except that I consider Offenbach low."

"I don't," said Felix, sitting down to the piano, from which Madge had just risen; "to prove he ain't, here goes."

He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and dashed into a brilliant Offenbachian galop, which had the effect of waking up the people in the drawing-room, who felt sleepy after dinner, and sent the blood tingling through their veins. When they were thoroughly roused, Felix, now that he had an appreciative audience, for he was by no means an individual who believed in wasting his sweetness on the desert air, prepared to amuse them.

"You haven't heard the last new song by Frosti, have you?" he asked, after he had brought his galop to a conclusion.

"Is that the composer of 'Inasmuch' and 'How so?'" asked Julia, clasping her hands. "I do love his music, and the words are so sweetly pretty."

"Infernally stupid, she means," whispered Paterson to Brian. "They've no more meaning in them than the titles."

"Sing us the new song, Felix," commanded his wife, and her obedient husband obeyed her. It was entitled, "Somewhere," words by Vashti, music by Paola Frosti, and was one of those extraordinary compositions which may mean anything—that is, if the meaning can be discovered. Felix had a nice voice, though not very strong, and the music was pretty, while the words were mystical.

The first verse was as follows:—

"A flying cloud, a breaking wave,
⁠A faint light in a moonless sky;
⁠A voice that from the silent grave
⁠Sounds sad in one long bitter cry,
⁠I know not, sweet, where you may stand,
⁠With shining eyes and golden hair,
⁠Yet I know I will touch your hand
⁠And kiss your lips somewhere.
⁠Somewhere! Somewhere!
⁠When the summer sun is fair,
⁠Waiting me on land or sea,
⁠Somewhere, love, somewhere!"

​The second verse was very similar to the first, and when Felix finished a murmur of applause broke from every one of the ladies.

"How sweetly pretty," sighed Julia. "Such a lot in it."

"But what is its meaning?" asked Brian, rather bewildered.

"It hasn't got one," replied Felix, complacently. "Surely you don't want every song to have a moral, like a book of Æsop's Fables?"

Brian shrugged his shoulders and turned away with Madge.

"I must say I agree with Fitzgerald," said the Doctor, quickly. "I like a song with some meaning in it. The poetry of the one you sang is as mystical as Browning, without any of his genius to redeem it."

"Philistine," murmured Felix, under his breath, and then vacated his seat at the piano in favor of Julia, who was going to sing a ballad called "Going Down the Hill," which had been the rage in Melbourne musical circles during the last two months.

Meanwhile, Madge and Brian were walking up and down in the moonlight. It was an exquisite night, with a cloudless blue sky glittering with stars, and a great yellow moon in the west. Madge seated herself on the side of the marble ledge which girdled the still pool of water in front of the house, and dipped her hand into the cool water. Brian leaned against the trunk of a great magnolia tree, whose glossy green leaves and great creamy blossoms looked fantastic in the moonlight. In front of them was the house, with the ruddy lamp-light streaming through the wide windows, and they could see the guests within, excited by the music, waltzing to Rolleston's playing, and their dark figures kept passing and re-passing the windows while the charming music of "Bid Me Good-bye and Go" waltz mingled with their merry laughter,

"Looks like a haunted house," said Brian, thinking of Poe's weird poem; "but such a thing is impossible out here."

"I don't know so much about that," said Madge, gravely, lifting up some water in the palm of her hand, and letting it stream back like diamonds in the moonlight. "I knew a house in St. Kilda which was haunted."

​"By what?" asked Brian, skeptically.

"Noises!" she answered, solemnly.

Brian burst out laughing and startled a bat, which flew round and round in the silver moonlight, and whirred away into the shelter of a witch elm.

"Rats and mice are more common here than ghosts," he said lightly. "I'm afraid the inhabitants of your haunted house were fanciful."

"So you don't believe in ghosts?"

"There's a Banshee in our family," said Brian, with a gay smile, "who is supposed to cheer our deathbeds with her howling; but as I've never seen the lady myself, I'm afraid she's a Mrs. Harris."

"It's aristocratic to have a ghost in a family, I believe," said Madge; "that is the reason we colonials have none."

"Ah, but you will have," he answered with a careless laugh. "There are, no doubt, democratic as well as aristocratic ghosts; but pshaw!" he went on impatiently, "what nonsense I talk. There are no ghosts except of a man's own raising. The ghosts of a dead youth—the ghosts of past follies—the ghosts of what might have been—these are the spectres that are more to be feared than those of the churchyard."

Madge looked at him in silence, for she understood the meaning of that passionate outburst—the secret which the dead woman had told him, and which hung like a shadow over his life. She arose quietly and took his arm. The light touch roused him, and a faint wind sent an eerie rustle through the still leaves of the magnolia, as they walked back in silence to the house.

CHAPTER XXIV.

BRIAN RECEIVES A LETTER.

Notwithstanding the hospitable invitation of Mr. Frettlby Brian refused to stay at Yabba Yallook that night, but after saying good-bye to Madge, mounted his horse and rode slowly away in the moonlight. He felt very happy as, letting the reins lie on his horse's neck, he gave himself, up unreservedly to his thoughts. Atra Cura certainly did not sit behind the horseman on this night; and Brian, to his ​surprise, found himself singing "Kitty of Coleraine," as he rode along in the silver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the future seemed so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes; they would live on the ocean, and she would find how much pleasanter it was on the restless water, with their solemn sense of mystery, than on the crowded land.

"Was not the sea
⁠Made for the free—
⁠Land for courts and slaves alone?"

Moore was certainly correct in making such a statement, and she would find out when, with a fair wind and the white sails set, they would plow the blue New Zealand waters, and then would go home to Ireland to the ancestral home of the Fitzgeralds, where he would lead her in under the arch, with "Cead mille failthe" on it, and everyone blessing the fair young bride. Why should he trouble himself about the crime of another? No! He had made a resolve and intended to keep it; he would put this secret with which he had been entrusted behind his back, and would wander about the world with Madge and—her father. He felt a sudden chill come over him as he murmured the last words to himself—"her father."

"I'm a fool," he said, impatiently, as he gathered up the reins, and spurred his horse into a canter. "It can make no difference to me as long as Madge remains ignorant; but to sit beside him, to eat with him, to have him always present like a skeleton at a feast—God help me!"

He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he thundered over the turf, with the fresh, cool night wind blowing keenly against his face, he felt a sense of relief, as though he were leaving some dark spectre behind. On he galloped, with the blood throbbing in his young veins, over miles of plain with the dark-blue, star-studded sky above, and the pale moon shining down on him—past a silent shepherd's hut, which stood near a wide creek, and then splashing through the cool water, which wound away through the dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight—then, again, the wide grassy plain dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheep skurrying away like fantastic spectres—on—on ever on, until his own homestead appears, and he sees the ​star-like light shining brightly in the distance—a long avenue of tall trees, over whose wavering shadows his horse thundered, and then the wide grassy space in front of the house, with the clamorous barking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hoofs up the avenue, comes round the side of the house, and Brian leaps off his horse, and flinging the reins to the man, walks into his own room. There he finds a lighted lamp, brandy and soda on the table, and a packet of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa and opened the window and door so as to let in the cool breeze; then pouring himself out a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up the lamp and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up was from a lady. "Always a she correspondent for me," said Isaac Disraeli, "provided she does not cross." Brian's correspondent did not cross; but notwithstanding this, after reading half a page of small talk and scandal, he flung the letter on the table with an impatient ejaculation. The other letters were principally business ones, but the last one proved to be from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a sensation of pleasure. Calton was a capital letter-writer, and his epistles had done much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which succeeded his acquittal of Whyte's murder, and when he was in danger of getting into a morbid state of mind. Brian, therefore, poured himself out some more brandy and soda, and, lying back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself.

"My dear Fitzgerald," wrote Calton, in his peculiarly clear handwriting, which was such an exception to the usual hieroglyphics of his brethren of the bar, "while you are enjoying the cool breezes and delightful freshness of the country, here am I, with numerous other poor devils, cooped up in this hot and dusty city. How I wish I were with you in the land of Goshen, by the rolling waters of the Murray, where everything is bright and green, and unsophisticated—the two latter terms are almost identical—instead of which my view is bounded by bricks and mortar, and the muddy waters of the Yarra have to do duty for your noble river. Ah! I too have lived in Arcadia, but I don't now; and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, I am not sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is a, lotos-eating Paradise of blissful ignorance, ​and I love the world with its pomps, vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, oh Corydon—don't be afraid, I'm not going to quote Virgil—are studying Nature's book, I am deep in the musty leaves of Themis' volume, but I dare say that the great mother teaches you much better things than her artificial daughter does me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, 'When one is in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope,' so, being in the legal profession, I must respect its muse. I suppose when you saw that this letter came from a law office, you wondered what the deuce a lawyer was writing to you for, and my handwriting, no doubt, suggested a writ—pshaw! I am wrong there, you are past the age of writs—not that I hint that you are old, by no means—you are just at that appreciative age when a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the good things of this world, videlicet—love, wine, and friendship. I am afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law. On reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as Præd's Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and write sense. I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore entrusted you with—ah! you see I know her name, and why?—simply because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the Argus very cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of Whyte's murder, and the reason for it, is knwon to you, but you refuse even in the interests of justice, to reveal it—why, I don't know; but we all have our little faults, and from an amiable, though mistaken sense of—shall I say duty?—you refuse to deliver up the man whose cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life.

"After your departure frem Melbourne every one said 'The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer will never be discovered.' I ventured to disagree with the wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself 'who was this woman who died at Mother Guttersnipe's?' ​Receiving no satisfactory answer from myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney in the John Elder about a year ago as Mr. and Mrs. Whyte. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, coming from a city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, 'Find out the name and all about the woman who left England in the John Elder on the 21st day of August, 18—, as wife of Oliver Whyte.' Mirabile dictu, he found out all about her, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity London is, you must admit my friend was clever. It appears, however, that the task I set him to do was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs. Whyte was rather a notorious individual in her own way. She was a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and, being a very handsome woman, had been photographed innumerable times. Consequently when she very foolishly went with Whyte to choose a berth on board the boat, she was recognized by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of the Frivolity. Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot tell you. With reference to men understanding women, I refer you to Balzac's remark anent the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St. John's Wood and champagne suppers, and longed for the purer air of her native land. Ah! you open your eyes at this latter statement—you are surprised—no, on second thoughts you are not, because she told you herself that she was a native of Sydney, and had gone home in 1858, after a triumphant career of acting in Melbourne. And why did she leave the applauding Melbourne public and the flesh-pots of Egypt? You know this also. She ran away with a rich young squatter, with more money than morals, who happened to be in Melbourne at the time. She seems to have had a weakness for running away. But why she chose Whyte to go with this ​time puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly good-looking, had no position, and a bad temper. How do I know all these traits of Mr. Whyte's character, morally and socially? Easily enough; my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr. Oliver Whyte was the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off, retired into private life, and ultimately went the way of all flesh. His son finding himself with a capital income, and a pretty taste for amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent, found out that his family had come over with the Conqueror—Granville de Whyte helped to sew the Bayeux tapestry, I suppose—and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day, he worshiped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess, pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran off with fortunate Mr. Whyte. As far as this goes, there is nothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the sake of light o'loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched youth embezzles money to buy his divinity jewelry. The career of Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the demi-monde, and, as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far, so good; the motive of the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his money in England, and consequently Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney with comparatively little cash. However, with an Epicurean-like philosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second rate hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common one—drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it. Consequently, on arriving in Melbourne, and finding that a new generation had arisen which knew not Joseph—I mean Musette—she drowned her sorrow in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel with Mr. Whyte to view Melbourne by night, a familiar aspect to her, no doubt. What took her to Little Bourke street I don't know. Perhaps she got lost; perhaps it had been a favorite walk of hers in the old days; at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavory locality by Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself, ​Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan; took her to the squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady's story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel. Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer of this letter has a theory—a fanciful one, if you will—that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte's death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, do you still decline.to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not—well, I shall find it out without you. I have taken and still take, a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later to discover the secret which led to Whyte's murder. If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I, perhaps, will come round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands. So think over what I have said, if I do not hear from you within the next week, I will regard your decision final, and pursue the search myself.

"I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to her father.

"With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly,

Duncan Calton."

​When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back in his chair, stared into the dawning light outside with a haggard face. He arose after a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it feverishly. Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the marvelous breaking of the dawn, but stood staring at the red light flaring in the east and thinking of Calton's letter.

"I can do no more," he said, bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house. "There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all. My poor Madge! My poor Madge!"

A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and, turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire worshipper.

"I accept the omen of the dawn," he cried, "for her life and for mine."

CHAPTER XXV.

WHAT DR. CHINSTON SAID.

His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intended departure.

The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and guided by the sound of merry voices, and the silvery laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn-tennis ground. Madge and her guests were all there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching with great interest a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Paterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Frettlby was not present, as he ​was inside writing letters and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly toward him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.

"How good of you to come," she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm; "and on such a hot day."

"Yes, it's something fearful in the shade," said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade.

"Pardon me if I think the contrary," replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.

Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head.

"Ah! it's easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald," she observed as she resumed her seat. "You are making Madge jealous."

"So he is," answered Madge with a gay laugh. "I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks,"

"Here he comes, then," said her lover, as Rolleston and Paterson, having finished their game walked off the tennis ground and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing his racket down, Mr. Rolleston followed its example with a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness its over and I have won," he said, wiping his heated brow; "galley slaves could not have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat sub tegmine fagi."

"Which means?" asken his wife lazily.

"That onlookers see most of the game," answered her husband impudently.

"I suppose that's what you call a free and easy translation," said Paterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaption of Virgil."

"Let it be iced, then," retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. "I always like my 'something' iced."

"It's a way you've got," said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden ​colored liquor, with a large lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.

"He's not the only one who's got that way," said Paterson gaily, when he had been supplied with a similar drink.

It's a way we've got in the army,
It's a way we've got in the navy,
It's a way we've got in the 'Varsity."

"And so say all of us," finished Rolleston, noisily, and holding out his glass to be replenished; "I'll have another, please. Whew, it is hot."

"What, the drink?" asked Julia, with a giggle.

"No—the day," answered Felix, making a face at her. "It's the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith's advice, by getting out of one's skin, and letting the wind whistle through one's bones."

"With such a hot wind blowing," said Paterson, gravely, "I'm afraid they'd soon be broiled bones."

"Go, giddy one," retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, "or I'll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game."

"Not I," replied Paterson, coolly. "Not being a salamander, I'm hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;" and, turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.

Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly toward the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, but not his reasons for going.

"I got a letter last night," he said, turning his face away from her; "and, as it's about some important business, I must start at,once."

"I don't think it will belong before we follow," answered Madge, thoughtfully. "Papa leaves here at the end of the week."

"Why?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Madge, petulantly; "he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing but wander all over the world."

There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald's mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. ​Frettlby—"A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth."

"Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later," he said, idly. "In fact," with an uneasy laugh, "I believe I'm in one myself."

"That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday," she said. "This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians."

"Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place," said Brian, absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, "but we all lose our way to it late in life."

"At that rate we won't lose our way to it for some time," she said, laughing, as they stepped into the drawing-room, so cool and shady, after the heat and glare outside.

As they entered Mr. Frettlby arose out of a chair near the window, and appeared to have been reading, as he held a book in his hand.

"What! Fitzgerald," he exclaimed in a hearty tone, as he held out his hand; "I am glad to see you."

"I let you know I am living, don't I?" replied Brian, his fair face flushing as he reluctantly took the proffered hand. "But the fact is I have come to say good-bye for a few days."

"Ah! going back to town, I suppose," said Mr. Frettlby, lying back in his chair, and playing with his watch chain. "I don't know that you are wise, exchanging the clear air of the country for the dusty atmosphere of Melbourne."

"Yet Madge tells me you are going back," said Brian, idly toying with a vase of flowers on the table.

"Depends upon circumstances," replied Midas carelessly, "I may and I may not. You go on business, I presume?"

"Well, the fact is Calton——" Here Brian stopped suddenly, and bit his lip with vexation, for he had not intended to mention the lawyer's name.

"Yes?" said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sitting up quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.

"Wants to see me about business," he finished, awkwardly.

"Connected with the sale of your station, I suppose," said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the young man's face. "Can't have a better man. Calton's an excellent man of business."

​"A little too excellent," replied Fitzgerald, ruefully, "he's a man that can't leave well alone."

"Apropos of what?"

"Oh, nothing," answered Fitzgerald, hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at each other steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time a single name flashed through their brains—that name was Rosanna Moore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes and break the magnetism.

"Ah, well," he said lightly, as he rose from his chair, and held out his hand, "if you are two weeks in town call at St. Kilda, and it's more than likely you will find us there."

Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hot sunshine.

"He knows," he muttered involuntarily.

"Knows what, sir?" said Madge, who came silently behind him, and slipped her arm through his. "That you are hungry, and want something to eat before you leave us?"

"I don't feel hungry," said Brian, as they walked toward the door.

"Nonsense," answered Madge, merrily, who, like Eve, was on hospitable thoughts intent. "I'm not going to have you appear in Melbourne a pale, fond lover, as though I were treating you badly. Come, sir—no," she continued, putting up her hand as he tried to kiss her; "business first, pleasure afterwards," and they went into the dining-room laughing.

Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn tennis ground, thinking of the look he had seen in Brian's eyes. He shivered for a moment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenly chill.

"Some one stepping across my grave," he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile. "Bah! how superstitious I am, and yet—he knows, he knows!"

"Come on, sir," cried Felix, who had just caught sight of him; "a racket awaits you."

Frettlby woke with a start, and found himself near the lawn tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking.

He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young man lightly on the shoulder.

​"What?" he said, with a forced laugh, "do you really expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day? You are mad."

"I am hot, you mean," retorted the imperturbable Rolleston, blowing a wreath of smoke.

"That's a foregone conclusion," said Dr. Chinston, who came up at that moment.

"Such a charming novel," cried Julia, who had just caught the last remark.

"What is?" asked Paterson, rather puzzled.

"Howell's book, 'A Foregone Conclusion,'" said Julia, also looking puzzled. "Weren't you talking about it?"

"I'm afraid this talk is getting slightly incoherent," said Felix. "We all seem madder than usual to-day."

"Speak for yourself," said Chinston, indignantly, "I'm as sane as any man in the world."

"Exactly," retorted the other, coolly, "that's what I say, and you, being a doctor, ought to know that every man and woman in the world is more or less mad."

"Where are your facts?" asked Chinston, smiling.

"My facts are all visible ones," said Felix, gravely pointing to the company. "They're all crooked on some point or another."

There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then every one burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr. Rolleston was arguing.

"If you go on like that in the House," said Frettlby, amused, "you will, at all events, have an entertaining Parliament."

"Ah! they'll never have an entertaining Parliament till they admit ladies," observed Paterson, with a quizzical glance at Julia.

"It will be a Parliament of love then," retorted the doctor, dryly, "and not medieval either."

While everyone was laughing at this remark, Frettlby took the doctor's arm, and walked away with him. "I want you to come up to my study, doctor," he said, as they strolled towards the house, "and examine me."

"Why, don't you feel well?" said Chinston, as they entered the house.

"Not lately," replied Frettlby. "I'm afraid I've got heart disease."

​The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.

"Nonsense," he said, cheerfully, "it is a common delusion with people that they have heart disease, and in nine cases out of ten it's all imagination; unless, indeed," he added, waggishly, "the patient happens to be a young man."

"Ah! I suppose you think I'm safe as far as that goes," said Frettlby, as they entered the study, "and what did you think of Rolleston's argument about people being mad?"

"It was amusing," replied Chinston, taking a seat, Frettlby doing the same. "That's all I can say about it, though, mind you, I think there are more mad people at large than the world is aware of."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; do you remember that horrible story of Dickens' in the 'Pickwick Papers,' about the man who was mad and knew it, yet successfully concealed it for years? Well, I believe there are many people like that in the world, people whose lives are one long struggle against insanity, and yet who eat, drink, talk and walk with the rest of their fellowmen, evidently as gay and light hearted as they are."

"How extraordinary."

"Half the murders and suicides are done in temporary fits of insanity," went on Chinston, "and if a person broods over anything his incipient madness is sure to break out sooner or later; but of course there are cases where a perfectly sane person may commit a murder on the impulse of the moment, but I regard such persons as mad for the time being; but again, a murder may be planned and executed in the most cold-blooded manner."

"And in the latter case," said Frettlby, without looking at the doctor, and playing with the paper knife, "do you regard the murderer as mad?"

"Yes, I do," answered the doctor, bluntly. "He is as mad as a person who kills another because he supposes he has been told by God to do so, only there is method in his madness. For instance, I believe that hansom cab murder in which you were mixed up——"

"D——n it, sir! I wasn't mixed up in it," interrupted Frettlby, pale with anger.

"Beg pardon," said Chinston, coolly, "a slip of the tongue; I was thinking of Fitzgerald. Well, I believe ​that crime to have been premeditated, and that the man who committed it was mad. He is, no doubt, at large now, walking about and conducting himself as sanely as you or I, yet the germ of insanity is there, and sooner or later he will commit another crime."

"How do you know it was premeditated?" asked Frettlby, abruptly.

"Anyone can see that," answered the other. "Whyte was watched on that night, and when Fitzgerald went away the other was ready to take his place, dressed the same."

"That's nothing," retorted Frettlby, looking at his companion sharply. "There are dozens of men in Melbourne who wear evening dress, light coats and soft hats—in fact, I generally wear them myself."

"Well, that might have been a coincidence," said the doctor, rather disconcerted; "but the use of chloroform puts the question beyond a doubt; people don't usually carry chloroform about with them."

"I suppose not," answered the other, and then the matter dropped. Chinston made an examination of Mark Frettlby, and when he had finished his face was very grave, though he laughed at the millionaire's fears.

"You're all right," he said, gaily. "Action of the heart a little weak, that's all—only," impressively, "avoid excitements—avoid excitement."

Just as Frettlby was putting on his coat, a knock came to the door and Madge entered.

"Brian is gone," she began. "Oh, I beg your pardon, doctor—but is papa ill?" she asked with sudden fear.

"No, child, no," said Frettlby, hastily, "I am all right; I thought my heart was affected, but it isn't."

"Not a bit of it," answered Chinston, reassuring. "All right—only avoid excitement."

But when Frettlby turned to go to the door, Madge, who had her eyes fixed on the doctor's face, saw how grave it was.

"There is danger?" she said, touching his arm as they paused for a moment at the door.

"No! no!" he answered hastily.

"Yes, there is," she persisted. "Tell me the worst, it is best for me to know."

​The doctor looked at her in some doubt for a few moments, and then placed his hands on her shoulder. "My dear young lady," he said gravely, "I will tell you what I have not dared to tell your father."

"What?" she asked in a low voice, her face growing pale.

"His heart is affected."

"And there is great danger?"

"Yes, great danger. In the event of any sudden shock——" he hesitated.

"Yes——"

"He would probably drop down dead."

"My God!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

KILSIP HAS A THEORY OF HIS OWN.

Mr. Calton sat in his office reading a letter he had just received from Fitzgerald, and it seemed to give him great satisfaction, judging from the complacent smile on his face. "I know," wrote Brian, "that now you have taken up the affair, you will not stop until you find everything out, so, as I want the matter to rest as at present, I will anticipate you, and reveal all. You were right in your conjecture that I knew something likely to lead to the detection of Whyte's murderer; but when I tell you my reasons for keeping such a thing secret, I am sure you will not blame me. Mind you, I do not say that I know who committed the murder; but I have suspicions—very strong suspicions—and I wish to God Rosanna Moore had died before she told me what she did. However, I will tell you all, and leave you to judge as to whether I was justified in concealing what I was told. I will call at your office some time next week, and then you will know everything, that Rosanna Moore told me; but once that you are possessed of the knowledge you will pity me."

"Most extraordinary," mused Calton, leaning back in his chair, as he laid down the letter. "I wonder if he's going to tell me that he killed Whyte after all, and that Sal Rawlins perjured herself to save him! No, that's nonsense, or she'd have turned up in better time, and wouldn't have ​risked his neck up to the last moment. Though I make it a rule never to he surprised at anything, I expect what Brian Fitzgerald tells me will startle me considerahly. I've never met with such an extraordinary case, and from all appearances the end isn't reached yet. "After all," said Calton, thoughtfully, "truth is stranger than fiction."

Here a knock came to the door, and in answer to an invitation to enter, it opened, and Kilsip glided into the room.

"You're not engaged, sir?" he said, in a soft, low voice.

"Oh, dear, no," answered Calton, carelessly; "come in—come in!"

Kilsip closed the door, softly, and gliding along in his usual velvet-footed manner, sat down in a chair near Calton's, and placing his hat on the ground, looked keenly at the harrister.

"Well, Kilsip," said Calton, with a yawn, playing with his watch chain, "any good news to tell me?"

"Well, nothing particularly new," purred the detective, rubbing his hands together.

"Nothing new, and nothing true and no matter," said Calton, quoting Emerson. "And what have you come to see me about?"

"The hansom cab murder," replied the other quietly.

"The devil!" cried Calton, startled out of his professional dignity. "And have you found out who did it?"

"No!" answered Kilsip, rather dismally; "but I've got an idea."

"So had Gorby," retorted Calton, dryly, "an idea that ended in smoke. Have you any practical proofs?"

"Not yet."

"That means you are going to get some?"

"Well, if possible."

"Much virtue in 'if,'" quoted Calton, picking up a pencil, and scribbling idly on his blotting paper. "And to whom does your suspicion point to?"

"Aha!" said Mr. Kilsip, cautiously.

"Don't know him," answered the other, coolly; "family name Humbug, I presume. Bosh! Whom do you suspect?"

Kilsip looked around cautiously, as if to make sure they were alone, and then said in a stage whisper:

​"Roger Moreland!"

"That was the young man that gave evidence as to how Whyte got drunk?

Kilsip nodded.

"Well, and how do you connect him with the murder?"

"Do you remember in the evidence given by the cabmen, Royston and Rankin, they both swore that the man who was with Whyte on that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand?"

"What of that? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wears a diamond ring."

"But not on the forefinger of the right hand."

"Oh! And Moreland wears a ring in that way?"

"Yes!

"Merely a coincidence. Is that all your proof?"

"All I can obtain at present."

"It's very weak," said Calton, scornfully.

The weakest proofs may form a chain to hang a man," observed Kilsip, sententiously.

"Moreland gave his evidence clearly enough," said Calton, rising and walking up and down. "He met Whyte; they got drunk together. Whyte went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwards Moreland followed with the coat, which was left behind by Whyte, and then somebody snatched it from him."

"Ah, did they?" interrupted Kilsip, quickly.

"So Moreland says," said Calton, stopping short. "I understand; you think Moreland was not so drunk as he says, and, after following Whyte outside, put on his coat and got into the cab with him."

"That is my theory."

"It's ingenious enough," said the barrister; "but why should Moreland murder Whyte? What motive had he?"

"Those papers——"

"Pshaw! another idea of Gorby's," said Calton, angrily. "How do you know there were any papers?"

The fact is, Calton did not intend Kilsip to know that Whyte really had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tell him.

"And another thing," said Calton, resuming his walk; "if your theory is correct, which I don't think it is, what became of Whyte's coat? Has Moreland got it?"

​"No, he has not," answered the detective, decisively.

"You seem very positive about it," said the lawyer, after a moment's pause. "Did you ask Moreland about it?"

A reproachful look came into Kilsip's white face.

"Not quite so green," he said, forcing a smile. "I thought you'd a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton. Ask him?— no."

"Then how did you find out?"

"The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel."

"A barman!" echoed Calton; "and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman—pshaw! the idea is absurd."

"Well, you may be right about the matter," said Kilsip, rather angrily; "and if Gorby makes mistakes, I don't pretend to be infallible. But, at all events, when I saw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand."

"Silver isn't a diamond."

"No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on. When I saw that I determined to search his room. I managed to do so while he was out, and found——"

"A mare's nest?"

Kilsip nodded.

"And so your castle of cards falls to the ground," said Calton, jestingly. "Your idea is absurd. Moreland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything."

"Humph—so he says."

"Well, men don't calumniate themselves for nothing."

"It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one," replied Kilsip, coolly. "I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out."

"Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?"

"I shall start looking for the coat first."

"Ah! you think he has hidden it?"

​"I'm sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett street——"

"But he didn't," interrupted Calton, angrily.

"Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did," said Kilsip, quietly. "I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett street, turned to the left down George street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy gardens, then, knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away or hid it, and walked out of the gardens——"

"In evening dress more noticeable than coat."

"He wasn't in evening dress," said Kilsip, quietly.

"No more he was," observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial. "Another blow to your theory. The murderer was in evening dress; the cabman said so."

"Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte."

"Well, what of that?"

"If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moreland wore dark trousers—at least, I suppose so—and, with the coat buttoned up, it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr. Fitzgerald."

"That sounds better," said Calton, thoughtfully. "And what are you going to do?"

"Look for the coat in the Fitzroy gardens."

"Pshaw! a wild goose chase."

"Possibly," said Kilsip, as he arose to go.

"And when shall I see you again?" said Calton.

"Oh, to-night," said Kilsip, pausing at the door. "I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you."

"Why? What's up?"

"She's dying, and wants to tell you some secret."

"Rosanna Moore, by Jove!" said Calton "She'll tell me something about her. I'll get to the bottom of this yet. All right, I'll be here at eight o'clock.'

"Very well, sir!" and the detective glided out.

"I wonder if that old devil knows anything?" said Calton to himself, as he resumed his seat. "She might have overheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, and is going to split. Well, I'm afraid when Fitzgerald does confess I will know all about it beforehand."

CHAPTER XXVII.

MOTHER GUTTERSNIPE JOINS THE MAJORITY.

Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton's office at eight o'clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums, and found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm his belief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times before Calton had been on the point of going to her, and trying to get the secret out of her—that is, if she knew it; but now fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be a true one than when dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips. Consequently, when Kilsip made his appearance, Calton was in a perfect fever of excitement, which he concealed under a calm exterior.

"I suppose we'd better go at once," he said to Kilsip, as he lit a cigar. "That old hag may go off at any moment."

"She might," assented Kilsip, doubtfully, "but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine lives, like a cat."

"Not improbable," retorted Calton, as they passed into the brilliantly lighted street; "her nature seemed to me to be essentially feline. But tell me," he went on, "what's the matter with her—old age?"

"Partly; drink also, I think," answered Kilsip. "Besides, her surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have pretty well settled her."

"It isn't anything catching, I hope," cried the barrister, with a shudder, as they passed into the crowd of Bourke Street.

"Don't know, sir, not being a doctor," answered the detective, stolidly.

​"Oh!" ejaculated Calton in dismay.

"It will be all right, sir," said Kilsip, reassuringly; "I've been there a dozen of times, and I'm all right."

"I dare say," retorted the barrister; "but I may go there once and catch it, whatever it is."

"Take my word, sir, it's nothing worse nor old age and drink."

"Has she a doctor?"

"Won't let one come near her—prescribed for herself."

"Gin, I suppose? Humph! Much nicer than the usual run of medicines."

They went into Little Bourke Street, and after going through the narrow and dark lanes, which now seemed quite familiar to Calton, reached Mother Guttersnipe's den, for in truth it could be called nothing else. After climbing the rickety stairs, which groaned and creaked beneath their weight, they entered the room, and found Mother Guttersnipe lying on the bed in the corner, and the elfish child with the black hair playing cards with a slatternly looking girl at the deal table by the faint light of a tallow candle. They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and the elfish child pushed a broken chair in a sullen manner toward Mr. Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of the room, and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entry awoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen, and sitting up in bed, she huddled the clothes round her, and presented such a gruesome spectacle that Calton involuntarily recoiled. Her white hair was all unbound, and hung in tangled masses over her shoulders in snowy profusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, with the hooked nose and beady black eyes, like those of a mouse, was poked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, were waving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with her claw-like hands. The bottle of square and the broken cup lay beside her, and filling herself a dram, she lapped it up greedily. Some of it went the wrong way, and she was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, which lasted till the elfish child shook her up, and took the cup from her.

"Greedy old beast," muttered this amiable infant, peering into the cup, "ye'd drink the Yarrar dry, I b'lieve."

"Go t' 'ell," muttered the old woman, feebly. "Who's ​they, Lizer?" she said, shading her eyes with one trembling hand, while she looked at Calton and the detective.

"The perlice cove an' the swell," said Lizer, suddenly. "Come to see yer turn up yer toes."

"I ain't dead yet, ye whelp," snarled the hag with sudden energy; "an' if I gits up I'll turn up yer blarsted toes, cuss ye."

Lizer gave a shrill laugh of disdain, and Kilsip stepped forward. "None of this," he said, sharply, taking Lizer by one thin shoulder, and pushing her over to where the other girl was crouching; "stop there till I tell you to move."

Lizer tossed back her tangled black hair, and was about to make some impudent reply, when the other girl, who was older and wiser, put out her hand and pulled her down beside her.

Meanwhile, Calton was addressing himself to the old beldame in the corner.

"You wanted to see me?" he said gently, for, notwithstanding his repugnance to her, she was, after all, a woman, and dying.

"Yes, blarst ye," croaked Mother Guttersnipe, lying down and pulling the greasy bedclothes up to her neck. "You ain't a parson?" with sudden suspicion.

"No, I am a lawyer."

"I ain't a-going to have the cussed parsons a-prowlin' round 'ere," growled the old woman, viciously. "I ain't a-goin' to die yet, cuss ye; I'm going to get well an' strong, an' 'ave a good time of it."

"I am afraid you won't recover," said Calton, gently. "You had better let me send for a doctor."

"No, I shan't," retorted the hag, aiming a blow at him with all her feeble strength. "I ain't a-goin' to have my insides spil'd with salts and senner. I don't want neither parsons nor doctors, I don't. I wouldn't 'ave a lawyer, only I'm a-thinkin' of makin' my will, I am, blarst it."

"Mind I gits the watch," yelled Lizer, from the corner. "If you gives it to Sal I'll tear her eyes out."

"Silence!" said Kilsip, sharply, and with a muttered curse, Lizer sat back in her corner.

"Sharper than a serpent's tooth, she are," whined the old woman, when quiet was once more restored. "That ​young devil 'ave fed at my 'ome, an' now she turns, cuss her."

"Well,—well," said Calton, rather impatiently, "what is it you wanted to see me about?"

"Don't be in such a 'urry," said the hag, with a scowl, "or I'm blamed if I tell you anything, s'elp me G—."

She was evidently growing very weak, so Calton turned to Kilsip and told him in a whisper to get a doctor. The detective scribbled a note on some paper, and, giving it to Lizer, ordered her to take it. The other girl arose, and, putting her arm in that of the child's, they left together.

"Them two young 'usseys gone?" said Mother Guttersnipe. "Right you are, for I don't want what I've got to tell to get into the noospaper, I don't."

"And what is it?" asked Calton, bending forward.

The old woman took another drink of gin, and it seemed to put life into her, for she sat up in the bed, and commenced to talk rapidly, as though she were afraid of dying before her secret was told.

"You've been 'ere afore," she said, pointing one skinny finger at Calton, "and you wanted to find out all about 'er; but you didn't, blarst ye. She wouldn't let me tell, for she was always a proud jade, a-flouncin' round while 'er pore mother was a starvin'."

"Her mother! Are you Rosanna Moore's mother?" cried Calton, considerably astonished.

"May I die if I ain't," croaked the hag. "'Er pore father died of drink, 'cuss 'im, an' I'm a-follerin 'im to the same place in the same way. You weren't about town in the old days, or you'd 'a bin after her, blarst ye."

"After Rosanna?"

"The werry girl," answered Mother Guttersnipe. "She were on the stage, she were, an' my eye what a swell she were, with all the coves a-dying for 'er, and she dancin' over their black 'earts, 'cuss 'em; but she was allays good to me till 'e came."

"Who came?"

"'E!" yelled the old woman, rasing herself on her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury. "'E, a-comin' around with di'monds and gold, and a-ruinin' my pore girl, an' how 'e's 'eld 'is bloomin' 'ead up all these years, as if he were a saint, 'cuss 'im—'cuss 'im.,'

​"Who does she mean?" whispered Calton to Kilsip.

"Mean!" screamed Mother Guttersnipe, whose sharp ears had caught the muttered question. "Why! Mark Frettlby!"

"Good God!" Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise.

"Aye, 'e were a swell in them days," pursued Mother Guttersnipe, "and 'e comes a-philanderin' round my gal, blarst 'im, 'an seduces 'er, and leaves 'er and 'er child to starve, like a black-'earted villian as 'e were."

"The child! Her name!"

"Bah," retorted the hag, with scorn, "as if you didn't know my gran'darter Sal.."

"Sal, Mark Frettlby's child?"

"Yes, an' as pretty a girl as the other, tho' she 'appened to be born on the wrong side of the 'edge. Oh, I've seen 'er a-sweepin' along in 'er silks an' satins as tho' we were dirt—an' Sal 'er 'alf sister—cuss 'er."

Exhausted by the efforts she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat in a dazed manner, thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Frettlby's mistress he hardly wondered at; after all, he was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty and, was evidently one of those women who—rakes at heart—prefer the untrammelled freedom of being a mistress to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality, so many people live in glass houses, that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones, so Calton did not think any the worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what he did wonder at, was that Frettlby should be so heartless as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Guttersnipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man that he was inclined to think it a trick of the old woman's.

"Did Mr. Frettlby know Sal was his child?" he asked.

"Not 'e," snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in an exultant tone. "'E thought she was dead, 'e did, after Roseanner gave him the go-by."

"And why did you not tell him?"

"Cause I wanted to break 'is heart, if 'e 'ad any," said the old beldame, vindictively. "Sal was a-goin' to 'ell as ​fast as she could till she was tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I'd 'ave gone to 'im, and said, 'Look at yer darter! 'Ow Iv'e ruined her as you did mine,"

"You old devil," said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. "You have sacrificed an innocent girl for this."

"None of yer preachin'," retorted the hag, sullenly; "I ain't bin brought up for a saint, I ain't—an' I wanted to pay 'im out, blarst 'im—'e paid me well to 'old my tongue about my darter, an' I've got it 'ere," laying her hand on the pillow. "All gold, good gold—an' mine, cuss me."

Calton arose, he felt quite sick at this exhibition of human depravity, and longed to be away. As he was putting on his hat, however, the two girls entered with a doctor, who nodded to Kilsip, cast a sharp scrutinizing glance at Calton, and then walked over to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, and waited in silence for the end. Mother Guttersnipe had fallen back in the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if to protect her beloved gold, and over her face a deadly paleness was spreading, which told the practised eye of the doctor that the end was near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding the candle to the dying woman's face. She opened her eyes and muttered, drowsily—

"Who's you, go t' 'ell," but then she seemed to grasp the situation again, and she started up with a shrill yell, which made the hearers shudder it was so weird and eerie.

"My money!" she yelled, clasping the pillow in her skinny arms. "It's all mine; ye shan't 'ave it—blarst ye."

The doctor arose from his knees, and shrugged his shoulders. "Not worth while doing anything," he said, coolly; "she'll be dead soon."

The old woman, mumbling over her pillow, caught the word, and burst into tears.

"Dead! dead! my pore Rosanna, with 'er golden 'air, always lovin' 'er pore mother till 'e took 'er away, an' she came back to die—die—ooh!"

Her voice died away in a long, melancholy wail, that made the two girls in the corner shiver and put their fingers in their ears.

"My good woman," said the doctor, bending over the bed, "would you not like to see a minister?"

​She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper, "Why?"

"Because you have only a short time to live," said the doctor, gently. "You are dying."

Mother Guttersnipe sprang up, and seized his arm with a scream of terror.

"Dyin', dyin'—no! no!" she wailed, clawing his sleeve. "I ain't fit to die, cuss me; save me—save me; I don't know where I'd go to, s'elp me! Save me!"

The doctor tried to remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful tenacity.

"It is impossible," he said briefly.

The hag fell back in her bed.

"I'll give you money to save me," she shrieked; "good money. All mine—all mine. See! see 'ere! suverains," and tearing her pillow open, she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a gleaming stream of gold. Gold—gold—it rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchained were they by the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life. She clutched up some of the shining pieces, but her hands trembled so that the sovereigns kept falling from them on the floor, with metallic clinks.

"All mine—all mine," she shrieked, loudly. "Give me my life—gold—money—cuss ye—I sold my soul for it—save me—give me my life," and with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them. They did not say a word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two girls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.

"Don't look at me—don't," cried the hag, falling down again amid the shining gold. "Ye want me to die, blarst ye—I shan't—I shan't—give me my gold," clawing at the scattered sovereigns. "I'll take it with me—I shan't die—G—G—" whimpering. "I ain't done nothin'—let me live—give me a Bible—save me, G—cuss it—G—, G—," and she fell back on the bed, a corpse.

The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and the dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the three men, sick at heart, turned away to seek assistance, with that wild cry still ringing in their ears—

"G— save me, G—!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK FRETTLBY HAS A VISITOR.

According to the copy books of our youth, "Procrastination is the thief of time," and certainly, Brian found that the remark was a true one. He had been nearly a week in town, yet could not make up his mind to go and see Calton, and though morning after morning he set out with the determination to go straight to Chancery Lane, yet he never arrived there. He had gone back to his lodgings in East Melbourne, and passed his time either in the house or in taking long walks in the gardens, or along the banks of the muddy Yarra. When he did go into town, on business connected with the sale of his station, he drove there and back in a hansom, for he had a curious shrinking against seeing any of his friends. He quite agreed with Byron's remark about "d——d good natured friends," and was determined that he would not meet or talk with people, whose every word and action would imperceptibly remind him of the disgrace which had fallen on him of standing in the criminal dock. Even when walking by the Yarra he had a sort of uneasy feeling that he was looked upon as an object of curiosity, and as being very handsome, many people turned and looked at him, he attributed their admiration to a morbid desire for seeing a man who had nearly been hanged for murder.

As soon as his situation was sold and he married to Madge, he determined to leave Australia, and never set foot on it again. But until he could leave the place he saw no one, nor mixed with his former friends, so great was his dread at being stared at. Mrs. Sampson, who had welcomed him back with shrill exclamations of delight, was loud in her expressions of disapproval as to the way he was shutting himself up.

"Your eyes bein' 'ollow," said the sympathizing cricket, "it is nat'ral as it's want of air, which my 'usband's uncle, bein' a druggist, an' well-to-do, in Collingwood, ses as 'ow a want of ox-eye-gent, bein' a French name, as 'e called the atmispeare, were fearful for pullin' people down, an' ​makin' 'em go off their food, which you hardly eats anythin', an' not bein' a butterfly it's expected as your appetite would be larger."

"Oh, I'm all right," said Brian, absently, lighting a cigarette, and only half listening to his landlady's garrulous chatter, "but if anyone calls, tell them I'm not in. I don't want to be bothered by visitors."

"Bein' as wise a thing as Solomon ever said," answered Mrs. Sampson, energetically, "which, no doubt, 'e was in good 'ealth when seein' the Queen of Sheber, as is necessary when anyone calls, and not feelin' disposed to speak, which I'm often that way myself on occasions, my sperits, bein' low, as I've 'eard tell soder water 'ave that effect on 'em which you takes it with a dash of brandy, tho' to be sure that might be the cause of your want of life, and—drat that bell," she finished, hurrying out of the room as the front door bell sounded, "which my legs is a-givin' way under me, thro' bein' overworked."

Meanwhile, Brian sat and smoked contentedly, much relieved by the departure of Mrs. Sampson, with her constant chatter, but he soon heard her mount the stairs again, and she entered the room with a telegram, which she handed to her lodger.

"'Opin' it don't contain bad noose," she said, as she retreated to the door again, "which I don't like 'em, 'avin' 'ad a shock in early life thro' one 'avin' come unexpected, as my uncle's grandfather were dead, 'avin' perished of consumption, our family all bein' disposed to the disease—and now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll get to my dinner, bein' in the 'abit of takin' my meals reg'lar, and I studies my inside carefully, bein' easily upset, thro' which I never could be a sailor."

Mrs. Sampson, having at last exhausted herself, went out of the room and croaked loudly down the stairs, leaving Brian to read his telegram. Tearing open the red-marked envelope, it turned out to be from Madge, saying that they had come back to town, and asking him down to dinner that evening. Fitzgerald folded up the telegram, then, rising from his seat, walked moodily up and down the room with his hands in his pockets.

"So he is there," said the young man aloud; "and I shall have to meet him and shake hands with him, knowing ​all the time what he is. If it were not for Madge I'd leave this cursed place at once, but after the way she stood by me in my trouble, I should be a coward if I did so."

It was as Madge had predicted—her father was unable to stay long in one place, and had come back to Melbourne a week after Brian had arrived. The pleasant party at the station was broken up, and, like the graves of a household, the guests were scattered far and wide. Paterson had left for New Zealand en route for the wonders of the Hot Lakes, and the old colonist was about to start for England in order to refresh his boyish memories. Mr. and Mrs. Rolleston had come back to Melbourne, where the wretched Felix was compelled once more to plunge into politics, and Dr. Chinston had resumed his usual routine of fees and patients.

Madge was glad to be back in Melbourne once more, as now that her health was restored she began to have a craving for the excitement of town life. It is now more than three months since the murder, and the nine days' wonder was a thing of the past. The possibility of a war with Russia was now the one absorbing topic of the hour, and the colonies were busy preparing for the attack of a possible enemy. As the Spanish kings had drawn their treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the White Czar lay violent hands on the golden stores of Australia, but here there were no uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the midst of stormy rumors of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was quite forgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detective office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver Whyte would remain a free man. There were only two people in Melbourne who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip. Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck his cowardly blow in the dark, and though there seemed no possible chance of success, yet they worked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, and ​there seemed little hope of verifying them. The barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the death-bed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on the subject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer would soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be found that would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at the time of Mark Frettlby's return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for Fitzgerald's confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked to get evidence against Moreland.

On receiving Madge's telegram, Brian determined to go down in the evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge to that effect. He did not want to meet Mark Frettlby, but did not, of course, tell this to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself, as her father had gone in to his club, and the time of his return was uncertain. After dinner, she wrapped a light cloak round her, and went out on to the verandah to wait for her lover. The garden looked charming in the moonlight, with the black, dense cypress trees standing up against the sky, and the great fountain splashing cool and silvery. There was a great, heavily foliaged oak just by the gate, and she strolled down the path and stood under it in the shadow, listening to the whisper and rustle of its multitudinous leaves. It is curious the unearthly glamour which moonlight seems to throw over everything, and though Madge knew every flower, tree, and shrub in the garden, yet they all looked weird and fantastical in the cold, white light. She went up to the fountain, and seating herself on the edge, amused herself by dipping her hand into the chilly water, and letting it fall, like silver rain, back into the basin. While thus engaged she heard the iron gate open and shut with a clash, and springing to her feet, saw a gentleman coming up the path in a light coat and soft wide-awake hat.

"Oh, it's you at last, Brian?" she cried, as she ran down the path to meet him. "Why did you not come before?"

"Not being Brian, I can't say," answered her father's voice.

Madge burst out laughing.

"What an absurd mistake," she cried. "Why, I thought you were Brian."

​"Indeed!"

"Yes; in that hat and coat I could not tell the difference in the moonlight."

"Oh," said her father, with a laugh, pushing his hat back, "moonlight is necessary to complete the spell, I suppose?"

"Of course," answered his daughter. "If there was no moonlight, alas for lovers!"

"Alas, indeed!" echoed her father. "They would become as extinct as the moa; but where are your eyes, Puss, when you take an old man like me for your young Lochinvar?"

"Well, really, papa," answered Madge, deprecatingly, "you do look so like him in that coat and hat that I could not tell the difference till you spoke."

"Nonsense, child," said Frettlby, roughly, "you are fanciful," and, turning on his heel, he walked rapidly toward the house, leaving Madge staring after him in astonishment, as well she might, for her father had never spoken to her so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of his sudden anger, she stood spell-bound, until there came a step behind her, and a soft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian smiling at her.

"Oh, it's you," she said, with a pout, as he caught her in his arms and kissed her.

"Only me," said Brian, ungrammatically; "disappointing, isn't it?"

"Oh, fearfully," answered the girl, with a gay laugh, as arm-in-arm they walked towards the house. "But do you know I made such a curious mistake just now; I thought papa was yon."

"How strange," said Brian, absently, for indeed he was admiring her charming face, which looked so pure and sweet in the moonlight.

"Yes, wasn't it?" she replied. "He had on a light coat and a soft hat, just like you wear sometimes, and as you are both the same height, I took you for one another."

Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heart, as he saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed, for just at that moment there came into his mind the curious coincidence of the man who got into the hansom cab being dressed the same as he was. What if—"Nonsense," he said, aloud, rousing himself out of the train of thought the resemblance had suggested.

​"I'm sure it isn't," said Madge, who had been talking about something else for the last five minutes. "You are a very rude young man."

"I beg your pardon," said Brian, waking up. "You were saying——"

"That the horse is the most noble of all animals—exactly."

"I don't understand—" began Brian, rather puzzled.

"Of course you don't," interrupted Madge, petulantly, "considering I've been wasting my eloquence on a deaf man for the last ten minutes, and very likely lame as well as deaf. And to prove the truth of the remark, she ran up the path with Brian after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimble and better acquainted with the garden than he was, but at last he caught her just as she was running up the steps into the house, and then—history repeats itself.

They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Frettlby had gone up to his study and did not want to be disturbed. Madge sat down to the piano, but before she struck a note Brian took both her hands prisoners.

"Madge," he said gravely, "what did your father say when you made that mistake."

"He was very angry," she answered. "Quite cross; I'm sure I don't know why."

Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the visitors' bell sounded; they heard the servant answer it, and then someone was taken up stairs to Mr. Frettlby's study.

When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that had come to the door.

"I don't know Miss," he answered; "he said he wanted to see Mr. Frettlby particularly, so I took him up to the study."

"But I thought that papa said he was not to be disturbed?"

"Yes, Miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him."

"Poor papa," sighed Madge, turning again to the piano. "He has always got such a lot to do."

Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldtenfel's last new valse, a dreamy, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian, lying lazily on the sofa, listened. ​Then she sang a gay little French song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mocking refrain, which made Brian laugh.

"A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and coming over to the piano. "We certainly can't touch the French in writing these airy trifles."

"They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge, running her fingers over the keys; "they mean nothing."

"Of course not," he replied; "but don't you remember that DeQuincy says there is no moral, either big or little, in the Iliad; so these light chansons are something similar."

"Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allen than all those frothy things," said Madge, with fine scorn. "Come and sing it."

"A five-act funeral, it is," groaned Brian, as he rose to obey; "let's have Garry Owen instead."

Nothing else, however, would suit the capricious young person at the piano, so Brian sang the quaint old ditty of Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with such disdain.

"Sir John Graham was an ass," said Brian, when he had finished; "or, instead of dying in such a silly manner, he'd have married her right off, without asking her permission."

"I don't think she was worth marrying," replied Madge, opening a book of Mendelssohn's duets; "or she wouldn't have made such a fuss over her health not being drunk."

"Depend upon it, she was a plain woman," remarked Brian, gravely, "and was angry because she wasn't toasted among the rest of the country belles. I think the young man had a narrow escape myself—she'd always have reminded him about that unfortunate oversight."

"You seem to have analyzed her nature pretty well," said Madge, a little dryly; "however, we'll leave the failings of Barbara Allen alone, and sing this."

This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, "Would that My Love," which was a great favorite of Brian's. They were in the middle of it when Madge suddenly stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her father's study. Recollecting Dr. Chinston's warning, she ran out of the room and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much importance to it.

Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it was locked.

​"Who's there?" asked her father, sharply, from inside.

"Only me, papa," she answered. "I thought you were—"

"No! No!—I'm all right," replied her father, quickly. "Go down stairs; I'll join you shortly."

Madge went back to the drawing room only half satisfied with the explanation. She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather an anxious face.

"What's the matter?" he asked, as she paused a moment at the foot of the stairs.

"Papa says nothing," she replied, "but I am sure he must have been startled or he would not have cried out like that."

She told him what Dr. Chinston had said about the state of her father's heart, a recital which shocked Brian greatly. They did not return to the drawing-room, but went out on to the verandah, where, after wrapping a cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. They sat down at the far end of the verandah, somewhat in the shadow, and could see the hall door wide open, and a warm flood of mellow light pouring therefrom, and beyond the cold white moonshine. After about a quarter of an hour, they were chatting on indifferent subjects, when a man came out of the hall door, and paused for a moment on the steps of the verandah. He was dressed in a rather fashionable suit of clothes, but, in spite of the heat of the night, had a thick white silk scarf round his throat.

"That's rather a cool individual," said Brian, removing his cigarette from between his lips. "I wonder what—Good God!" he cried, rising to his feet as the stranger turned round to look at the house, and took off his hat for a moment—"Roger Moreland."

The man started, and looked quickly round into the dark shadow of the verandah where they were seated, then, putting on his hat, ran quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang after him. Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian's face, as revealed by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it.

"Who is Roger Moreland?" she asked, touching his arm—"Ah! I remember," with sudden horror. "Oliver Whyte's friend."

"Yes," in a hoarse whisper, "and one of the witnesses at the trial,"

CHAPTER XXIX.

MR. CALTON'S CURIOSITY IS SATISFIED.

There was not much sleep for Brian that night. He left Madge almost immediately and went home, but did not go to bed. He felt too anxious and ill at ease to sleep, and passed the greater part of the night walking up and down his room, occupied with his own sad thoughts. He was wondering in his own mind as to what could be the meaning of Roger Moreland's visit to Mark Frettlby. All the evidence that he had given at the trial was that he had met Whyte, and had been drinking with him during the evening. Whyte then went out, and that was the last Moreland had seen of him. Now, the question was, "What did he go to see Mark Frettlby for?" He had no acquaintance with him, and yet he called by appointment. It is true he might have been in poverty, and the millionaire being well known as extremely generous, Moreland might have called on him to get money. But then the cry which Frettlby had given after the interview had lasted a short time proved that he had been startled. Madge had gone upstairs and found the door locked, her father refusing her admission. Now, why was he so anxious Moreland should not be seen by any one? That he had made some startling revelation was certain, and Fitzgerald felt sure that it was in connection with the hansom cab murder case. He wearied himself with conjectures about the matter, and towards daybreak threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed, and slept heavily till twelve o'clock the next day. When he arose and looked at himself in the glass, he was startled at the haggard and worn appearance of his face. The moment he was awake his mind went back to Mark Frettlby and the visit of Roger Moreland.

"The net is closing round him," he murmured to himself. "I don't see how he can escape. Oh! Madge! Madge! if I could only spare you the bitterness of knowing what you must know sooner or later, and that other unhappy girl—the sins of the fathers will be visited on the children—God help them."

​He had his bath, and, after dressing himself, went into his sitting-room, where he had a cup of tea, which refreshed him considerably. Mrs. Sampson came crackling merrily upstairs with a letter, and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise on seeing his altered appearance.

"Lor', sir!" she exclaimed, "What 'ave you bin a-doin'—me knowin' your 'abits know'd as you'd gone to bed, not to say as it's very temptin' in this 'ot weather, but with excuses, sir, you looks as you 'adn't slept a blessed wink."

"No more I have," said Brian, listlessly holding out his hand for the letter. "I was walking up and down my room all last night—I must have walked miles."

"Ah! 'ow that puts me in mind of my pore 'usband," chirped the cricket; "bein' a printer, and accustomed like a howl to the darkness, when 'e was 'ome for the night 'e walked up and down till 'e wore out the carpet, bein' an expensive one, as I 'ad on my marriage, and the only way I could stop 'im was by givin' 'im somethin' soothin', which you, sir, ought to try—whiskey 'ot, with lemon and sugar—but I've 'eard tell as chloroform——"

"No, d—— it," said Brian, hastily, startled out of his politeness, "I've had enough of that."

"Achin' teeth, no doubt," said the landlady, going to the door, "which I'm often taken that way myself, decayed teeth runnin' in the family, tho', to be sure, mine are stronger than former, a lodger of mine 'avin bin a dentist, an' doin' them beautiful, instead of payin' rent, not 'avin' ready cash, 'is boxes bein' filled with bricks on 'is departure from the 'ouse."

As Brian did not appear particularly interested in these domestic reminiscences, and seemed as if he wanted to be left alone, Mrs. Sampson, with a final crackle, went down stairs and talked with a neighbor in the kitchen, as to the desirability of drawing her money out of the savings bank in case the Russians should surprise and capture Melbourne.

Brian, left alone, stared out of the window at the dusty road and the black shadows cast by the tall poplars in front of the house.

"I must leave this place," he said to himself. "Every chance remark seems to bear on the murder, and I'm not going to have it constantly by my side like the skeleton at the feast."

​He suddenly recollected the letter which he held in his hand, and which he now looked at for the first time. It proved to be from Madge, and tearing it hastily open, he read it.

"I cannot understand what is the matter with papa," she wrote. "Ever since that man Moreland left last night he shut himself up in his study, and is writing there hour after hour. I went up this morning but he would not let me in. He did not come down to breakfast, and I am getting seriously alarmed. Come down to-morrow and see me, for I am anxious about his state of health, and I am sure that Moreland told him something which has upset him."

"Writing," said Brian, as he put the letter in his pocket, "what about, I wonder? Perhaps he is thinking of committing suicide! If so, I for one will not stop him. It is a horrible thing to do, but it would be acting for the best under the circumstances."

In spite of his determination to see Calton and tell all, Fitzgerald did not go near him that day. He felt ill and weary, the want of sleep and mental worry telling on him fearfully, and he looked ten years older than he did before the murder of Whyte. It is trouble which draws lines on the smooth forehead and furrows round the mouth. If a man has any mental worry, his life becomes a positive agony to him. Mental tortures are quite as bad as physical ones, if not worse. The last thing before dropping off to sleep is the thought of trouble, and with the first faint light of dawn it returns, and hammers all day at the weary brain. But while a man can sleep, life is rendered at least endurable, and of all the blessings which Providence has bestowed, there is none so precious as that same sleep, which, as wise Sancho Panza says, "wraps every man like a cloak." Brian felt the need of rest; so sending a telegram to Calton to call on him in the morning, and another to Madge that he would be down to luncheon next day, he stayed inside all day, and amused himself with smoking and reading. He went to bed early, and succeeded in having a sound sleep; so when he awoke next morning he felt considerably refreshed and reinvigorated.

He was having his breakfast at half-past eight, when he heard the sound of wheels, and immediately afterwards a ​ring at the bell. He went to the window and saw Calton's trap at the door, while the owner was shortly afterwards shown into the room.

"Well, you are a nice fellow," cried Calton, after greetings were over. "Here I've been waiting for you with all the patience of Job, thinking you were still up country."

"Will you have some breakast? asked Brian, laughing at his indignation.

"What have you got?" said Calton, looking over the table. "Ham and eggs. Humph! Your landlady's culinary ideas are very limited."

"Most landladies' ideas are," retorted Fitzgerald, resuming his breakfast. "Unless Heaven invents some new animal, lodgers will go on getting beef and mutton, alternated with hash, until the end of the world."

"When one is in Rome, one mustn't speak ill of the Pope," answered Calton with a grimace. "Do you think your landlady can supply me with some brandy and soda?"

"I think so," answered Fitzgerald, rising, and ringing the bell; "but isn't it rather early for that sort of thing?"

"There's a proverb about glass houses," said Calton, severely, "which applies to you in this particular instance."

Whereupon Fitzgerald laughed, and Calton having been supplied with what he required, prepared to talk business.

"I need hardly tell you how anxious I am to hear what ye've got to say," he said, leaning back in his chair, "but I may as well tell you that I am satisfied that I know half your secret already."

"Indeed!" Fitzgerald looked astonished, "in that case I need not—"

"Yes you need," retorted Calton. "I told you I only know half."

"Which half?"

"Hum—rather difficult to answer—however, I'll tell you what I know, and you can supply all deficiencies. I am quite ready—go on—stop—" he arose and closed the door carefully. "Well," resuming his seat, "Mother Guttersnipe died the other night."

"Is she dead?"

"As a door-nail," answered Calton, calmly. "And a horrible death-bed it was—her screams ring in my ears yet—but before she died she sent for me, and said—"

​"What?"

"That she was the mother of Rosanna Moore."

"Yes!"

"And that Sal Rawlins was Rosanna's child."

"And the father?" said Brian, in a low voice.

"Was Mark Frettlby."

"Ah!"

"And now what have you to tell me?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing," echoed Calton, surprised, "then this is what Rosanna Moore told you when she died?"

"Yes!"

"Then why have you made such a mystery about it?"

"You ask that," said Fitzgerald, looking up in surprise.

"If I had told it, don't you see what a difference it would have made to Madge?"

"I'm sure I don't," retorted the barrister, completely mystified. "I suppose you mean Frettlby's connection with Rosanna Moore; well, of course, it was not a very creditable thing for her to have been Frettlby's mistress; but still—"

"His mistress?" said Fitzgerald, looking up sharply; "then you don't know all."

"What do you mean—was she not his mistress?"

"No—his wife!"

Calton sprang to his feet and gave a cry of surprise.

"His wife!"

Fitzgerald nodded.

"Why, Mother Guttersnipe did not know this—she thought Rosanna was his mistress."

"He kept his marriage secret," answered Brian, "and as his wife ran away with some one else shortly afterwards, he never revealed it."

"I understand now," said the barrister slowly. "For if Mark Frettlby was lawfully married to Rosanna Moore—Madge is illegitimate."

"Yes, and she now occupies the place which Sal Rawlins—or rather Sal Frettlby—ought to."

"Poor girl," said Calton, a little sadly. "But all this does not explain the mystery of Whyte's murder."

"I will tell you that," said Fitzgerald, quickly. "When Rosanna left her husband, she ran away to England with ​some young fellow, and when he got tired of her she returned to the stage, and became famous as a burlesque actress, under the name of Musette. There she met Whyte, as your friend found out, and they came here for the purpose of extorting money from Frettlby. When they arrived in Melbourne, Rosanna let Whyte do all the business, and kept herself quiet. She gave her marriage certificate to Whyte, and he had it on him the night he was murdered."

"Then Gorby was right," interposed Calton, eagerly. "The man to whom those papers were valued did murder Whyte!"

"Can you doubt it? And that man was——"

"Not Mark Frettlby?" burst out Calton. "In God's name, not Mark Frettlby?"

Brian nodded, "Yes, Mark Frettlby!"

There was silence for a few moments, Calton being too much startled by the revelation to say anything.

"When did you discover this?" he asked, after a pause.

"At the time you first came to see me in prison," said Brian. "I had no suspicion till then; but when you said Whyte was murdered for the sake of certain papers—knowing what they were and to whom they were valuable—I immediately guessed that Mark Frettlby had killed Whyte in order to obtain them, and keep his secret."

"There can be no doubt of it," said the barrister, with a sigh. "So this is the reason Frettlby wanted Madge to marry Whyte—her hand was to be the price of his silence. When he withdrew his consent, Whyte threatened him with exposure. I remember he left the house in a very excited state on the night he was murdered. Frettlby must have followed him up town, got into the cab with him, and after killing him with chloroform, took the marriage certificate from his secret pocket and escaped."

Brian rose to his feet and walked rapidly up and down the room.

"Now you can understand what a hell my life has been the last few months," he said, knowing that he had committed the crime, and yet I had to sit with him, eat with him, and drink with him, with the knowledge that he was a murderer, and Madge—good God—Madge, his daughter!"

Just then a knock came to his door, and Mrs. Sampson ​entered with a telegram, which she handed to Brian. He tore it open as she withdrew, and glancing over it gave a cry of horror, and left it flutter to his feet.

Calton turned rapidly on hearing this cry, and seeing him fall into a chair with a ghastly white face, snatched up the telegram and read it. When he did so his face grew as pale and startled as Fitzgerald's, and, lifting his hand, he said solemnly—

"It is the judgment of God!"

CHAPTER XXX.

NEMESIS.

Men, according to the old Greek, "were the sport of the gods," who, enthroned on high Olympus, put evil desires into the hearts of mortals, and, when evil actions were the outcome of evil thoughts, amused themselves by watching the ineffectual efforts made by their victims to escape a relentless deity called Nemesis, who exacted a penalty for their evil deeds. It was no doubt very amusing—to the gods, but it is questionable if the men found it so. They had their revenge, however, for, weary of plaguing puny mortals,who whimpered and cried when they saw they could not escape, the inevitable Nemesis turned her attention from actors to spectators and swept away the whole Olympian hierarchy. She smashed their altars, pulled down their statues and after she had completed her malicious work found that she had vulgarly speaking, been cutting off her nose to spite her face, for she, too, became an object of derision and disbelief, and was forced to retire to the same obscurity to which she had relegated the other deities. Men, however, found out that she had not been altogether useless as a scapegoat upon which to lay the blame of their own shortcomings, so they created a new deity called Fate, and laid any misfortune which happened to them to her charge. Her worship is still very popular, especially among lazy and unlucky people, who never bestir themselves on the ground that whether they do so or not their lives are already settled by Fate. After all, the true religion of Fate has been preached by George Eliot, when she says that our lives are the outcome of our actions. Set up any idol you please ​upon which to lay the blame of unhappy lives and baffled ambitions, but the true cause is to be found in men themselves. Every action, good or bad, which we do has its corresponding reward, and Mark Frettlby found it so, for the sins of his youth were now being punished in his old age. No doubt he had sinned gaily enough in that far-off time when life's cup was still brimming with wine, and no asp hid among the roses; but Nemesis had been an unseen spectator of all his thoughtless actions, and now came to demand her just dues. He felt somewhat as Faust must have felt when Mephistopheles suggested a visit to Hades, in repayment of those years of magic youth and magic power. So long ago it seemed since he had married Rosanna Moore, that he almost persuaded himself that it had been only a dream—a pleasant dream, with a disagreeable awakening. When she had left him he had tried to forget her, recognizing how unworthy she was of a good man's love. He heard that she had died in a London hospital, and with a passionate sigh for a perished love, had dismissed her from his thoughts forever. His second marriage had turned out a happy one, and he regretted the death of his wife deeply. Afterwards all his love centered in his daughter, and he thought he would be able to spend his declining years in peace. This, however, was not to be, and he was thunderstruck when Whyte arrived from England with the information that his first wife still lived, that the daughter of Mark Frettlby was illegitimate. Sooner than this, Frettlby agreed to anything; but Whyte's demands became too exorbitant, and he refused to comply with them. On Whyte's death he again breathed freely, when suddenly a second possessor of his fatal secret started up in the person of Roger Moreland. As the murder of Duncan had to be followed by that of Banquo in order to render Macbeth safe, so he foresaw that while Roger Moreland lived his life would be one long misery. He knew that the friend of the murdered man would be his master, and would never leave him during his life, while after his death he would probably publish the whole ghastly story, and defame the memory of the widely respected Mark Frettlby. What is it that Shakespeare says?—

​

"Good name in man or woman
⁠Is the immediate jewel of their souls."

And after all these years of spotless living and generous use of his wealth, was he to be dragged down to the depths of infamy and degradation by a man like Moreland? Already in fancy, he heard the jeering cries of his fellow-men, and saw the finger of scorn point at him—he, the great Mark Frettlby, who was famous throughout Australia for his honesty, integrity and generosity. No, it could not be, and yet this would surely happen unless he took means to prevent it.

The day after he had seen Moreland, and knew that his secret was no longer safe, since it was in the power of a man who might reveal it at any moment in a drunken fit, or out of sheer maliciousness, he sat at his desk writing. After a time he laid down his pen, and taking up a portrait of his dead wife which stood just in front of him, he stared at it long and earnestly. As he did so, his mind went back to the time when he had first met and loved her. Even as Faust had entered into the purity and serenity of Gretchen's chamber, out of the coarseness and profligacy of Auerbach's cellar, so he, leaving behind him the wild life of his youth, had entered into the peace and quiet of a domestic home. The old feverish life with Rosanna Moore seemed to be as unsubstantial and chimerical, as, no doubt, his union with Lillith after he met Eve, seemed to Adam in the old Rabbinical legend. There seemed to be only one way open to him by which he could escape the relentless fate which dogged his steps. He would write a confession of everything from the time he first met Rosanna, and then—death. He could cut the Gordian knot of all his difficulties, and then his secret would be safe—safe—no, it could not be while Moreland lived. When he was dead Moreland would see Madge and embitter her life with the story of her father's sins—yes—he must live to protect her, and drag his weary chain of bitter remembrances through life, always with that terrible sword of Damocles hanging over him. But still, he would write out his confession, and after his death, whenever it may happen, it might help, if not altogether exculpate, at least to secure some pity for a man who had been hardly dealt with by Fate. His resolution taken, he put it into ​execution at once, and sat all day at his desk filling page after page with the history of his past life, which was so bitter to him. He started at first languidly, and as in the performance of an unpleasant but necessary duty. Soon, however, he became interested in it, and took a peculiar pleasure in putting down every minute circumstance which made the case stronger against himself. He dealt with it, not as a criminal, but as a prosecutor, and painted his conduct as much blacker than it really had been. Towards the end of the day, however, after reading over the early sheets, he experienced a revulsion of feeling, seeing how severe he had been on himself, so he wrote a defence upon his conduct, showing that fate had been too strong for him. It was a weak argument to bring forward, but still he felt it was the only one he could make. It was quite dark when he had finished, and while sitting in the twilight, looking dreamily at the sheets scattered all over his desk, he heard a knock at his door, and heard his daughter's voice asking if he was coming to dinner. All day long he had closed his door against every one, but now, his task being ended, he collected all the closely written sheets together, placed them in a drawer of his escritoire, which he locked, and then opened the door.

"Dear papa," cried Madge, as she entered rapidly and threw her arms around his neck, "what have you been doing here all day by yourself?"

"Writing," returned her father laconically, as he gently removed her arms.

"Why, I thought you were ill," she answered, looking at him apprehensively.

"No, dear," he replied, quietly. "Not ill, but worried."

"I knew that dreadful man who came last night had told you something to worry you. Who was he?"

"Oh! a friend of mine," answered Frettlby, with hesitation.

"What—Roger Moreland?"

Her father started.

"How do you know it was Roger Moreland?"

"Oh! Brian recognized him as he went out."

Mark Frettlby hesitated for a few moments, and then busied himself with the papers on his desk, as he replied in a low voice—

​"You are right—it was Roger Moreland—he is very hard up, and as he was a friend of poor Whyte's, asked me to assist him, which I did."

He hated to hear himself telling such a deliberate falsehood, but there was no help for it—Madge must never know the truth as long as he could conceal it.

"Just like you," said Madge, kissing him lightly with filial pride. "The best and kindest of men."

He shivered slightly as he felt her caress, and thought how she would recoil from him did she know all. "After all," says some cynical writer, "the illusions of youth are mostly due to the want of experience." Madge, ignorant in a great measure of the world, cherished her pleasant illusions, though many of them had been destroyed by the trials of the past year, and her father longed to keep her in this frame of mind.

"Now go down to dinner, my dear," he said, leading her to the door. "I will follow soon."

"Don't be long," replied his daughter, "or I shall come up again," and she ran down the stairs, her heart feeling strangely light.

Her father looked after her until she vanished, then, heaving a regretful sigh, returned to his study, and taking out the scattered papers fastened them together and endorsed them, "My Confession." He then placed them in an envelope, sealed it, and put it back in the desk. "If all that is in that packet were known," he said aloud, as he left the room, "what would the world say?"

That night he was singularly brilliant at the dinner table. Generally a very reticent and grave man, on this night he laughed and talked so gaily that the very servants noticed the change. The fact was he felt a sense of relief at having unburdened his mind, and felt as though by writing out that confession he had laid the spectre which had haunted him for so long. His daughter was delighted at the change in his spirits, but the old Scotch nurse, who had been in the house since Madge was a baby, shook her head—

"He's fey," she said gravely. "He's no lang for the warld." Of course she was laughed at—people who believe in presentiments generally are—but, nevertheless, she held firmly to her opinion.

Mr. Frettlby went to bed early that night, as the ​excitement of the last few days and the feverish gaiety in which he had lately indulged proved too strong for him. No sooner had he laid his head on his pillow than he dropped off to sleep at once, and forgot in placid slumber the troubles and worries of his waking hours.

It was only nine o'clock, so Madge stayed by herself in the great drawing-room, and read a new novel, which was then creating a sensation, and was called "Sweet Violet Eyes." It belied its reputation, however, for it was very soon thrown on the table with a look of disgust, and rising from her seat Madge walked up and down the room, and wished some good fairy would hint to Brian that he was wanted. If a man is a gregarious animal, how much more then, is a woman! This is not a conundrum, but a simple truth. "A female Robinson Crusoe," says a writer who prided himself upon being a keen observer of human nature—"a female Robinson Crusoe would have gone mad for want of something to talk to." This remark, though severe, nevertheless contains several grains of truth, for women, as a rule, talk more than men. They are more sociable, and a Miss Misanthrope, in spite of Justin M'Carthy's, is unknown—at least in civilized communities. Miss Frettlby, being neither misanthropic nor dumb, began to long for someone to talk to, and, ringing the bell, ordered Sal to be sent in. The two girls had become great friends, and Madge, though two years younger than the other, assumed the role of mentor, and under her guidance Sal was rapidly improving. It was a strange irony of fate which brought these two children of the same father, each with such different histories—the one reared in luxury and affluence, never having known want; the other dragged up in the gutter, all unsexed and besmirched by the life she had led. "The whirligig of time brings in its revenges," and it was the last thing in the world Mark Frettlby would have thought of seeing: Rosanna Moore's child, whom he fancied dead, under the same roof as his daughter Madge.

On receiving Madge's message Sal came to the drawing-room, and the two were soon chatting amicably together. The drawing-room was almost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted. Mr. Frettlby very sensibly detested gas, with its glaring light, and had nothing but lamps in his ​drawing room. Away at the end of the apartment, where Sal and Madge were seated, there was a small table, on which stood a lamp, with an opaque globe, which, having a shade over it, threw a soft and subdued circle of light round the table, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of semi-darkness. Near this sat Madge and Sal, talking gaily, and away up on the left hand side they could see the door open, and a warm flood of light pouring in from the hall.

They had been talking together for some time, when Sal's quick ear caught a footfall on the soft carpet, and, turning rapidly, she saw a tall figure advancing down the room. Madge saw it, too, and started up in surprise on recognizing her father. He was clothed in his dressing-gown, and carried some papers in his hand.

"Why, papa, said Madge, in surprise, "I——"

"Hush!" whispered Sal, grasping her arms. "He's asleep."

And so he was. In accordance with the dictates of the excited brain, the weary body had risen from the bed and wandered about the house. The two girls, drawing back into the shadow, watched him with bated breath as he came slowly down the room. In a few moments he was within the circle of light, and, moving noiselessly along, he laid the papers he carried on the table. They were in a large blue envelope, much worn, with writing in red ink on it. Sal recognized it at once as the one she had seen the dead woman with, and, with an instinctive feeling that there was something wrong, tried to draw Madge back as she watched her father's action with an intensity of feeling which held her spell-bound. Frettlby opened the envelope and took therefrom a yellow, frayed piece of paper, which he spread out on the table. Madge bent forward to see it, but Sal, with sudden terror, drew her back.

"For God's sake, no," she cried.

But it was too late; Madge had caught sight of the names on the paper—"Marriage: Rosanna Moore—Mark Frettlby"—and the whole awful truth flashed upon her. These were the papers Rosanna Moore had handed to Whyte. Whyte had been murdered by the man to whom the papers were of value.

"God! My father!"

​She Staggered blindly forward, and then, with one piercing shriek, fell to the ground. In doing so she struck against her father, who was still standing beside the table. Awakened suddenly, with that wild cry in his ears, he opened his eyes wide, put out feeble hands, as if to keep something back, and with a strangled cry fell dead on the floor beside his daughter. Sal, horror-struck, did not lose her presence of mind, but snatching the papers off the table, she thrust them into her pocket, and then shrieked aloud for the servants. But they, already attracted by Madge's wild cry, came hurrying, in, to find Mark Frettlby, the millionaire, lying dead, and his daughter lying in a faint beside her father's corpse.

CHAPTER XXXI.

HUSH-MONEY.

As soon as Brian received the telegram which announced the death of Mark Frettlby, he put on his bat, stepped into Calton's trap, and drove along to the St. Kilda station in Flinders Street with that gentleman. There Calton dismissed his trap, sending a note to his clerk with the groom, and went down to St. Kilda with Fitzgerald. On arrival they found the whole house perfectly quiet and orderly, owing to the excellent management of Sal Rawlins. She had taken the command in everything, and although the servants, knowing her antecedents, were disposed to resent her doing so, yet such was her administrative power and strong will, that they obeyed her implicitly. Mark Frettlby's body had been taken up to his bedroom, Madge had been put to bed, and Dr. Chinston and Brian sent for. When they arrived they could not help expressing their admiration at the capital way in which Sal Rawlins had managed things.

"She's a clever girl, that," whispered Calton to Fitzgerald. "Curious thing she should have taken up her proper position in her father's house. Fate is a deal cleverer than we mortals think her."

Brian was about to reply when Dr. Chinston entered the room. His face was very grave, and Fitzgerald looked at him in alarm.

​"Madge—Miss Frettlby," he faltered.

"Is very ill," replied the doctor; "has an attack of brain fever. I can't answer for the consequences yet."

Brian sat down on the sofa and stared at the doctor in a dazed sort of a way. Madge dangerously ill—perhaps dying. What if she did die, and he lost the true-hearted woman who stood so nobly by him in his trouble?

"Cheer up," said Chinston, patting him on the shoulder; "while there's life there's hope, and whatever human aid can do to save her will be done."

Brian grasped the doctor's hand in silence, his heart being too full to speak.

"How did Frettlby die?" asked Calton.

"Heart disease," said Chinston. "His heart was very much affected, as I discovered a week or so ago. It appears he was walking in his sleep, and, entering the drawing-room, he alarmed Miss Frettlby, who screamed, and must have touched him. He awoke suddenly, and the natural consequence followed—he dropped down dead."

"What alarmed Miss Frettlby?" asked Brian, in a low voice, covering his face with his hand.

"The sight of her father walking in his sleep, I suppose," said Chinston, buttoning his glove; "and the shock of his death, which took place indirectly through her, accounts for the brain fever."

"Madge Frettlby is not the woman to scream and waken a somnambulist," said Calton, decidedly, "knowing, as she did, the danger. There must be some other reason."

"This young woman will tell you all about it," said Chinston, nodding toward Sal, who entered the room at this moment. "She was present, and since then has managed things admirably; and now I must go. Keep up your heart, my boy; I'll pull her through yet."

After the doctor had gone, Calton turned sharply to Sal Rawlins, who stood waiting to be addressed.

"Well," he said briskly, "can you tell us what startled Miss Frettleby?"

"I can, sir," she answered quietly. "I was in the drawing-room when Mr. Frettlby died; but—we had better go up to the study."

"Why?" asked Calton, in surprise, as he and Fitzgerald followed her up stairs.

​"Because sir," she said, when they had entered the study and she had locked the door. "I don't want any one but yourselves to know what I tell you."

"More mystery," muttered Calton, as he glanced at Brian, and took his seat at the escritoire.

"Mr. Frettlby went to bed early last night," said Sal, calmly, "and Miss Madge and I were talking together in the drawing-room, when he entered, walking in his sleep, and carrying some papers "

Both Calton and Fitzgerald started, and the latter grew pale.

"He came down the room, and spread out a paper on the table where the lamp was. Miss Madge bent forward to see what it was. I tried to stop her, but it was too late. She gave a scream, and fell on the floor. In doing so she happened to touch her father. He awoke, and fell down dead."

"And the papers?" asked Calton, uneasily.

Sal did not answer, but producing them from her pocket, laid them in his hands.

Brian bent forward, as Calton opened the envelope in silence, but both gave vent to an exclamation of horror at seeing the certificate of marriage which they knew Rosanna Moore had given to Whyte. Their worst suspicions were confirmed, and Brian turned away his head, afraid to meet the barrister's eye. The latter folded up the papers thoughtfully, and put them in his pocket.

"You know what these are?" he asked Sal, eyeing her keenly.

"I could hardly help knowing," she answered; "it proves that Rosanna Moore was Mr. Frettlby's wife, and—" she hesitated.

"Go on," said Brian, in a harsh tone, looking up.

"And they were the papers she gave Mr. White."

"Well!"

She was silent for a moment, and then looked up with a flush.

"You needn't think I'm going to split," she said, indignantly, recurring to her Bourke street slang in the excitement of the moment. "I know what you know, but s'elp me G— I'll be as silent as the grave."

"Thank you," said Brian, fervently, taking her hand; "I ​know you love her too well to betray this terrible secret."

"I would be a nice un', I would," said Sal, with scorn, "after her lifting me out of the gutter, to round on her—a poor girl like me, without a friend or a relative, now Gran's dead."

Calton looked up quickly. It was plain Sal was quite ignorant that Rosanna Moore was her mother. So much the better; they would keep her in ignorance, perhaps not altogether, but it would be folly to undeceive her at present.

"I'm goin' to Miss Madge now," she said, going to the door, "and I won't see you again; she's getting lightheaded, and might let it out; but I'll not let anyone in but myself," and so saying she left the room.

"Cast thy bread upon the waters," said Calton oracularly. "The kindness of Miss Frettlby to that poor waif is already bearing fruit—gratitude is the rarest of qualities, rarer even than modesty."

Fitzgerald made no answer, but stared out of the window, and thought of his darling lying sick unto death, and he could do nothing to save her.

"Well," said Calton, sharply.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Fitzgerald. "I suppose the will must be read, and all that sort of thing."

"Yes," answered the barrister, "I am one of the executors."

"And the others?"

"Yourself and Chinston," answered Calton; "so I suppose," turning to the desk, "we can look at his papers, and see that all is straight."

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Brian, mechanically, his thoughts far away, and then he turned again to the window. Suddenly Calton gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and, turning hastily, Brian saw him holding a thick roll of papers in his hand, which he had taken out of the drawer.

"Look here, Fitzgerald," he said, greatly excited, "here is Frettlby's confession—look!" and he held it up.

Brian sprang forward in astonishment. So at last the hansom cab mystery was to be cleared up. These sheets, no doubt, contained the whole narration of the crime, and how it was committed.

"We will read it, of course," he said, hesitating, half hoping that Calton would propose to destroy it at once.

​"Yes," answered Calton; "the three executors must read it, and then—we will burn it."

"That will be the better way," answered Brian, gloomily.

"Frettlby is dead, and the law can do nothing in the matter, so it would be best to avoid the scandal of publicity. But why tell Chinston?"

"We must," said Calton, decidedly. "He will be sure to gather the truth from Madge's ravings, and may as well know all. He is quite safe, and will be silent as the grave. But I am more sorry to tell Kilsip."

"The detective! Good God, Calton, surely you will not do so!"

"I must," replied the barrister, quietly. "Kilsip is firmly persuaded that Moreland committed the crime, and I have the same dread of his pertinacity as you had of mine. He may find out all."

"What must be, must be," said Fitzgerald, clenching his hands. "But I hope no one else will find out this miserable story. There's Moreland, for instance."

"Ah! true," said Calton, thoughtfully. "He called and saw Frettlby the other night, you say?"

"Yes. I wonder what for."

"There is only one answer," said the barrister, slowly. "He must have seen Frettlby following Whyte when he left the hotel, and wanted hush-money."

"I wonder if he got it," observed Fitzgerald.

"Oh, I'll soon find that out," answered Calton, opening the drawer again, and taking out the dead man's cheque-book. "Let me see what cheques have been drawn lately."

Most of the blocks were filled up with small amounts, and one or two for a hundred or so. Calton could find no large sum such as Moreland would have demanded, when, at the very end of the book, he found a cheque torn off, leaving the block-slip quite blank.

"There you are," he said, triumphantly holding out the book to Fitzgerald. "He wasn't such a fool as to write in the amount on the block, but tore the cheque out, and wrote in the sum required."

"And what's to be done about it?"

"Let him keep it, of course," answered Calton, shrugging his shoulders. "It's the only way to secure his silence."

​"I expect he cashed it yesterday, and is off by this time."

"So much the better for us," said Calton, grimly. "But I don't think he's off, or Kilsip would have let me know. We must tell him or he'll get everything out of Moreland, and the consequences would be that all Melbourne will know the story; whereas, by showing him the confession, we get him to leave Moreland alone, and thus secure silence in both cases."

"I suppose we must see Chinston?"

"Yes, of course. I will telegraph to him and Kilsip to come up to my office, then we will settle the whole matter."

"And Sal Rawlins?"

"Oh! I had quite forgotten her," said Calton, in a perplexed voice. "She knows nothing of her parents, and, of course, Mark Frettlby died in the belief that she was dead."

"We must tell Madge," said Brian, gloomily. "There is no help for it. Sal is by rights the heiress to the money of her dead father."

"That depends upon the will," replied Calton, dryly. "If it specifies that the money is left to 'my daughter, Margaret Frettlby,' Sal Rawlins can have no claim; and if such is the case it will be no good telling her who she is."

"And what's to be done?"

"Sal Rawlins," went on the barrister, without noticing the interruption, "has evidently never given a thought to her father or mother, as the old hag, no doubt, swore they were dead. So I think it will be best to keep silent—that is, if no money is left her, and, as her father thought her dead, I don't think there will be any. In that case it would be best to settle an income on her. You can easily find a pretext, and let the matter end."

"But suppose, in accordance with the wording of the will, she is entitled to all the money?"

"In that case," said Calton, gravely, "there is only one course open—she must be told everything, and the dividing of the money left to her generosity. But I don't think you need be alarmed, I'm pretty sure Madge is the heiress."

"It's not the money I think about," said Brian hastily. "I'd take Madge without a penny."

"My boy," said the barrister, placing his hand kindly on Brian's shoulder, "when you marry Madge Frettlby, you will get what is better than money—a heart of gold."

CHAPTER XXXII.

DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM.

"Nothing is certain but the unforeseen;" so says a French proverb, and judging from the unexpected things which daily happen to us, it is without doubt a very true one. If anyone had told Madge Frettlby one day that she would be stretched on a bed of sickness the next, and would be quite oblivious of the world and its doings, she would have laughed the prophet to scorn. Yet it was so, and she was tossing and turning on a bed of pain to which the couch of Procrustes was one of roses. Sal sat beside her, ever watchful of her wants, and listened through the bright hours of the day, or the still ones of the night, to the wild and incoherent words which issued from her lips. She kept incessantly calling on her father to save himself, and then would talk about Brian, and sing snatches of song, or sob out broken sentences about her dead mother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear her. No one was allowed in the room except Sal, and when Dr. Chinston heard the things she was saying, although used to such cases, he recoiled.

"There is blood on your hands," cried Madge, sitting up in bed, with her hair all tangled and falling over her shoulders; "red blood, and you cannot wash it off. Oh, Cain! God save him! Brian, you are not guilty; my father killed him. God! God !" and she fell back on her disordered pillows, weeping bitterly.

"What does she mean?" asked the doctor startled by her last words.

"Nothing," answered Sal, curtly, going to the bed.

Dr. Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards took his leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see the patient.

"Tain't likely," said Sal, in a disgusted tone, as she closed the door after him. "I'm not a viper to sting the bosom as fed me," from which it may be gathered she was advancing rapidly in her education.

Meanwhile Dr. Chinston had received Calton's telegram, ​and was considerably astonished thereat. He was still more so when, on arriving at the office at the time appointed, he found Calton and Fitzgerald were not alone, but a third man whom he bad never seen was with them. This latter Calton introduced to him as Mr. Kilsip, of the detective office, a fact which began to make the worthy doctor uneasy, as he could not divine the meaning of the presence of a detective. However, he made no remark, but took the seat handed to him by Mr. Calton and prepared himself to listen. Calton locked the door of the office, and then went back to his desk, having the other three seated before him in a kind of semi-circle.

"In the first place," said Calton to the doctor, "I have to inform you that you are one of the executors under the will of the late Mr. Frettlby, and that is why I asked you to come here to-day. The other executors are Mr. Fitzgerald and myself."

"Oh, indeed," murmured the doctor, politely.

"And now," said Calton, looking at him, "do you remember the hansom cab murder, which caused such a sensation some months ago?"'

"Yes, I do," replied the doctor, rather astonished; "but what has that to do with the will?"

"Nothing to do with the will," answered Calton, gravely, "but the fact is, Mr. Frettlby was implicated in the affair."

Dr. Chinston glanced inquiringly at Brian.

"It's nothing to do with my arrest," he said, sadly.

Madge's words, uttered in her delirium, flashed across the doctor's memory.

"What do you mean?" he gasped, pushing back his chair, "How was he implicated?"

"That I cannot tell you," answered Calton, "until I read his confession."

"Ah!" said Kilsip, becoming very attentive.

"Yes," said Calton, turning to Kilsip, "your hunt after Moreland is a wild goose chase, for the murderer of Oliver Whyte is discovered."

"Discovered!" cried Kilsip and the doctor in one breath.

"Yes, and his name is Mark Frettlby."

Kilsip shot a glance of disdain out of his bright black eyes, and gave a low laugh of disbelief, but the doctor pushed back his chair furiously, and arose to his feet.

​"This is monstrous," he cried, in a rage. "I won't sit still and hear this accusation against my dead friend."

"Unfortunately, it is too true," said Brian, sadly.

"How dare you say so?" said Chinston, turning angrily on him. "And you going to marry his daughter!"

"There is only one way to settle the question," said Calton, coldly. "We must read his confession."

"But why the detective?" asked the doctor, ungraciously, as he took his seat reluctantly.

"Because I want him to hear for himself that Mr. Frettlby committed the crime, and that he may keep it quiet."

"Not till I've arrested him," said Kilsip determinedly.

"But he's dead," said Brian.

"I'm speaking of Roger Moreland," retorted Kilsip. "For he and no other murdered Oliver Whyte."

"That's a much more likely story," Chinston said.

"I tell you no," said Calton, vehemently. "God knows I would like to preserve Mark Frettlby's good name, and it is with this object I have brought you all together. I will read the confession, and when you know the truth, I want you all to keep silent about it, as Mark Frettlby is dead, and the publication of his crime can do no good to anyone."

"I know," resumed Calton addressing the detective, "that you are fully convinced in your own mind that you are right and I am wrong, but what if I tell you that Mark Frettlby died holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime was committed?"

Kilsip's face lengthened considerably.

"What were the papers?"

"The marriage certificate of Mark Frettlby and Rosanna Moore, the woman who died in the back slum."

Kilsip was seldom astonished, but he was this time, while Dr. Chinston fell back in his chair and looked at the barrister with a dazed sort of expression.

"And what's more," went on Calton, triumphantly, "do you know that Moreland went to Frettlby two nights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush money?"

"What!" cried Kilsip.

"Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently saw Frettlby, and threatened to expose him unless he paid for his silence."

"Very strange," murmured Kilsip to himself, with a ​disappointed look on his face. "But why did Moreland keep still so long?"

"I cannot tell you," replied Calton, "but no doubt, the confession will explain all."

"Then for heaven's sake read it," broke in Dr. Chinston, impatiently. "I'm quite in the dark, and all your talk is Greek to me."

"One moment," said Kilsip, dragging a bundle from under his chair, and untying it. "If you are right, what about this?" and he held up a light coat, very much soiled and weather-worn.

"Whose is that?" asked Calton, startled. "Not Whyte's?"

"Yes, Whyte's," repeated Kilsip, with great satisfaction. "I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near the gate that opens to George street, East Melbourne. It was up in a fir-tree."

"Then Mr. Frettlby must have got out at Powlett street, and walked down George street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardens into town," said Calton.

Kilsip took no heed of the remark, but took a small bottle out of the pocket of the coat and held it up.

"I also found this," he said.

"Chloroform," cried every one, guessing at once that it was the missing bottle.

"Exactly," said Kilsip, replacing it. "This was the bottle which contained the poison used by—by—well, call him the murderer. The name of the chemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who bought it. Now, who do you think?" with a look of triumph.

"Frettlby," said Calton, decidedly.

"No, Moreland!" burst out Chinston, greatly excited.

"Neither," retorted the detective, calmly. "The man who purchased this was Oliver Whyte himself."

"Himself?" echoed Brian, now thoroughly surprised, as, indeed, were all the others.

"Yes. I had no trouble in finding out that, thanks to the 'Poisons Act.' As I knew no one would be so foolish as to carry chloroform about in his pocket for any length of time, I mentioned the day of the murder as the probable date it was bought. The chemist turned up his book, and found that Whyte was the purchaser."

​"And what did he buy it for?" asked Chinston.

"That's more than I can tell you," said Kilsip, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's down in the book as being bought for medicinal uses, which may mean anything."

"The law requires a witness," observed Calton, cautiously. "Who was the witness?"

Again Kilsip smiled triumphantly.

"I think I can guess," said Fitzgerald. "Moreland?"

Kilsip nodded.

"And I suppose," remarked Calton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, "that is another of your proofs against Moreland. He knew that Whyte had chloroform on him, therefore he followed him that night and murdered him?"

"Well, I———"

"It's a lot of nonsense," said the barrister, impatiently. "There's nothing against Moreland to implicate him. If he killed Whyte, what made him go and see Frettlby?"

"But," said Kilsip, sagely nodding his head, "if, as Moreland says, he had Whyte's coat in his possession before the murder, how is it that I should discover it afterwards up a fir-tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, with an empty chloroform bottle in the pocket?"

"He may have been an accomplice."

"What's the good of all this conjecturing?" said Chinston, impatiently, now thoroughly tired of the discussion. "Read the confession, and we will soon know the truth, without all this talk."

Calton assented, and all having settled themselves to listen, he began to read what the dead man had written.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE CONFESSION.

"What I am now about to write is set forth by me so that the true circumstances connected with the 'Hansom Cab Tragedy,' which took place in Melbourne in 18—, may be known. I owe a confession particularly to Brian Fitzgerald, seeing that he was accused of the crime. Although I know he was rightfully acquitted of the charge, yet I wish him to know all about the case, though I am convinced, from his altered demeanor toward me, that he is ​better acquainted with it than he chooses to confess. In order to account for the murder of Oliver Whyte, I must go back to the beginning of my life in this colony, and show how the series of events began which culminated in the committal of the crime.

"Should it be necessary to make this confession public, in the interests of justice, I can say nothing against such a course being taken; but I would be grateful if it could be suppressed, both on account of my good name and of my dear daughter Margaret, whose love and affection has so soothed and brightened my life.

"If, however, she should be informed of the contents of these pages, I ask her to deal leniently with the memory of one who was sorely tried and tempted.

"I came to the colony of Victoria, or rather, as it was called then, New South Wales, in the year 18—. I had been in a merchant's office in London, but not seeing much opportunity for advancement, I looked about to see if I could better myself. I heard of this new land across the ocean, and though it was not then the El Dorado which it afterward turned out, and, truth to tell, had rather a shady name, owing to the transportation of convicts, yet I longed to go there and start a new life. Unhappily, however, I had not the means to go, and saw nothing better before me than the dreary life of a London clerk, as it was impossible that I could save out of the small salary I got. Just at this time, however, an old maiden aunt of mine died and left a few hundred pounds to me, so, with this, I came out to Australia, determined to become a rich man. I stayed some time in Sidney, and then came over to Port Phillip, now so widely known as Marvelous Melbourne, where I intended to pitch my tent. I saw that it was a young and rising colony, though of course, coming as I did before the days of the gold diggings, I never dreamed it would spring up, as it had done since, to a nation. I was careful and saving in those days, and, indeed, I think it was the happiest time of my life.

"I bought land whenever I could scrape the money together, and, at the time of the gold rush, was considered well-to-do. When, however, the cry that gold had been discovered was raised, and the eyes of the nations were turned to Australia with her glittering treasures, men ​poured in from all parts of the world, and the 'Golden Age' commenced. I began to get rich rapidly, and was soon pointed out as the wealthiest man in the Colonies. I bought a station, and, leaving the riotous, feverish Melbourne life, went to live on it. I enjoyed myself there, for the wild, open-air life had great charms for me, and there was a sense of freedom to which I had hitherto been a stranger. But man is a gregarious animal, and I, growing weary of solitude and communings with Mother Nature, came down on a visit to Melbourne, where, with companions as gay as myself, I spent my money freely, and, as the phrase goes, saw life. After confessing that I loved the pure life of the country, it sounds strange to say that I enjoyed the wild life of the town, but I did. I was neither a Joseph nor a St. Anthony, and I was delighted with Bohemia, with its good fellowship and charming suppers, which took place in the small hours of the morning, when wit and humor reigned supreme. It was at one of these suppers that I first met Rosanna Moore, the woman who was destined to curse my existence. She was a burlesque actress, and all the young fellows in those days were madly in love with her. She was not exactly what was called beautiful, but there was a brilliancy and fascination about her which few could resist. On first seeing her I did not admire her much, but laughed at my companions as they raved about her. On becoming personally acquainted with her, however, I found that her powers of fascination had not been over-rated, and ended by falling desperately in love with her. I made inquiries about her private life, and found that it was irreproachable, as she was guarded by a veritable dragon of a mother, who would let no one approach her daughter. I need not tell about my courtship, as these phases of a man's life are generally the same, but it will be sufficient to prove the depth of my passion for her when I at length determined to make her my wife. It was on condition, however, that the marriage should be kept secret until such time as I should choose to reveal it. My reason for such a course was this, my father was still alive, and he, being a rigid Presbyterian, would never have forgiven me for having married a woman of the stage; so, as he was old and feeble, I did not wish him to learn that I had done so, fearing ​that the shock would be too much for him in his then feeble state of health. I told Rosanna I would marry her, but wanted her to leave her mother, who was a perfect fury, and not an agreeable person to live with. As I was rich, young, and not bad looking, Rosanna consented, and, during an engagement she had in Sydney, I went over there and married her. She never told her mother she had married me, why I do not know, as I never laid any restriction on her doing so. The mother made a great noise over the matter, but I gave Rosanna a large sum of money for her, and this the old harridan accepted, and left for New Zealand. Rosanna went with me to my station, where we lived as man and wife, though, in Melbourne, she was supposed to be my mistress. At last feeling degraded in my own eyes as to the way I was living in the world, I wanted to reveal our secret, but this Rosanna would not consent to. I was astonished at this, and could never discover the reason; but in many ways Rosanna was an enigma to me. She then grew weary of the quiet country life, and longed to return to the glitter and glare of the footlights. This I refused to let her do, and from that moment she took a dislike to me. A child was born, and for a time she was engrossed with it, but soon wearied of the new plaything, and again pressed me to allow her to return to the stage. I again refused, and we became estranged from one another. I grew gloomy and irritable, and was accustomed to take long rides by myself, frequently being away for days. There was a great friend of mine who owned the next station, a fine, handsome young fellow, called Frank Kelly, with a gay, sunny disposition, and a wonderful flow of humor. When he found I was so much away, thinking Rosanna was only my mistress, he began to console her, and succeeded so well that one day, on my return from a ride, I found she had fled with him, and had taken the child with her. She left a letter saying she had never really cared for me, but had married me for my money—she would keep our marriage secret, and was going to return to the stage. I followed my false friend and false wife down to Melbourne, but arrived too late, as they had just left for England. Disgusted with the manner in which I had been treated, I plunged into a whirl of dissipation, trying to drown the memory of my married life. My ​friends, of course, thought that my loss amounted to no more than that of a mistress, and I soon began myself to doubt that I had ever been married, so far away and visionary did my life of the year previous seem. I continued my fast life for about six months, when suddenly I was arrested upon the brink of destruction by—an angel. I say this advisedly, for if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was she who afterwards became my wife. She was the daughter of a doctor, and it was her influence which drew me back from the dreary life of profligacy and dissipation which I was then leading. I paid her great attention, and we were, in fact, looked upon as good as engaged, but I knew that I was still linked to that accursed woman, and could not ask her to be my wife. At this second crisis of my life Fate again intervened, for I received a letter from England, which informed me that Rosanna Moore had been run over in the streets of London and had died in an hospital. The writer was a young doctor, who had attended her, and I wrote home to him, begging him to send out a certificate of her death, so that I might be sure she was no more. He did so, and also enclosed an account of the accident, which had appeared in a newspaper. Then, indeed, I felt that I was free, and closing, as I thought, forever the darkest page of my life's history, I began to look forward to the future. I married again, and my domestic life was a singularly happy one. As the colony grew greater, with every year I became even more wealthy than I had been, and was looked up to and respected by my fellow citizens. When my dear daughter Margaret was born, I felt that my cup of happiness was full, but suddenly I received a disagreeable reminder of the past. Rosanna's mother made her appearance one day—a disreputable-looking creature, smelling of gin, and in whom I could not recognize the respectably-dressed woman who used to accompany Rosanna to the theatre. She had spent long ago all the money I had given her, and sank lower and lower, until she now lived in a slum off Little Bourke Street. I made inquiries about the child, and she told me it was dead. Rosanna had not taken it to England with her, but had left it in her mother's charge, and, no doubt, neglect and want of proper nourishment was the cause of its death, There now seemed ​to be no link to bind me to the past with the exception of the old hag, who knew nothing about the marriage. I did not attempt to undeceive her, but agreed to allow her enough to live on if she promised never to trouble me again, and to keep quiet about everything which had reference to my connection with her daughter. She promised readily enough, and went back to her squalid dwelling in the slums, where, for all I know, she still lives, as money has been paid to her regularly every month by my solicitors. I heard nothing more about the matter, and now felt quite satisfied that I had heard the last of Rosanna. As years rolled on, things prospered with me, and so fortunate was I in all speculation that my luck became proverbial. Then, alas! when all things seemed to smile on me, my wife died, and the world has never seemed the same to me since. I, however, had my dear daughter to console me, and in her love and affection I became reconciled to the loss of my wife. A young Irish gentleman, called Brian Fitzgerald, came out to Australia, and I soon saw that my daughter was in love with him, and that he reciprocated that affection, whereat I was glad, as I have always esteemed him highly. I looked forward to their marriage, when suddenly a series of events occured, which must be fresh in the memory of those who read these pages. Mr. Oliver Whyte, a gentleman from London, called on me and startled me with the news that my first wife, Rosanna Moore, was still living, and that the story of her death had been an ingenious fabrication in order to deceive me. She had met with an accident, as stated in the newspaper, and had been taken to an hospital, where she recovered. The young doctor who had sent the certificate of her death had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her, and had told me that she was dead in order that her past life might be obliterated. The doctor, however, died before the marriage, and Rosanna did not trouble herself about undeceiving me. She was then acting on the burlesque stage under the name of 'Musette,' and seemed to have gained an unenviable notoriety by her extravagance and infamy. Whyte met her in London, and she became his mistress. He seemed to have a wonderful influence over her, for she told him all her past life, and about her marriage with me. Her popularity being on the wane in London, as she was ​now growing old, and had to make way for younger actresses, Whyte proposed that they should come out to the Colonies and extort money from me, and he had come to me for that purpose. The villain told me all this in the coolest manner, and I, knowing he held the secret of my life, was unable to resent it. I refused to see Rosanna, but told Whyte I would agree to his terms, which were, first, a large sum of money was to be paid to Rosanna, and secondly, Whyte wanted to marry my daughter. I at first absolutely declined to sanction the latter proposal, but as he threatened to publish the story, and that meant the proclamation to the world of my daughter's illegitimacy, I at last agreed, and he began to pay his addresses to Madge. She, however, refused to marry him, and told me she was engaged to Fitzgerald; so, after a severe struggle with myself, I told Whyte that I would not allow him to marry Madge, but would give him whatsoever sum he liked to name. On the night he was murdered he came to see me, and showed me the certificate of marriage between myself and Rosanna Moore. He refused to take a sum of money, and said unless I consented to his marriage with Madge he would publish the whole affair. I implored him to give me time to think, so he said he would give me two days, but no more, and left the house taking the marriage certificate with him. I was in despair, and saw that the only way to save myself was to obtain possession of the marriage certificate and deny everything. With this idea in my mind I followed him up to town and saw him meet Moreland, and drink with him. They went into the hotel in Russell street, and when Whyte came out at half-past twelve, he was quite intoxicated. I saw him go along to the Scotch Church, near the Burke and Wills' monument, and cling to the lamp-post at the corner. I thought I would then be able to get the certificate from him, as he was so drunk, when I saw a gentleman in a light coat—I did not know it was Fitzgerald—come up to him and hail a cab for him. I saw there was nothing more to be done at that time, so, in despair, went home and waited for the next day, in fear lest he should carry out his determination. Nothing, however, turned up, and I was beginning to think that Whyte had ​abandoned his purpose, when I heard that he had been murdered in the hansom cab. I was in great fear lest the marriage certificate would be found on him, but as nothing was said about it I began to wonder. I knew he had it on him, so came to the conclusion that the murderer, whoever he was, had taken it from the body, and would sooner or later come to me to extort money, knowing that I dare not denounce him. Fitzgerald was arrested and afterwards acquitted, so I began to think that the certificate had been lost, and my troubles were at an end. However, I was always haunted by a dread that the sword was hanging over my head and would fall sooner or later. I was right, for two nights ago Roger Moreland, who was an intimate friend of Whyte's, called on me and produced the marriage certificate, which he offered to sell to me for five thousand pounds. In horror, I accused him of murdering Whyte, which he denied at first, but afterwards acknowledged, stating that I dare not betray him for my own sake. I was nearly mad with the horror I was placed in, either to denounce my daughter as illegitimate or let a murderer escape the penalty of his crime. At last I agreed to keep silent, and handed him a check for five thousand pounds, receiving in return the marriage certificate. I then made Moreland swear to leave the colony, which he readily agreed to do, saying Melbourne was dangerous. When he left I reflected upon the awfulness of my position, and had almost determined to commit suicide, but, thank God, I saved myself from that crime. I wrote out this confession in order, that after my death, the true story of the murder of Whyte may be known, and that any one who may hereafter be accused of the murder may not be wrongfully punished. I have no hopes of Moreland ever receiving the penalty of his crime, as when this is open all trace of him will no doubt be lost. I will not destroy the marriage certificate, but place it with these papers, so that the truth of my story may be seen. In conclusion, I would ask forgiveness of my daughter Margaret for my sins, which have been visited on her, but she can see for herself that circumstances were too strong for me. May she forgive me, as I hope God in his infinite mercy will, and may she come sometimes and pray over my grave, nor think too hardly upon her dead father."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE HANDS OF JUSTICE.

Calton's voice faltered a little when he read those last sad words, and laid the manuscript down on the table, amid a dead silence, which was first broken by Brian.

"Thank God," he said, reverently, "thank God that he was innocent of the crime!"

"So," said Calton, a little cynically, "the riddle which has perplexed us so long is read, and the Sphinx is silent for evermore."

"I knew he was incapable of such a thing," cried Chinston, whom emotion had hitherto kept silent.

Meanwhile Kilsip listened to these eulogistic remarks on the dead man, and purred to himself, in a satisfied sort of way, like a cat who has caught a mouse.

"You see, sir," he said, addressing the barrister, "I was right after all."

"Yes," answered Calton, frankly, "I acknowledge my defeat, but now——"

"I'm going to arrest Moreland right off," said Kilsip.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Calton spoke again.

"I suppose it must be so—poor girl—poor girl."

"I am very sorry for the young lady myself," said the detective in his soft, low voice, "but you see I cannot let a dangerous criminal escape for a mere matter of sentiment."

"Of course not," said Fitzgerald, sharply. "Moreland must be arrested right off."

"But he will confess everything," said Calton, angrily, "and then every one will know about this first marriage."

"Let them," retorted Brian, bitterly. "As soon as she is well enough we will marry at once, and leave Australia forever."

"But——"

"I know her better than you do," said the young man, doggedly; "and I know she would like an end made of this whole miserable business at once. Arrest the murderer, and let him suffer for his crime."

​"Well, I suppose it must be so," said Chinston, with a sigh, "but it seems very hard that this slur should be cast upon Miss Frettlby." Brian turned a little pale.

"The sins of the fathers are generally visited upon the children by the world," he said bitterly. "But after the first pain is over, in new lands, among new faces, she will forget the bitter past."

"Now that it is settled Moreland is to be arrested," said Calton, "how is it to be done? Is he still in Melbourne?"

"Rather," said Kilsip, in a satisfied tone; "I've had my eye on him for the last two months, and some one is watching him for me now—trust me, he can't move two steps without my knowing it."

"Ah, indeed!" said Calton, quickly. "Then do you know if he has been to the bank and cashed that checque for five thousand, which Frettlby gave him?"

"Well, now," observed Kilsip, after a pause, "do you know you rather startled me when you told me he had received a cheque for that amount?"

"Why?"

"It's such a large one," replied the detective, "and had I known what sum he had paid into his account I should have been suspicious."

"Then he has been to the bank?"

"To his own bank, yes. He went there yesterday afternoon at two o'clock—that is the day after he got it—so it would be sent around to Mr. Frettlby's bank, and would not be returned till next day, and as he died in the meanwhile, I expect it hasn't been honored, so Mr. Moreland won't have his money yet."

"I wonder what he'll do," said Calton.

"Go to the manager and kick up a row," said Kilsip, coolly, "and the manager will no doubt tell him he'd better see the executors."

"But, my good friend, the manager doesn't know who the executors are," broke in Calton, impatiently. "You forget the will has yet to be read."

"Then he'll tell him to go to the late Mr. Frettlby's solicitors. I suppose he knows who they are," retorted Kilsip.

"Thinton & Tarbet," said Calton, musingly, "but it is questionable if Moreland would go to them."

​"Why shouldn't he, sir?" said Kilsip, quickly. "He does not know anything about this," laying his hand on the confession, "and as the cheque is genuine enough, he won't let five thousand pounds go without a struggle."

"I'll tell you what," observed Calton, after a few moments of reflection, "I'll go across the way and telephone to Thinton & Tarbet, and when he calls on them they can send him up to me."

"A very good idea," said Kilsip, rubbing his hands, "and then I can arrest him."

"But the warrant?" interposed Brian, as Calton arose and put on his hat.

"Is here," said the detective, producing it.

"By Jove, you must have been pretty certain of his guilt," remarked Chinston, dryly.

"Of course I was," retorted Kilsip, in a satisfied tone of voice. "When I told the magistrate where I found the coat, and reminded him of Moreland's acknowledgment at the trial, that he had it in his possession before the murder, I soon got him to see the necessity of having Moreland arrested."

"Half-past four," said Calton, pausing for a moment at the door and looking at his watch. I'm afraid its rather late to catch Moreland to-day; however, I'll see what Thinton & Tarbet know," and he went out.

The rest sat waiting his return, and chatted about the curious end of the hansom cab mystery, when, in about ten minutes, Calton rushed in hurriedly and closed the door after him quickly.

"Fate is playing into our hands," he said, as soon as he recovered his breath. "Moreland called on Thinton & Tarbet, as Kilsip surmised, and as neither of them were in, said he would call again before five o'clock. I told the clerk to bring him up at once, so he may be here at any moment."

"That is, if he's fool enough to come," said Chinston.

"Oh, he'll come," said the detective, confidently, rattling a pair of handcuffs together. "He is so satisfied that he has made things safe that he'll walk right into the trap."

It was getting a little dusk, and the four men were greatly excited, though they concealed it under an assumed nonchalance.

​"What a situation for a drama," said Brian.

"Only," said Chinston, quietly, "it is as realistic as in the old days of the Coliseum, when the actor who played Orpheus was torn to pieces by bears at the end of the play."

"His last appearance on any stage, I suppose," said Calton, a little cruelly, it must be confessed.

Meanwhile, Kilsip remained seated in his chair, humming an operatic air and chinking the handcuffs together, by way of accompaniment. He felt intensely pleased with himself, the more so as he saw that by this capture he would be ranked far above Gorby. "And what would Gorby say?—Gorby, who had laughed at all his ideas as foolish, and who had been quite wrong from the first. If only——"

"Hush!" said Calton, holding up his finger, as steps were heard echoing on the flags outside. "Here he is, I believe."

Kilsip arose from his chair, and, stealing softly to the window, looked cautiously out. Then he turned round to those inside, and, nodding his head, slipped the handcuffs into his pocket. Just as he did so there was a knock at the door, and, in response to Calton's invitation to enter, Thinton & Tarbet's clerk came in with Roger Moreland. The latter faltered a little on the threshold, when he saw Calton was not alone, and seemed half inclined to retreat. But, evidently, thinking there was no danger of his secret being discovered, he pulled himself together, and advanced into the room in an easy and confident manner.

"This is the gentleman who wants to know about the cheque, sir," said Thinton & Tarbet's clerk to Calton.

"Oh, indeed," answered Calton, quietly. "I am glad to see him; you can go."

The clerk bowed and went out, closing the door after him. Moreland took his seat directly in front of Calton, and with his back to the door. Kilsip, seeing this, strolled across the room in a nonchalant manner, while Calton engaged Moreland in conversation, and quietly turned the key.

"You want to see me, sir?" said Calton, resuming his seat.

"Yes; that is, alone," replied Moreland, uneasily.

"Oh, these gentlemen are all my friends," said Calton, quietly, "anything you may say is quite safe."

​"That they are your friends, and are quite safe, is nothing to me," said Moreland, insolently. "I wish to speak with you in private."

"Don't you think you would like to know my friends?" said Calton, coolly, taking no notice of his remark.

"D— your friends, sir!" cried Moreland, furiously, rising from his seat.

Calton laughed, and introduced Mr. Moreland to the others.

"Dr. Chinston, Mr. Kilsip, and—Mr. Fitzgerald."

"Fitzgerald!" gasped Moreland, growing pale. "I—I—what's that?" he shrieked, as he saw Whyte's coat, all weather-stained, lying on a chair near him, and which he immediately recognized.

"That is the rope that's going to hang you," said Kilsip, quietly, coming behind him, "for the murder of Oliver Whyte."

"Trapped, by G—!" said the wretched man, wheeling round so as to face Kilsip. He sprang at the detective's throat, and they both rolled together on the floor, but the latter was too strong for him, and, after a sharp struggle, he succeeded in getting the handcuffs on Moreland's wrists. The others stood around perfectly quiet, knowing that Kilsip required no assistance. Now that there was no possibility of escape, Moreland seemed to become resigned, and rose sullenly off the floor.

"By G—! I'll make you pay for this," he hissed between his teeth, with a white, despairing face. "You can't prove anything."

"Can't we?" said Calton, touching the confession. "You are wrong. This is the confession of Mark Frettlby, made before he died."

"It's a d—d lie."

"A jury will decide that," said the barrister, dryly. "Meanwhile you will pass the night in the Melbourne gaol."

"Ah! perhaps they'll give me the same cell as you occupied," said Moreland, with a hard laugh, turning to Fitzgerald. "I should like it for its old associations."

Brian did not answer him, but, picking up his hat and gloves, prepared to go.

"Stop!" cried Moreland, fiercely. "I see that it is all up with me, so I'm not going to lie like a coward. I've ​played for a big stake and lost, but if I hadn't been such a fool, I'd have cashed that cheque next morning and been far away by this time."

"It would certainly have been wiser," said Calton.

"After all," said Moreland, nonchalantly, taking no notice of his remark, "I don't know that I'm sorry about it. I've had a hell upon earth since I killed Whyte."

"Then you acknowledge your guilt?" said Brian, quietly.

Moreland shrugged his shoulders.

"I told you I wasn't a coward," he answered, coolly. "Yes, I did it; it was Whyte's own fault. When I met him that night he told me how Frettlby wouldn't let him marry his daughter, but said that he'd make him, and showed me the marriage certificate. I thought if I could only get it I'd make a nice little pile out of Frettlby over it; so when Whyte went on drinking I did not. After he had gone out of the hotel I put on his coat, which he left behind. I saw him standing near the lamp post, and Fitzgerald come up and then leave him. When you came down the street," he went on turning to Fitzgerald, "I shrank back into the shadow, and when you passed I ran up to Whyte as the cabman was putting him into the hansom. He took me for you, so I didn't undeceive him, but I swear I had no idea of murdering Whyte when I got into the cab. I tried to get the papers, but he wouldn't let me, and commenced to sing out. Then I thought of the chloroform in the pocket of his coat, which I was wearing. I pulled it out, and found that the cork was loose. Then I took out Whyte's handkerchief, which was also in the coat, and emptied the bottle on it, and put it back in my pocket. I again tried to get the papers, without using the chloroform, but couldn't, so 1 clapped the handkerchief over his mouth, and he went off after a few minutes, and I got the papers. I thought he was only insensible, and it was only when I saw the newspaper that I knew he was dead. I stopped the cab in St. Kilda Road, got out and caught another cab, which was going to town. Then I got out at Powlett Street, took off the coat, and carried it over my arm. I went down George Street, towards the Fitzroy Gardens, and having hid the coat up a tree, where I suppose you found it," to Kilsip, "I walked home—so I've done you all nicely, but——"

​"You're caught at last," finished Kilsip, quietly.

Moreland fell down in a chair, with an air of utter weariness and lassitude.

"No man can be stronger than Destiny," he said, dreamily. "I have lost and you have won; so life is a chess-board, after all, and we are the puppets of Fate."

He refused to utter another word; so, leaving Calton and Kilsip with him, Brian and the doctor went out and hailed a cab. It drove up to the entrance of the court where Calton's office was, and then Moreland, walking as if in a dream, left the room and got into the cab, followed by Kilsip.

"Do you know," said Chinston, thoughtfully, as they stood and watched the cab drive off, "do you know what the end of that man will be?"

"It requires no prophet to foretell that," said Calton, dryly. "He will be hanged."

"No, he won't," retorted the doctor. "He will commit suicide."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE HANDS OF JUSTICE.

Calton's voice faltered a little when he read those last sad words, and laid the manuscript down on the table, amid a dead silence, which was first broken by Brian.

"Thank God," he said, reverently, "thank God that he was innocent of the crime!"

"So," said Calton, a little cynically, "the riddle which has perplexed us so long is read, and the Sphinx is silent for evermore."

"I knew he was incapable of such a thing," cried Chinston, whom emotion had hitherto kept silent.

Meanwhile Kilsip listened to these eulogistic remarks on the dead man, and purred to himself, in a satisfied sort of way, like a cat who has caught a mouse.

"You see, sir," he said, addressing the barrister, "I was right after all."

"Yes," answered Calton, frankly, "I acknowledge my defeat, but now——"

"I'm going to arrest Moreland right off," said Kilsip.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Calton spoke again.

"I suppose it must be so—poor girl—poor girl."

"I am very sorry for the young lady myself," said the detective in his soft, low voice, "but you see I cannot let a dangerous criminal escape for a mere matter of sentiment."

"Of course not," said Fitzgerald, sharply. "Moreland must be arrested right off."

"But he will confess everything," said Calton, angrily, "and then every one will know about this first marriage."

"Let them," retorted Brian, bitterly. "As soon as she is well enough we will marry at once, and leave Australia forever."

"But——"

"I know her better than you do," said the young man, doggedly; "and I know she would like an end made of this whole miserable business at once. Arrest the murderer, and let him suffer for his crime."

​"Well, I suppose it must be so," said Chinston, with a sigh, "but it seems very hard that this slur should be cast upon Miss Frettlby." Brian turned a little pale.

"The sins of the fathers are generally visited upon the children by the world," he said bitterly. "But after the first pain is over, in new lands, among new faces, she will forget the bitter past."

"Now that it is settled Moreland is to be arrested," said Calton, "how is it to be done? Is he still in Melbourne?"

"Rather," said Kilsip, in a satisfied tone; "I've had my eye on him for the last two months, and some one is watching him for me now—trust me, he can't move two steps without my knowing it."

"Ah, indeed!" said Calton, quickly. "Then do you know if he has been to the bank and cashed that checque for five thousand, which Frettlby gave him?"

"Well, now," observed Kilsip, after a pause, "do you know you rather startled me when you told me he had received a cheque for that amount?"

"Why?"

"It's such a large one," replied the detective, "and had I known what sum he had paid into his account I should have been suspicious."

"Then he has been to the bank?"

"To his own bank, yes. He went there yesterday afternoon at two o'clock—that is the day after he got it—so it would be sent around to Mr. Frettlby's bank, and would not be returned till next day, and as he died in the meanwhile, I expect it hasn't been honored, so Mr. Moreland won't have his money yet."

"I wonder what he'll do," said Calton.

"Go to the manager and kick up a row," said Kilsip, coolly, "and the manager will no doubt tell him he'd better see the executors."

"But, my good friend, the manager doesn't know who the executors are," broke in Calton, impatiently. "You forget the will has yet to be read."

"Then he'll tell him to go to the late Mr. Frettlby's solicitors. I suppose he knows who they are," retorted Kilsip.

"Thinton & Tarbet," said Calton, musingly, "but it is questionable if Moreland would go to them."

​"Why shouldn't he, sir?" said Kilsip, quickly. "He does not know anything about this," laying his hand on the confession, "and as the cheque is genuine enough, he won't let five thousand pounds go without a struggle."

"I'll tell you what," observed Calton, after a few moments of reflection, "I'll go across the way and telephone to Thinton & Tarbet, and when he calls on them they can send him up to me."

"A very good idea," said Kilsip, rubbing his hands, "and then I can arrest him."

"But the warrant?" interposed Brian, as Calton arose and put on his hat.

"Is here," said the detective, producing it.

"By Jove, you must have been pretty certain of his guilt," remarked Chinston, dryly.

"Of course I was," retorted Kilsip, in a satisfied tone of voice. "When I told the magistrate where I found the coat, and reminded him of Moreland's acknowledgment at the trial, that he had it in his possession before the murder, I soon got him to see the necessity of having Moreland arrested."

"Half-past four," said Calton, pausing for a moment at the door and looking at his watch. I'm afraid its rather late to catch Moreland to-day; however, I'll see what Thinton & Tarbet know," and he went out.

The rest sat waiting his return, and chatted about the curious end of the hansom cab mystery, when, in about ten minutes, Calton rushed in hurriedly and closed the door after him quickly.

"Fate is playing into our hands," he said, as soon as he recovered his breath. "Moreland called on Thinton & Tarbet, as Kilsip surmised, and as neither of them were in, said he would call again before five o'clock. I told the clerk to bring him up at once, so he may be here at any moment."

"That is, if he's fool enough to come," said Chinston.

"Oh, he'll come," said the detective, confidently, rattling a pair of handcuffs together. "He is so satisfied that he has made things safe that he'll walk right into the trap."

It was getting a little dusk, and the four men were greatly excited, though they concealed it under an assumed nonchalance.

​"What a situation for a drama," said Brian.

"Only," said Chinston, quietly, "it is as realistic as in the old days of the Coliseum, when the actor who played Orpheus was torn to pieces by bears at the end of the play."

"His last appearance on any stage, I suppose," said Calton, a little cruelly, it must be confessed.

Meanwhile, Kilsip remained seated in his chair, humming an operatic air and chinking the handcuffs together, by way of accompaniment. He felt intensely pleased with himself, the more so as he saw that by this capture he would be ranked far above Gorby. "And what would Gorby say?—Gorby, who had laughed at all his ideas as foolish, and who had been quite wrong from the first. If only——"

"Hush!" said Calton, holding up his finger, as steps were heard echoing on the flags outside. "Here he is, I believe."

Kilsip arose from his chair, and, stealing softly to the window, looked cautiously out. Then he turned round to those inside, and, nodding his head, slipped the handcuffs into his pocket. Just as he did so there was a knock at the door, and, in response to Calton's invitation to enter, Thinton & Tarbet's clerk came in with Roger Moreland. The latter faltered a little on the threshold, when he saw Calton was not alone, and seemed half inclined to retreat. But, evidently, thinking there was no danger of his secret being discovered, he pulled himself together, and advanced into the room in an easy and confident manner.

"This is the gentleman who wants to know about the cheque, sir," said Thinton & Tarbet's clerk to Calton.

"Oh, indeed," answered Calton, quietly. "I am glad to see him; you can go."

The clerk bowed and went out, closing the door after him. Moreland took his seat directly in front of Calton, and with his back to the door. Kilsip, seeing this, strolled across the room in a nonchalant manner, while Calton engaged Moreland in conversation, and quietly turned the key.

"You want to see me, sir?" said Calton, resuming his seat.

"Yes; that is, alone," replied Moreland, uneasily.

"Oh, these gentlemen are all my friends," said Calton, quietly, "anything you may say is quite safe."

​"That they are your friends, and are quite safe, is nothing to me," said Moreland, insolently. "I wish to speak with you in private."

"Don't you think you would like to know my friends?" said Calton, coolly, taking no notice of his remark.

"D— your friends, sir!" cried Moreland, furiously, rising from his seat.

Calton laughed, and introduced Mr. Moreland to the others.

"Dr. Chinston, Mr. Kilsip, and—Mr. Fitzgerald."

"Fitzgerald!" gasped Moreland, growing pale. "I—I—what's that?" he shrieked, as he saw Whyte's coat, all weather-stained, lying on a chair near him, and which he immediately recognized.

"That is the rope that's going to hang you," said Kilsip, quietly, coming behind him, "for the murder of Oliver Whyte."

"Trapped, by G—!" said the wretched man, wheeling round so as to face Kilsip. He sprang at the detective's throat, and they both rolled together on the floor, but the latter was too strong for him, and, after a sharp struggle, he succeeded in getting the handcuffs on Moreland's wrists. The others stood around perfectly quiet, knowing that Kilsip required no assistance. Now that there was no possibility of escape, Moreland seemed to become resigned, and rose sullenly off the floor.

"By G—! I'll make you pay for this," he hissed between his teeth, with a white, despairing face. "You can't prove anything."

"Can't we?" said Calton, touching the confession. "You are wrong. This is the confession of Mark Frettlby, made before he died."

"It's a d—d lie."

"A jury will decide that," said the barrister, dryly. "Meanwhile you will pass the night in the Melbourne gaol."

"Ah! perhaps they'll give me the same cell as you occupied," said Moreland, with a hard laugh, turning to Fitzgerald. "I should like it for its old associations."

Brian did not answer him, but, picking up his hat and gloves, prepared to go.

"Stop!" cried Moreland, fiercely. "I see that it is all up with me, so I'm not going to lie like a coward. I've ​played for a big stake and lost, but if I hadn't been such a fool, I'd have cashed that cheque next morning and been far away by this time."

"It would certainly have been wiser," said Calton.

"After all," said Moreland, nonchalantly, taking no notice of his remark, "I don't know that I'm sorry about it. I've had a hell upon earth since I killed Whyte."

"Then you acknowledge your guilt?" said Brian, quietly.

Moreland shrugged his shoulders.

"I told you I wasn't a coward," he answered, coolly. "Yes, I did it; it was Whyte's own fault. When I met him that night he told me how Frettlby wouldn't let him marry his daughter, but said that he'd make him, and showed me the marriage certificate. I thought if I could only get it I'd make a nice little pile out of Frettlby over it; so when Whyte went on drinking I did not. After he had gone out of the hotel I put on his coat, which he left behind. I saw him standing near the lamp post, and Fitzgerald come up and then leave him. When you came down the street," he went on turning to Fitzgerald, "I shrank back into the shadow, and when you passed I ran up to Whyte as the cabman was putting him into the hansom. He took me for you, so I didn't undeceive him, but I swear I had no idea of murdering Whyte when I got into the cab. I tried to get the papers, but he wouldn't let me, and commenced to sing out. Then I thought of the chloroform in the pocket of his coat, which I was wearing. I pulled it out, and found that the cork was loose. Then I took out Whyte's handkerchief, which was also in the coat, and emptied the bottle on it, and put it back in my pocket. I again tried to get the papers, without using the chloroform, but couldn't, so 1 clapped the handkerchief over his mouth, and he went off after a few minutes, and I got the papers. I thought he was only insensible, and it was only when I saw the newspaper that I knew he was dead. I stopped the cab in St. Kilda Road, got out and caught another cab, which was going to town. Then I got out at Powlett Street, took off the coat, and carried it over my arm. I went down George Street, towards the Fitzroy Gardens, and having hid the coat up a tree, where I suppose you found it," to Kilsip, "I walked home—so I've done you all nicely, but——"

​"You're caught at last," finished Kilsip, quietly.

Moreland fell down in a chair, with an air of utter weariness and lassitude.

"No man can be stronger than Destiny," he said, dreamily. "I have lost and you have won; so life is a chess-board, after all, and we are the puppets of Fate."

He refused to utter another word; so, leaving Calton and Kilsip with him, Brian and the doctor went out and hailed a cab. It drove up to the entrance of the court where Calton's office was, and then Moreland, walking as if in a dream, left the room and got into the cab, followed by Kilsip.

"Do you know," said Chinston, thoughtfully, as they stood and watched the cab drive off, "do you know what the end of that man will be?"

"It requires no prophet to foretell that," said Calton, dryly. "He will be hanged."

"No, he won't," retorted the doctor. "He will commit suicide."

---

CHAPTER XXXV.

"THE LOVE THAT LIVES."

There are certain periods in the life of men when Fate seems to have done her worst, and any further misfortunes which may befall are accepted with a philosophical resignation, begotten by the very severity of previous trials. Fitzgerald was in this state of mind—he was calm, but it was the calmness of despair—the misfortunes of the past year seemed to have come to a climax, and he looked forward to the publication of the whole bitter story with an indifference that surprised himself. His own name, and that of Madge and her dead father, would be on every tongue, yet he felt perfectly callous to whatever might be said on the subject. As long as Madge recovered, and they could go away to another part of the world, leaving Australia with its bitter memories behind—he did not care. Moreland would suffer the bitter penalty of his crime, and then nothing more would ever be heard of the matter. It would be better for the whole story to be told, and momentary pain endured, than to go on striving to hide the infamy and shame which might be discovered at any moment. Already the news was all over ​Melbourne that the murderer of Oliver Whyte had been captured, and that his confession would bring to light certain startling facts concerning the late Mark Frettlby. Brian well knew that the world winked at secret vices as long as there was an attempt at concealment, though it was cruelly severe on those which were brought to light, and that many whose lives might be secretly far more culpable than poor Mark Frettlby's, would be the first to slander the dead man. The public curiosity, however, was destined never to be gratified, for the next day it became known that Roger Moreland had hanged himself in his cell during the night, and had left no confession behind him.

When Brian heard this, he breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks for his deliverance, and went to see Calton, whom he found at his chambers, in deep conversation with Chinston and Kilsip. They all came to the conclusion that as Moreland was now dead, nothing could be gained by publishing the confession of Mark Frettlby, so agreed to burn it, and when Fitzgerald saw in the heap of blackened paper in the fireplace all that remained of the bitter story, he felt a weight lifted off his heart. The barrister, Chinston, and Kilsip, all promised to keep silent on the subject, and they kept the promise nobly, for nothing was ever known of the circumstances which led to the death of Oliver Whyte, and it was generally supposed that it must have been caused by some quarrel between the dead man and his friend, Roger Moreland.

Fitzgerald, however, did not forget the good service that Kilsip had done him, and gave him a sum of money that made him independent for life, though he still followed his old profession of a detective from sheer love of excitement, and was always looked upon with admiration as the man who had solved the mystery of the famous hansom cab murder. Brian, after several consultations with Calton, at last came to the conclusion that it would be no use to reveal to Sal Rawlins the fact shat she was Mark Frettlby's daughter, as by the will the money was clearly left to Madge, and such a revelation could bring her no pecuniary benefit, while her bringing up unfitted her for her position; so a yearly income, more than sufficient for her wants, was settled upon her, and she was allowed to remain in ignorance of her parentage. The influence of Sal ​Rawlins' old life, however, was very strong on her, and she devoted herself to the task of saving her fallen sisters. Knowing, as she did, all the intricacies of the slums, she was enabled to do an immense amount of good, and many an unhappy woman was saved from the squalor and hardship of a gutter life by the kind hand of Sal Rawlins.

Felix Rolleston became a member of Parliament, where his speeches, if not very deep, were at least amusing, and while in the House always behaved like a gentleman, which could not be said about all his parliamentary colleagues.

Madge slowly recovered from her illness, and, as she had been implicitly named in the will as the heiress to Mark Frettlby's great wealth, she placed the management of her estates in the hands of Mr. Calton, who, with Thinton & Tarbet, acted as her agents in Australia. On her recovery she learned the story of her father's early marriage, but both Calton and Fitzgerald were silent about the fact of Sal Rawlins being her half-sister, as such a relation could do no good, and would only create a scandal, as no explanation could be given except the true one. Shortly afterwards Madge married Fitzgerald, and both of them only too gladly left Australia, with all its sorrows and bitter memories.

Standing with her husband on the deck of one of the P. and O. steamers, as it plowed the blue waters of Hobson's Bay into foam, they both watched Melbourne as it gradually faded from their view, under the plow of the sunset. They could see the two domes of the Exhibition, and the Law Courts, and Government House with its tall tower rising from the midst of the green trees. In the background was a bright crimson sky, barred with masses of black clouds, and over all the great city hung a cloud of smoke like a pall.

The glaring red light of the sinking sun glared angrily on the heavy waters, and the steamer seemed to be making its way through a sea of blood. Madge, clinging to her husband's arm, felt her eyes fill with tears, as she saw the land of her birth receding slowly.

"Good-bye," she murmured, softly. "Good-bye for ever."

"You do not regret?" he said, bending his head.

​"Regret, no," she answered, looking at him with loving eyes. "With you by my side I fear nothing. Surely our hearts have been tried in the furnace of affliction, and our love has been chastened and purified."

"We are sure of nothing in this world," replied Brian, with a sigh. "But after all the sorrow and grief of the past, let us hope that the future will be peace."

"Peace!"

A white-winged sea gull arose suddenly from the crimson waters, and circled rapidly in the air above them.

"A happy omen," she said, looking up fondly to the grave face of her husband, "for your life and for mine."

He bent down and kissed her.

The great steamer moved slowly out to sea, and as they stood on the deck, hand clasped in hand, with the fresh salt breeze blowing keenly in their faces, it bore them away into the placid beauty of the coming night toward the old world and the new life.

THE END.

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