(and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files)
or
SEARCHthe entire site withGoogle Site Search
| BROWSEthe site for other works by this author (and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files) or SEARCHthe entire site withGoogle Site Search |
Title: The Mystery of a Hansom CabAuthor: Fergus Hume* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: e00093.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: February 2018Most recent update: February 2018This eBook was produced by: Walter MooreProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg AustraliaLicence which may be viewed online.
GO TOProject GutenbergAustralia HOME PAGE
Preface
Chapter 1. - What the"Argus" Said
Chapter 2. - The Evidence at theInquest
Chapter 3. - One Hundred Pounds Reward
Chapter 4. - Mr. Gorby Makes a Start
Chapter 5. - Mrs. Hableton UnbosomsHerself
Chapter 6. - Mr. Gorby Makes FurtherDiscoveries
Chapter 7. - The Wool King
Chapter 8. - Brian Takes a Walk and aDrive
Chapter 9. - Mr. Gorby is Satisfied atLast
Chapter 10. - In the Queen'sName
Chapter 11. - Counsel for the Prisoner
Chapter 12. - She was a True Woman
Chapter 13. - Madge Makes a Discovery
Chapter 14. - Another Richmond in theField
Chapter 15. - A Woman of the People
Chapter 16. - Missing
Chapter 17. - The Trial
Chapter 18. - Sal Rawlins Tells all sheKnows
Chapter 19. - The Verdict of the Jury
Chapter 20. - The "Argus"Gives its Opinion
Chapter 21. - Three Months Afterwards
Chapter 22. - A Daughter of Eve
Chapter 23. - Across the Walnuts and theWine
Chapter 24. - Brian Receives a Letter
Chapter 25. - What Dr. Chinston Said
Chapter 26. - Kilsip has a Theory of HisOwn
Chapter 27. - Mother Guttersnipe Joins theMajority
Chapter 28. - Mark Frettlby has aVisitor
Chapter 29. - Mr. Calton's Curiosityis Satisfied
Chapter 30. - Nemesis
Chapter 31. - Hush-Money
Chapter 32. - De mortuis nil nisibonum
Chapter 33. - The Confession
Chapter 34. - The Hands of Justice
Chapter 35. - "The Love thatLives."
In its original form, "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab"has reached the sale of 375,000 copies in this country, and somefew editions in the United States of America. Notwithstanding this,the present publishers have the best of reasons for believing, thatthere are thousands of persons whom the book has never reached. Thecauses of this have doubtless been many, but chief among them wasthe form of the publication itself. It is for this section of thepublic chiefly that the present edition is issued. In placing itbefore my new readers, I have been asked by the publishersthoroughly to revise the work, and, at the same time, to set atrest the many conflicting reports concerning it and myself, whichhave been current since its initial issue. The first of theserequests I have complied with, and the many typographic, and othererrors, which disfigured the first edition, have, I think I cansafely say, now disappeared. The second request I am about tofulfil; but, in order to do so, I must ask my readers to go backwith me to the beginning of all things, so far as this special bookis concerned.
The writing of the book was due more to accident than to design.I was bent on becoming a dramatist, but, being quite unknown, Ifound it impossible to induce the managers of the MelbourneTheatres to accept, or even to read a play. At length it occurredto me I might further my purpose by writing a novel. I should atall events secure a certain amount of local attention. Up to thattime I had written only one or two short stories, and the"Cab" was not only the first book I ever published, butthe first book I ever wrote; so to youth and lack of experiencemust be ascribed whatever was wanting in the book. I repeat thatthe story was written only to attract local attention, and no onewas more astonished than I when it passed beyond the narrow circlefor which it had originally been intended.
My mind made up on this point, I enquired of a leading Melbournebookseller what style of book he sold most of. He replied that thedetective stories of Gaboriau had a large sale; and as, at thistime, I had never even heard of this author, I bought all hisworks—eleven or thereabouts—and read them carefully.The style of these stories attracted me, and I determined to writea book of the same class; containing a mystery, a murder, and adescription of low life in Melbourne. This was the origin of the"Cab."
The central ideai.e. the murder in a cab—came tome while driving at a late hour to St. Kilda, a suburb ofMelbourne; but it took some time and much thought to work it out toa logical conclusion. I was two months sketching out the skeletonof the novel, but even so, when I had written it, the result provedunsatisfactory, for I found I had not sufficiently well concealedthe mystery upon which the whole interest of the book depended. Inthe first draft I made Frettlby the criminal, but on reading overthe M.S. I found that his guilt was so obvious that I wrote out thestory for a second time, introducing the character of Moreland as ascape-goat. Mother Guttersnipe I unearthed in the slums off LittleBourke Street; and I gave what I am afraid was perhaps too vivid apicture of her language and personality. These I have toned down inthe present edition. Calton and the two lodging-house keepers wereactual personages whom I knew very well, and I do not think I haveexaggerated their idiosyncracies, although many have, I believe,doubted the existence of such oddities. All the scenes in the book,especially the slums, are described from personal observation; andI passed a great many nights in Little Bourke Street, gatheringmaterial.
Having completed the book, I tried to get it published, butevery one to whom I offered it refused even to look at themanuscript on the ground that no Colonial could write anythingworth reading. They gave no reason for this extraordinary opinion,but it was sufficient for them, and they laughed to scorn the ideathat any good could come out of Nazareth—i.e., theColonies. The story thus being boycotted on all hands, I determinedto publish it myself, and accordingly an edition of, I think, somefive thousand copies was brought out at my own cost. Contrary tothe expectations of the publishers, and I must add to my own, thewhole edition went off in three weeks, and the public demanded asecond. This also sold rapidly, and after some months, proposalswere made to me that the book should be brought out in London.Later on I parted with the book to several speculators, who formedthemselves into what they called "The Hansom Cab PublishingCompany." Taking the book to London, they published it therewith great success, and it had a phenomenal sale, which brought ina large sum of money. The success was, in the first instance, due,in no small degree, to a very kind and generous criticism writtenby Mr. Clement Scott. I may here state that I had nothing to dowith the Company, nor did I receive any money for the English saleof the book beyond what I sold it for; and, as a matter of fact, Idid not arrive in England until a year after the novel waspublished. I have heard it declared that the plot is founded on areal criminal case; but such a statement is utterly withoutfoundation, as the story is pure fiction from beginning to end.Several people before and since my arrival in England, have assumedthe authorship of the book to themselves; and one gentleman went sofar as to declare that he would shoot me if I claimed to havewritten it. I am glad to say that up to the present he has notcarried out his intention. Another individual had his cardsprinted, "Fergus Hume. Author of 'The Mystery of aHansom Cab,'" and also added the price for which hewas prepared to write a similar book. Many of the papers put thislast piece of eccentricity down to my account.
I may state in conclusion, that I belong to New Zealand, and notto Australia, that I am a barrister, and not a retired policeman,that I am yet two decades off fifty years of age, that Fergus Humeis my real name, and not a nom-de-plume; and finally, that far frommaking a fortune out of the book, all I received for the Englishand American rights, previous to the issue of this Revised Editionby my present publishers, was the sum of fifty pounds. With this Itake my leave, and I trust that the present edition may prove assuccessful as did the first.
FergusHume
The following report appeared inthe Argus newspaper of Saturday, the 28th July,18—
"Truth is said to be stranger than fiction, and certainlythe extraordinary murder which took place in Melbourne on Thursdaynight, or rather Friday morning, goes a long way towards verifyingthis saying. A crime has been committed by an unknown assassin,within a short distance of the principal streets of this greatcity, and is surrounded by an inpenetrable mystery. Indeed, fromthe nature of the crime itself, the place where it was committed,and the fact that the assassin has escaped without leaving a tracebehind him, it would seem as though the case itself had been takenbodily from one of Gaboreau's novels, and that his famousdetective Lecoq alone would be able to unravel it. The facts of thecase are simply these:—
"On the twenty-seventh day of July, at the hour of twentyminutes to two o'clock in the morning, a hansom cab drove upto the police station in Grey Street, St. Kilda, and the drivermade the startling statement that his cab contained the body of aman who he had reason to believe had been murdered.
"Being taken into the presence of the inspector, thecabman, who gave his name as Malcolm Royston, related the followingstrange story:—
"At the hour of one o'clock in the morning, he wasdriving down Collins Street East, when, as he was passing the Burkeand Wills' monument, he was hailed by a gentleman standing atthe corner by the Scotch Church. He immediately drove up, and sawthat the gentleman who hailed him was supporting the deceased, whoappeared to be intoxicated. Both were in evening dress, but thedeceased had on no overcoat, while the other wore a short covertcoat of a light fawn colour, which was open. As Royston drove up,the gentleman in the light coat said, 'Look here, cabby,here's some fellow awfully tight, you'd better take himhome!'
"Royston then asked him if the drunken man was his friend,but this the other denied, saying that he had just picked him upfrom the footpath, and did not know him from Adam. At this momentthe deceased turned his face up to the light of the lamp underwhich both were standing, and the other seemed to recognise him,for he recoiled a pace, letting the drunken man fall in a heap onthe pavement, and gasping out 'You?' he turned on hisheel, and walked rapidly away down Russell Street in the directionof Bourke Street.
"Royston was staring after him, and wondering at hisstrange conduct, when he was recalled to himself by the voice ofthe deceased, who had struggled to his feet, and was holding on tothe lamp-post, swaying to and fro. 'I wan'g'ome,' he said in a thick voice, 'St.Kilda.' He then tried to get into the cab, but was too drunkto do so, and finally sat down again on the pavement. Seeing this,Royston got down, and lifting him up, helped him into the cab withsome considerable difficulty. The deceased fell back into the cab,and seemed to drop off to sleep; so, after closing the door,Royston turned to remount his driving-seat, when he found thegentleman in the light coat whom he had seen holding up thedeceased, close to his elbow. Royston said, 'Oh, you'vecome back,' and the other answered, 'Yes, I'vechanged my mind, and will see him home.' As he said this heopened the door of the cab, stepped in beside the deceased, andtold Royston to drive down to St. Kilda. Royston, who was glad thatthe friend of the deceased had come to look after him, drove as hehad been directed, but near the Church of England Grammar School,on the St. Kilda Road, the gentleman in the light coat called outto him to stop. He did so, and the gentleman got out of the cab,closing the door after him.
"'He won't let me take him home,' hesaid, 'so I'll just walk back to the city, and you candrive him to St. Kilda.'
"'What street, sir?' asked Royston.
"'Grey Street, I fancy,' said the other,'but my friend will direct you when you get to theJunction.'
"'Ain't he too much on, sir?' saidRoyston, dubiously.
"'Oh, no! I think he'll be able to tell youwhere he lives—it's Grey Street or Ackland Street, Ifancy. I don't know which.'
"He then opened the door of the cab and looked in.'Good night, old man,' he said—the otherapparently did not answer, for the gentleman in the light coat,shrugging his shoulders, and muttering 'sulky brute,'closed the door again. He then gave Royston half-a-sovereign, lit acigarette, and after making a few remarks about the beauty of thenight, walked off quickly in the direction of Melbourne. Roystondrove down to the Junction, and having stopped there, according tohis instructions he asked his 'fare' several timeswhere he was to drive him to. Receiving no response and thinkingthat the deceased was too drunk to answer, he got down from hisseat, opened the door of the cab, and found the deceased lying backin the corner with a handkerchief across his mouth. He put out hishand with the intention of rousing him, thinking that he had goneto sleep. But on touching him the deceased fell forward, and onexamination, to his horror, he found that he was quite dead.Alarmed at what had taken place, and suspecting the gentleman inthe light coat, he drove to the police station at St. Kilda, andthere made the above report. The body of the deceased was taken outof the cab and brought into the station, a doctor being sent for atonce. On his arrival, however, he found that life was quiteextinct, and also discovered that the handkerchief which was tiedlightly over the mouth was saturated with chloroform. He had nohesitation in stating that from the way in which the handkerchiefwas placed, and the presence of chloroform, that a murder had beencommitted, and from all appearances the deceased died easily, andwithout a struggle. The deceased is a slender man, of mediumheight, with a dark complexion, and is dressed in evening dress,which will render identification difficult, as it is a costumewhich has no distinctive mark to render it noticeable. There wereno papers or cards found on the deceased from which his name couldbe discovered, and the clothing was not marked in any way. Thehandkerchief, however, which was tied across his mouth, was ofwhite silk, and marked in one of the corners with the letters'O.W.' in red silk. The assassin, of course, may haveused his own handkerchief to commit the crime, so that if theinitials are those of his name they may ultimately lead to hisdetection. There will be an inquest held on the body of thedeceased this morning, when, no doubt, some evidence may beelicited which may solve the mystery."
In Monday morning's issue ofthe Argus the following article appeared withreference to the matter:—
"The following additional evidence which has been obtainedmay throw some light on the mysterious murder in a hansom cab ofwhich we gave a full description in Saturday'sissue:—'Another hansom cabman called at the policeoffice, and gave a clue which will, no doubt, prove of value to thedetectives in their search for the murderer. He states that he wasdriving up the St. Kilda Road on Friday morning about halfpast oneo'clock, when he was hailed by a gentleman in a light coat,who stepped into the cab and told him to drive to Powlett Street,in East Melbourne. He did so, and, after paying him, the gentlemangot out at the corner of Wellington Parade and Powlett Street andwalked slowly up Powlett Street, while the cab drove back to town.Here all clue ends, but there can be no doubt in the minds of ourreaders as to the identity of the man in the light coat who got outof Royston's cab on the St. Kilda Road, with the one whoentered the other cab and alighted therefrom at Powlett Street.There could have been no struggle, as had any taken place thecabman, Royston, surely would have heard the noise. The suppositionis, therefore, that the deceased was too drunk to make anyresistance, and that the other, watching his opportunity, placedthe handkerchief saturated with chloroform over the mouth of hisvictim. Then after perhaps a few ineffectual struggles the latterwould succumb to the effects of his inhalation. The man in thelight coat, judging from his conduct before getting into the cab,appears to have known the deceased, though the circumstance of hiswalking away on recognition, and returning again, shows that hisattitude towards the deceased was not altogether a friendlyone.
"The difficulty is where to start from in the search afterthe author of what appears to be a deliberate murder, as thedeceased seems to be unknown, and his presumed murderer hasescaped. But it is impossible that the body can remain long withoutbeing identified by someone, as though Melbourne is a large city,yet it is neither Paris nor London, where a man can disappear in acrowd and never be heard of again. The first thing to be done is toestablish the identity of the deceased, and then, no doubt, a cluewill be obtained leading to the detection of the man in the lightcoat who appears to have been the perpetrator of the crime. It isof the utmost importance that the mystery in which the crime isshrouded should be cleared up, not only in the interests ofjustice, but also in those of the public—taking place as itdid in a public conveyance, and in the public street. To think thatthe author of such a crime is at present at large, walking in ourmidst, and perhaps preparing for the committal of another, isenough to shake the strongest nerves. In one of DuBoisgobey's stories, entitled 'An OmnibusMystery,' a murder closely resembling this tragedy takesplace in an omnibus, but we question if even that author would havebeen daring enough to write about a crime being committed in suchan unlikely place as a hansom cab. Here is a great chance for someof our detectives to render themselves famous, and we feel surethat they will do their utmost to trace the author of this cowardlyand dastardly murder."
At the inquest held on the body found in the hansom cab thefollowing articles taken from the deceased were placed on thetable:—
1. Two pounds ten shillings in gold and silver.
2. The white silk handkerchief which was saturated withchloroform, and was found tied across the mouth of the deceased,marked with the letters O.W. in red silk.
3. A cigarette case of Russian leather, half filled with"Old Judge" cigarettes.
4. A left-hand white glove of kid—rather soiled—withblack seams down the back.
Samuel Gorby, of the detective office, was present in order tosee if anything might be said by the witnesses likely to point tothe cause or to the author of the crime.
The first witness called was Malcolm Royston, in whose cab thecrime had been committed. He told the same story as had alreadyappeared in the Argus and the following facts wereelicited by the Coroner:—
Q. Can you give a description of the gentleman in the lightcoat, who was holding the deceased when you drove up?
A. I did not observe him very closely, as my attention was takenup by the deceased; and, besides, the gentleman in the light coatwas in the shadow.
Q. Describe him from what you saw of him.
A. He was fair, I think, because I could see his moustache,rather tall, and in evening dress, with a light coat over it. Icould not see his face very plainly, as he wore a soft felt hat,which was pulled down over his eyes.
Q. What kind of hat was it he wore—a wide-awake?
A. Yes. The brim was turned down, and I could see only his mouthand moustache.
Q. What did he say when you asked him if he knew thedeceased?
A. He said he didn't; that he had just picked him up.
Q. And afterwards he seemed to recognise him?
A. Yes. When the deceased looked up he said "You!"and let him fall on to the ground; then he walked away towardsBourke Street.
Q. Did he look back?
A. Not that I saw.
Q. How long were you looking after him?
A. About a minute.
Q. And when did you see him again?
A. After I put deceased into the cab I turned round and foundhim at my elbow.
Q. And what did he say?
A. I said, "Oh! you've come back," and hesaid, "Yes, I've changed my mind, and will see himhome," and then he got into the cab, and told me to drive toSt. Kilda.
Q. He spoke then as if he knew the deceased?
A. Yes; I thought that he recognised him only when he looked up,and perhaps having had a row with him walked away, but thoughthe'd come back.
Q. Did you see him coming back?
A. No; the first I saw of him was at my elbow when I turned.
Q. And when did he get out?
A. Just as I was turning down by the Grammar School on the St.Kilda Road.
Q. Did you hear any sounds of fighting or struggling in the cabduring the drive?
A. No; the road was rather rough, and the noise of the wheelsgoing over the stones would have prevented my hearing anything.
Q. When the gentleman in the light coat got out did he appeardisturbed?
A. No; he was perfectly calm.
Q. How could you tell that?
A. Because the moon had risen, and I could see plainly.
Q. Did you see his face then?
A. No; his hat was pulled down over it. I only saw as much as Idid when he entered the cab in Collins Street.
Q. Were his clothes torn or disarranged in any way?
A. No; the only difference I remarked in him was that his coatwas buttoned.
Q. And was it open when he got in?
A. No; but it was when he was holding up the deceased.
Q. Then he buttoned it before he came back and got into thecab?
A. Yes. I suppose so.
Q. What did he say when he got out of the cab on the St. KildaRoad?
A. He said that the deceased would not let him take him home,and that he would walk back to Melbourne.
Q. And you asked him where you were to drive the deceasedto?
A. Yes; and he said that the deceased lived either in GreyStreet or Ackland Street, St. Kilda, but that the deceased woulddirect me at the Junction.
Q. Did you not think that the deceased was too drunk to directyou?
A. Yes, I did; but his friend said that the sleep and theshaking of the cab would sober him a bit by the time I got to theJunction.
Q. The gentleman in the light coat apparently did not know wherethe deceased lived?
A. No; he said it was either in Ackland Street or GreyStreet.
Q. Did you not think that curious?
A. No; I thought he might be a club friend of the deceased.
Q. For how long did the man in the light coat talk to you?
A. About five minutes.
Q. And during that time you heard no noise in the cab?
A. No; I thought the deceased had gone to sleep.
Q. And after the man in the light coat said"good-night" to the deceased, what happened?
A. He lit a cigarette, gave me a half-sovereign, and walked offtowards Melbourne.
Q. Did you observe if the gentleman in the light coat had hishandkerchief with him?
A. Oh, yes; because he dusted his boots with it. The road wasvery dusty.
Q. Did you notice any striking peculiarity about him?
A. Well, no; except that he wore a diamond ring.
Q. What was there peculiar about that?
A. He wore it on the forefinger of the right hand, and I neversaw it that way before.
Q. When did you notice this?
A. When he was lighting his cigarette.
Q. How often did you call to the deceased when you got to theJunction?
A. Three or four times. I then got down, and found he was quitedead.
Q. How was he lying?
A. He was doubled up in the far corner of the cab, very much inthe same position as I left him when I put him in. His head washanging on one side, and there was a handkerchief across his mouth.When I touched him he fell into the other corner of the cab, andthen I found out he was dead. I immediately drove to the St. Kildapolice station and told the police.
At the conclusion of Royston's evidence, during whichGorby had been continually taking notes, Robert Chinston wascalled. He deposed:—
I am a duly qualified medical practitioner, residing in CollinsStreet East. I made apost-mortem examination of the body ofthe deceased on Friday.
Q. That was within a few hours of his death?
A. Yes, judging from the position of the handkerchief and thepresence of chloroform that the deceased had died from the effectsof anaesthesia, and knowing how rapidly the poison evaporates Imade the examination at once.
Coroner: Go on, sir.
Dr. Chinston: Externally, the body was healthy-looking and wellnourished. There were no marks of violence. The staining apparentat the back of the legs and trunk was due to post-mortemcongestion. Internally, the brain was hyperaemic, and there was aconsiderable amount of congestion, especially apparent in thesuperficial vessels. There was no brain disease. The lungs werehealthy, but slightly congested. On opening the thorax there was afaint spirituous odour discernible. The stomach contained about apint of completely digested food. The heart was flaccid. Theright-heart contained a considerable quantity of dark, fluid blood.There was a tendency to fatty degeneration of that organ.
I am of opinion that the deceased died from the inhalation ofsome such vapour as chloroform or methylene.
Q. You say there was a tendency to fatty degeneration of theheart? Would that have anything to do with the death ofdeceased?
A. Not of itself. But chloroform administered while the heartwas in such a state would have a decided tendency to accelerate thefatal result. At the same time, I may mention that thepost-mortem signs of poisoning by chloroform are mostlynegative.
Dr. Chinston was then permitted to retire, and Clement Rankin,another hansom cabman, was called. He deposed: I am a cabman,living in Collingwood, and usually drive a hansom cab. I rememberThursday last. I had driven a party down to St. Kilda, and wasreturning about half-past one o'clock. A short distance pastthe Grammar School I was hailed by a gentleman in a light coat; hewas smoking a cigarette, and told me to drive him to PowlettStreet, East Melbourne. I did so, and he got out at the corner ofWellington Parade and Powlett Street. He paid me half-a-sovereignfor my fare, and then walked up Powlett Street, while I drove backto town.
Q. What time was it when you stopped at Powlett Street?
A. Two o'clock exactly.
Q. How do you know?
A. Because it was a still night, and I heard the Post Officeclock strike two o'clock.
Q. Did you notice anything peculiar about the man in the lightcoat?
A. No! He looked just the same as anyone else. I thought he wassome swell of the town out for a lark. His hat was pulled down overhis eyes, and I could not see his face.
Q. Did you notice if he wore a ring?
A. Yes! I did. When he was handing me the half-sovereign, I sawhe had a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand.
Q. He did not say why he was on the St. Kilda Road at such anhour?
A. No! He did not.
Clement Rankin was then ordered to stand down, and the Coronerthen summed up in an address of half-an-hour's duration.There was, he pointed out, no doubt that the death of the deceasedhad resulted not from natural causes, but from the effects ofpoisoning. Only slight evidence had been obtained up to the presenttime regarding the circumstances of the case, but the only personwho could be accused of committing the crime was the unknown manwho entered the cab with the deceased on Friday morning at thecorner of the Scotch Church, near the Burke and Wills'monument. It had been proved that the deceased, when he entered thecab, was, to all appearances, in good health, though in a state ofintoxication, and the fact that he was found by the cabman,Royston, after the man in the light coat had left the cab, with ahandkerchief, saturated with chloroform, tied over his mouth, wouldseem to show that he had died through the inhalation of chloroform,which had been deliberately administered. All the obtainableevidence in the case was circumstantial, but, nevertheless, showedconclusively that a crime had been committed. Therefore, as thecircumstances of the case pointed to one conclusion, the jury couldnot do otherwise than frame a verdict in accordance with thatconclusion.
The jury retired at four o'clock, and, after an absence ofa quarter of an hour, returned with the followingverdict:—
"That the deceased, whose name there is no evidence todetermine, died on the 27th day of July, from the effects ofpoison, namely, chloroform, feloniously administered by some personunknown; and the jury, on their oaths, say that the said unknownperson feloniously, wilfully, and maliciously did murder the saiddeceased."
V.R.
MURDER
100 POUNDS REWARD
"Whereas, on Friday, the 27th day of July, the body of aman, name unknown, was found in a hansom cab. And whereas, at aninquest held at St. Kilda, on the 30th day of July, a verdict ofwilful murder, against some person unknown, was brought in by thejury. The deceased is of medium height, with a dark complexion,dark hair, clean shaved, has a mole on the left temple, and wasdressed in evening dress. Notice is hereby given that a reward of£100 will be paid by the Government for such information aswill lead to the conviction of the murderer, who is presumed to bea man who entered the hansom cab with the deceased at the corner ofCollins and Russell Streets, on the morning of the 27th day ofJuly."
"Well," said Mr. Gorby, addressing his reflection inthe looking-glass, "I've been finding out things theselast twenty years, but this is a puzzler, and nomistake."
Mr. Gorby was shaving, and, as was his usual custom, conversedwith his reflection. Being a detective, and of an extremelyreticent disposition, he never talked outside about his business,or made a confidant of anyone. When he did want to unbosom himself,he retired to his bedroom and talked to his reflection in themirror. This method of procedure he found to work capitally, for itrelieved his sometimes overburdened mind with absolute security tohimself. Did not the barber of Midas when he found out what wasunder the royal crown of his master, fret and chafe over hissecret, until one morning he stole to the reeds by the river, andwhispered, "Midas, has ass's ears?" In the likemanner Mr. Gorby felt a longing at times to give speech to hisinnermost secrets; and having no fancy for chattering to the air,he made his mirror his confidant. So far it had never betrayed him,while for the rest it joyed him to see his own jolly red facenodding gravely at him from out the shining surface, like amandarin. This morning the detective was unusually animated in hisconfidences to his mirror. At times, too, a puzzled expressionwould pass over his face. The hansom cab murder had been placed inhis hands for solution, and he was trying to think how he shouldmake a beginning.
"Hang it," he said, thoughtfully stropping hisrazor, "a thing with an end must have a start, and if Idon't get the start how am I to get the end?"
As the mirror did not answer this question, Mr. Gorby latheredhis face, and started shaving in a somewhat mechanical fashion, forhis thoughts were with the case, and ran on in thismanner:—
"Here's a man—well, say a gentleman—whogets drunk, and, therefore, don't know what he's up to.Another gent who is on the square comes up and sings out for a cabfor him—first he says he don't know him, and then heshows plainly he does—he walks away in a temper, changes hismind, comes back and gets into the cab, after telling the cabby todrive down to St. Kilda. Then he polishes the drunk one off withchloroform, gets out of the cab, jumps into another, and aftergetting out at Powlett Street, vanishes—that's theriddle I've got to find out, and I don't think theSphinx ever had a harder one. There are three things to bediscovered—First, who is the dead man? Second, what was hekilled for? And third, who did it?
"Once I get hold of the first the other two won't bevery hard to find out, for one can tell pretty well from aman's life whether it's to anyone's interest thathe should be got off the books. The man that murdered that chapmust have had some strong motive, and I must find out what thatmotive was. Love? No, it wasn't that—men in lovedon't go to such lengths in real life—they do in novelsand plays, but I've never seen it occurring in my experience.Robbery? No, there was plenty of money in his pocket. Revenge? Now,really it might be that—it's a kind of thing thatcarries most people further than they want to go. There was noviolence used, for his clothes, weren't torn, so he must havebeen taken sudden, and before he knew what the other chap was upto. By the way, I don't think I examined his clothessufficiently, there might be something about them to give a clue;at any rate it's worth looking after, so I'll startwith his clothes."
So Mr. Gorby, having dressed and breakfasted, walked quickly tothe police station, where he asked for the clothes of the deceasedto be shown to him. When he received them he retired into a corner,and commenced an exhaustive examination of them.
There was nothing remarkable about the coat. It was merely awell-cut and well-made dress coat; so with a grunt ofdissatisfaction Mr. Gorby threw it aside, and picked up thewaistcoat. Here he found something to interest him, in the shape ofa pocket made on the left-hand side and on the inside, of thegarment.
"Now, what the deuce is this for?" said Mr. Gorby,scratching his head; "it ain't usual for a dresswaistcoat to have a pocket on its inside as I'm aware of;and," continued the detective, greatly excited, "thisain't tailor's work, he did it himself, and jolly badlyhe did it too. Now he must have taken the trouble to make thispocket himself, so that no one else would know anything about it,and it was made to carry something valuable—so valuable thathe had to carry it with him even when he wore evening clothes. Ah!here's a tear on the side nearest the outside of thewaistcoat; something has been pulled out roughly. I begin to seenow. The dead man possessed something which the other man wanted,and which he knew the dead one carried about with him. He sees himdrunk, gets into the cab with him, and tries to get what he wants.The dead man resists, upon which the other kills him by means ofthe chloroform which he had with him, and being afraid that the cabwill stop, and he will be found out, snatches what he wants out ofthe pocket so quickly that he tears the waistcoat and then makesoff. That's clear enough, but the question is, What was it hewanted? A case with jewels? No! It could not have been anything sobulky, or the dead man would never have carried it about inside hiswaistcoat. It was something flat, which could easily lie in thepocket—a paper—some valuable paper which the assassinwanted, and for which he killed the other."
"This is all very well," said Mr. Gorby, throwingdown the waistcoat, and rising. "I have found number twobefore number one. The first question is: Who is the murdered man.He's a stranger in Melbourne, that's pretty clear, orelse some one would have been sure to recognise him before now bythe description given in the reward. Now, I wonder if he has anyrelations here? No, he can't, or else they would have madeenquiries, before this. Well, there's one thing certain, hemust have had a landlady or landlord, unless he slept in the openair. He can't have lived in an hotel, as the landlord of anyhotel in Melbourne would have recognised him from the description,especially when the whole place is ringing with the murder. Privatelodgings more like, and a landlady who doesn't read thepapers and doesn't gossip, or she'd have known allabout it by this time. Now, if he did live, as I think, in privatelodgings, and suddenly disappeared, his landlady wouldn'tkeep quiet. It's a whole week since the murder, and as thelodger has not been seen or heard of, the landlady will naturallymake enquiries. If, however, as I surmise, the lodger is astranger, she will not know where to enquire; therefore, underthese circumstances, the most natural thing for her to do would beto advertise for him, so I'll have a look at thenewspapers."
Mr. Gorby got a file of the different newspapers, and lookedcarefully through those columns in which missing friends and peoplewho will hear "something to their advantage" aregenerally advertised for.
"He was murdered," said Mr. Gorby to himself,"on a Friday morning, between one and two o'clock, sohe might stay away till Monday without exciting any suspicion. OnMonday, however, the landlady would begin to feel uneasy, and onTuesday she would advertise for him. Therefore," said Mr.Gorby, running his fat finger down the column, "Wednesday itis."
It did not appear in Wednesday's paper, neither did it inThursday's, but in Friday's issue, exactly one weekafter the murder, Mr. Gorby suddenly came upon the followingadvertisement:—
"If Mr. Oliver Whyte does not return to Possum Villa, GreyStreet, St. Kilda, before the end of the week, his rooms will belet again.—Rubina Hableton."
"Oliver Whyte," repeated Mr. Gorby slowly,"and the initials on the pocket-handkerchief which was provedto have belonged to the deceased were 'O.W.' So hisname is Oliver Whyte, is it? Now, I wonder if Rubina Hableton knowsanything about this matter. At any rate," said Mr. Gorby,putting on his hat, "as I'm fond of sea breezes, Ithink I'll go down, and call at Possum Villa, Grey Street,St. Kilda."
Mrs. Hableton was a lady with a grievance, as anybody whohappened to become acquainted with her, soon found out. It isBeaconsfield who says, in one of his novels, that no one is sointeresting as when he is talking about himself; and, judging Mrs.Hableton by this statement, she was an extremely fascinatingindividual, as she never by any chance talked upon any othersubject. What was the threat of a Russian invasion to her so longas she had her special grievance—once let that be removed,and she would have time to attend to such minor details as affectedthe colony.
Mrs. Hableton's particular grievance was want of money.Not by any means an uncommon one, you might remind her; but shesnappishly would tell you that "she knowd that, but somepeople weren't like other people." In time one came tolearn what she meant by this. She had come to the Colonies in theearly days—days when the making of money in appreciablequantity was an easier matter than it is now. Owing to a badhusband, she had failed to save any. The late Mr.Hableton—for he had long since departed this life—hadbeen addicted to alcohol, and at those times when he should havebeen earning, he was usually to be found in a drinking shantyspending his wife's earnings in "shouting" forhimself and his friends. The constant drinking, and the hotVictorian climate, soon carried him off, and when Mrs. Hableton hadseen him safely under the ground in the Melbourne Cemetery, shereturned home to survey her position, and see how it could bebettered. She gathered together a little money from the wreck ofher fortune, and land being cheap, purchased a small"section" at St. Kilda, and built a house on it. Shesupported herself by going out charing, taking in sewing, andacting as a sick nurse, So, among this multiplicity of occupations,she managed to exist fairly well.
And in truth it was somewhat hard upon Mrs. Hableton. For at thetime when she should have been resting and reaping the fruit of herearly industry, she was obliged to toil more assiduously than ever.It was little consolation to her that she was but a type of manywomen, who, hardworking and thrifty themselves, are married to menwho are nothing but an incubus to their wives and to theirfamilies. Small wonder, then, that Mrs. Hableton should condenseall her knowledge of the male sex into the one bitter aphorism,"Men is brutes."
Possum Villa was an unpretentious-looking place, with onebow-window and a narrow verandah in front. It was surrounded by asmall garden in which were a few sparse flowers—the especialdelight of Mrs. Hableton. It was her way to tie an old handkerchiefround her head and to go out into the garden and dig and water herbeloved flowers until, from sheer desperation at the overwhelmingodds, they gave up all attempt to grow. She was engaged in thisfavourite occupation about a week after her lodger had gone. Shewondered where he was.
"Lyin' drunk in a public-'ouse, I'll bebound," she said, viciously pulling up a weed,"a-spendin' 'is, rent and a-spilin''is inside with beer—ah, men is brutes, drat'em!"
Just as she said this, a shadow fell across the garden, and onlooking up, she saw a man leaning over the fence, staring ather.
"Git out," she said, sharply, rising from her kneesand shaking her trowel at the intruder. "I don't wantno apples to-day, an' I don't care how cheap you sells'em."
Mrs. Hableton evidently laboured under the delusion that the manwas a hawker, but seeing no hand-cart with him, she changed hermind.
"You're takin' a plan of the 'ouse torob it, are you?" she said. "Well, you needn't,'cause there ain't nothin' to rob, the silverspoons as belonged to my father's mother 'avin'gone down my 'usband's, throat long ago, an' Iain't 'ad money to buy more. I'm a lone pusson asis put on by brutes like you, an' I'll thank you toleave the fence I bought with my own 'ard earned money alone,and git out."
Mrs. Hableton stopped short for want of breath, and stoodshaking her trowel, and gasping like a fish out of water.
"My dear lady," said the man at the fence, mildly,"are you—"
"No, I ain't," retorted Mrs. Hableton,fiercely, "I ain't neither a member of the 'Ouse,nor a school teacher, to answer your questions. I'm a womanas pays my rates an' taxes, and don't gossip nor readyer rubbishin' newspapers, nor care for the Russings, no how,so git out."
"Don't read the papers?" repeated the man, ina satisfied tone, "ah! that accounts for it."
Mrs. Hableton stared suspiciously at the intruder. He was aburly-looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaven, and hissharp, shrewd-looking grey eyes twinkled like two stars. He waswell-dressed in a suit of light clothes, and wore astiffly-starched white waistcoat, with a massive gold chainstretched across it. Altogether he gave Mrs. Hableton finally theimpression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentallywondered what he wanted.
"What d'y want?" she asked, abruptly.
"Does Mr. Oliver Whyte live here?" asked thestranger.
"He do, an' he don't," answered Mrs.Hableton, epigrammatically. "I ain't seen 'im forover a week, so I s'pose 'e's gone on the drink,like the rest of 'em, but I've put sumthin' inthe paper as 'ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let 'imknow I ain't a carpet to be trod on, an' ifyou're a friend of 'im, you can tell 'im from me'e's a brute, an' it's no more but what Iexpected of 'im, 'e bein' a male."
The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs.Hableton, having stopped for want of breath, he interposed,quietly—
"Can I speak to you for a few moments?"
"An' who's a-stoppin' of you?"said Mrs. Hableton, defiantly. "Go on with you, not as Iexpects the truth from a male, but go on."
"Well, really," said the other, looking up at thecloudless blue sky, and wiping his face with a gaudy red silkpocket-handkerchief, "it is rather hot, you know,and—"
Mrs. Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking tothe gate, opened it with a jerk.
"Use your legs and walk in," she said, and thestranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into asmall neat sitting-room, which seemed to overflow withantimacassars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There were also a row ofemu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutlass on the wall, and a grimyline of hard-looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf,presumably for ornament, for their appearance in no way tempted oneto read them.
The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard andshiny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery lookingarm-chair that Mrs. Hableton pushed towards him; he could not helpthinking it had been stuffed with stones, it felt so cold and hard.The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, andhaving taken the handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully,laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpectedvisitor.
"Now then," she said, letting her mouth fly open sorapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved bystrings like a marionette, "Who are you? what are you? andwhat do you want?"
The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placedit on the table, and answered deliberately—
"My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. OliverWhyte."
"He ain't here," said Mrs. Hableton, thinkingthat Whyte had got into trouble, and was in danger of arrest.
"I know that," answered Mr. Gorby.
"Then where is 'e?"
Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of hiswords.
"He is dead."
Mrs. Hableton grew pale, and pushed back her chair."No," she cried, "he never killed 'im, did'e?"
"Who never killed him?" queried Mr. Gorby,sharply.
Mrs. Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to say, for,recovering herself with a violent effort, she answeredevasively—
"He never killed himself."
Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with adefiant stare.
"Clever," muttered the detective to himself;"knows something more than she chooses to tell, butI'll get it out of her." He paused a moment, and thenwent on smoothly, "Oh, no! he did not commit suicide; whatmakes you think so?"
Mrs. Hableton did not answer, but, rising from her seat, wentover to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard, from whence she took abottle of brandy and a small wine-glass. Half filling the glass,she drank it off, and returned to her seat. "I don'ttake much of that stuff," she said, seeing thedetective's eyes fixed curiously on her, "but you'ave given me such a turn that I must take something tosteady my nerves; what do you want me to do?"
"Tell me all you know," said Mr. Gorby, keeping hiseyes fixed on her face.
"Where was Mr. Whyte killed?" she asked.
"He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St. KildaRoad."
"In the open street?" she asked in a startledtone.
"Yes, in the open street."
"Ah!" she drew a long breath, and closed her lips,firmly. Mr. Gorby said nothing. He saw that she was deliberatingwhether or not to speak, and a word from him might seal her lips,so, like a wise man, he kept silent. He obtained his reward soonerthan he expected.
"Mr. Gorby," she said at length, "I 'ave'ad a 'ard struggle all my life, which it came along ofa bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, Iain't got much inducement to think well of the lot of you,but—murder," she shivered slightly, though the room wasquite warm, "I didn't think of that."
"In connection with whom?"
"Mr. Whyte, of course," she answered, hurriedly.
"And who else?"
"I don't know."
"Then there is nobody else?"
"Well, I don't know—I'm notsure."
The detective was puzzled.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I will tell you all I know," said Mrs. Hableton,"an' if 'e's innocent, God will 'elp'im."
"If who is innocent?"
"I'll tell you everythin' from thestart," said Mrs. Hableton, "an' you can judgefor yourself."
Mr. Gorby assented, and she began:
"It's only two months ago since I decided to take inlodgers; but charin's 'ard work, and sewin'stryin' for the eyes, So, bein' a lone woman,'avin' bin badly treated by a brute, who is now dead,which I was allays a good wife to 'im, I thought lodgers'ud 'elp me a little, so I put a notice in the paper,an' Mr. Oliver Whyte took the rooms two monthsago."
"What was he like?"
"Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor moustache,an' quite the gentleman."
"Anything peculiar about him?"
Mrs. Hableton thought for a moment.
"Well," she said at length, "he 'ad amole on his left temple, but it was covered with 'is'air, an' few people 'ud 'ave seenit."
"The very man," said Gorby to himself,"I'm on the right path."
"Mr. Whyte said 'e 'ad just come fromEngland," went on the woman.
"Which," thought Mr. Gorby, "accounts for thecorpse not being recognised by friends."
"He took the rooms, an' said 'e'd staywith me for six months, an' paid a week's rent inadvance, an' 'e allays paid up reg'ler like arespectable man, tho' I don't believe in 'emmyself. He said 'e'd lots of friends, an' used togo out every night."
"Who were his friends?"
"That I can't tell you, for 'e were veryclose, an' when 'e went out of doors I never knowdwhere 'e went, which is jest like 'em; for they sesthey're goin' to work, an' you finds 'em inthe beershop. Mr. Whyte told me 'e was a-goin' to marrya heiress, 'e was."
"Ah!" interjected Mr. Gorby, sapiently.
"He 'ad only one friend as I ever saw—a Mr.Moreland—who comed 'ere with 'm, an' wasallays with 'im—brother-like."
"What is this Mr. Moreland like?"
"Good-lookin' enough," said Mrs. Habletonsourly, "but 'is 'abits weren't as good as'is face—'andsom is as 'andsom does, iswhat I ses."
"I wonder if he knows anything about this affair,"thought Gorby to himself "Where is Mr. Moreland to befound?" he asked.
"Not knowin', can't tell," retorted thelandlady, "'e used to be 'ere reg'lar, butI ain't seen 'im for over a week."
"Strange! very!" said Gorby, shaking his head."I should like to see this Mr. Moreland. I suppose it'sprobable he'll call again?"
"'Abit bein' second nature I s'pose hewill," answered the woman, "'e might call at anytime, mostly 'avin' called at night."
"Ah! then I'll come down this evening on chance ofseeing him," replied the detective. "Coincidenceshappen in real life as well as in novels, and the gentleman inquestion may turn up in the nick of time. Now, what else about Mr.Whyte?"
"About two weeks ago, or three, I'm notcert'in which, a gentleman called to see Mr. Whyte; 'ewas very tall, and wore a light coat."
"Ah! a morning coat?"
"No! 'e was in evenin' dress, and wore a lightcoat over it, an' a soft 'at."
"The very man," said the detective below his breath;"go on."
"He went into Mr. Whyte's room, an' shut thedoor. I don't know how long they were talkin' together;but I was sittin' in this very room and heard their voicesgit angry, and they were a-swearin' at one another, which isthe way with men, the brutes. I got up and went into the passage inorder to ask 'em not to make such a noise, when Mr.Whyte's door opens, an' the gentleman in the light coatcomes out, and bangs along to the door. Mr. Whyte 'e comes tothe door of 'is room, an' 'e 'ollers out.'She is mine; you can't do anything; an' theother turns with 'is 'and on the door an' says,'I can kill you, an' if you marry 'er I'lldo it, even in the open street.'"
"Ah!" said Mr. Gorby, drawing a long breath,"and then?"
"Then he bangs the door to, which it's never shuteasy since, an' I ain't got no money to get it putright, an' Mr. Whyte walks back to his room,laughing."
"Did he make any remark to you?"
"No; except he'd been worried by aloonatic."
"And what was the stranger's name?"
"That I can't tell you, as Mr. Whyte never told me.He was very tall, with a fair moustache, an' dressed as Itold you."
Mr. Gorby was satisfied.
"That is the man," he said to himself, "whogot into the hansom cab, and murdered Whyte; there's no doubtof it! Whyte and he were rivals for the heiress."
"What d'y think of it?" said Mrs. Habletoncuriously.
"I think," said Mr. Gorby slowly, with his eyesfixed on her, "I think that there is a woman at the bottom ofthis crime."
When Mr. Gorby left Possum Villa no doubt remained in his mindas to who had committed the murder. The gentleman in the light coathad threatened to murder Whyte, even in the open street—theselast words being especially significant—and there was nodoubt that he had carried out his threat. The committal of thecrime was merely the fulfilment of the words uttered in anger. Whatthe detective had now to do was to find who the gentleman in thelight coat was, where he lived, and, that done, to ascertain hisdoings on the night of the murder. Mrs. Hableton had described him,but was ignorant of his name, and her very vague description mightapply to dozens of young men in Melbourne. There was only oneperson who, in Mr. Gorby's opinion, could tell the name ofthe gentleman in the light coat, and that was Moreland, theintimate friend of the dead man. They appeared, from thelandlady's description, to have been so friendly that it wasmore than likely Whyte would have told Moreland all about his angryvisitor. Besides, Moreland's knowledge of his deadfriend's life and habits might be able to supply informationon two points, namely, who was most likely to gain by Whyte'sdeath, and who the heiress was that the deceased boasted he wouldmarry. But the fact that Moreland should be ignorant of hisfriend's tragic death, notwithstanding that the papers werefull of it, and that the reward gave an excellent description ofhis personal appearance, greatly puzzled Gorby.
The only way in which to account for Moreland'sextraordinary silence was that he was out of town, and had neitherseen the papers nor heard anyone talking about the murder. If thiswere the case he might either stay away for an indefinite time orreturn after a few days. At all events it was worth while goingdown to St. Kilda in the evening on the chance that Moreland mighthave returned to town, and would call to see his friend. So, afterhis tea, Mr. Gorby put on his hat, and went down to Possum Villa,on what he could not help acknowledging to himself was a veryslender possibility.
Mrs. Hableton opened the door for him, and in silence led theway, not into her own sitting-room, but into a much moreluxuriously furnished apartment, which Gorby guessed at once wasthat of Whyte's. He looked keenly round the room, and hisestimate of the dead man's character was formed at once.
"Fast," he said to himself, "and aspendthrift. A man who would have his friends, and possibly hisenemies, among a very shady lot of people."
What led Mr. Gorby to this belief was the evidence whichsurrounded him of Whyte's mode of life. The room was wellfurnished, the furniture being covered with dark-red velvet, whilethe curtains on the windows and the carpet were all of the samesomewhat sombre hue.
"I did the thing properly," observed Mrs. Hableton,with a satisfactory smile on her hard face. "When you wantsyoung men to stop with you, the rooms must be well furnished,an' Mr. Whyte paid well, tho' 'e was ratherpertickler about 'is food, which I'm only a plain cook,an' can't make them French things which spile thestomach."
The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink colour, and Mrs.Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr. Gorby'sarrival, there was a soft roseate hue through the room. Mr. Gorbyput his hands in his capacious pockets, and strolled leisurelythrough the room, examining everything with a curious eye. Thewalls were covered with pictures of celebrated horses and famousjockeys. Alternating with these were photographs of ladies of thestage, mostly London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, andother burlesque stars, evidently being the objects of the late Mr.Whyte's adoration. Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes,above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number ofplush frames of all colours, with pretty faces smiling out of them;a remarkable fact being, that all the photographs were of ladies,and not a single male face was to be seen, either on the walls orin the plush frames.
"Fond of the ladies, I see," said Mr. Gorby, noddinghis head towards the mantelpiece.
"A set of hussies," said Mrs. Hableton grimly,closing her lips tightly. "I feel that ashamed when I dusts'em as never was—I don't believe in galsgettin' their picters taken with 'ardly any clothes on,as if they just got out of bed, but Mr. Whyte seems to like'em."
"Most young men do," answered Mr. Gorby dryly, goingover to the bookcase.
"Brutes," said the lady of the house."I'd drown 'em in the Yarrer, I would, asettin' 'emselves and a callin' 'emselveslords of creation, as if women were made for nothin' but toearn money an' see 'em drink it, as my 'usbanddid, which 'is inside never seemed to 'ave enough beer,an' me a poor lone woman with no family, thank God, orthey'd 'ave taken arter their father in 'isdrinkin' 'abits."
Mr. Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stoodlooking at Mr. Whyte's library, which seemed to consistmostly of French novels and sporting newspapers.
"Zola," said Mr. Gorby, thoughtfully, taking down aflimsy yellow book rather tattered. "I've heard of him;if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn't careto read them."
Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive. Onhearing it Mrs. Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. "Thatmay be Mr. Moreland," she said, as the detective quicklyreplaced "Zola" in the bookcase. "I never'ave visitors in the evenin', bein' a lonewidder, and if it is 'im I'll bring 'im in'ere."
She went out, and presently Gorby, who was listening intently,heard a man's voice ask if Mr. Whyte was at home.
"No, sir, he ain't," answered the landlady;"but there's a gentleman in his room askin' after'im. Won't you come in, sir?"
"For a rest, yes," returned the visitor, andimmediately afterwards Mrs. Hableton appeared, ushering in the lateOliver Whyte's most intimate friend. He was a tall, slenderman, with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and adrooping straw-coloured moustache—altogether a strikinglyaristocratic individual. He was well-dressed in a suit of check,and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.
"And where is Mr. Whyte to-night?" he asked, sinkinginto a chair, and taking no more notice of the detective than if hehad been an article of furniture.
"Haven't you seen him lately?" asked thedetective quickly. Mr. Moreland stared in an insolent manner at hisquestioner for a few moments, as if he were debating theadvisability of answering or not. At last he apparently decidedthat he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back inhis chair.
"No, I have not," he said with a yawn. "I havebeen up the country for a few days, and arrived back only thisevening, so I have not seen him for over a week. Why do youask?"
The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young manbefore him in a thoughtful manner.
"I hope," said Mr. Moreland, nonchalantly, "Ihope you will know me again, my friend, but I didn't knowWhyte had started a lunatic asylum during my absence. Who areyou?"
Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gas light.
"My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective," hesaid quietly.
"Ah! indeed," said Moreland, coolly looking him upand down. "What has Whyte been doing; running away withsomeone's wife, eh? I know he has little weaknesses of thatsort."
Gorby shook his head.
"Do you know where Mr. Whyte is to be found?" heasked, cautiously.
Moreland laughed.
"Not I, my friend," said he, lightly. "Ipresume he is somewhere about here, as these are his head-quarters.What has he been doing? Nothing that can surprise me, I assureyou—he was always an erratic individual,and—"
"He paid reg'ler," interrupted Mrs. Hableton,pursing up her lips.
"A most enviable reputation to possess," answeredthe other with a sneer, "and one I'm afraid I'llnever enjoy. But why all this questioning about Whyte? What'sthe matter with him?"
"He's dead!" said Gorby, abruptly.
All Moreland's nonchalance vanished on hearing this, andhe started up from his chair.
"Dead," he repeated mechanically. "What do youmean?"
"I mean that Mr. Oliver Whyte was murdered in a hansomcab."
Moreland stared at the detective in a puzzled sort of way, andpassed his hand across his forehead.
"Excuse me, my head is in a whirl," he said, as hesat down again. "Whyte murdered! He was all right when I lefthim nearly two weeks ago."
"Haven't you seen the papers?" askedGorby.
"Not for the last two weeks," replied Moreland."I have been up country, and it was only on arriving back intown tonight that I heard about the murder at all, as my landladygave me a garbled account of it, but I never for a moment connectedit with Whyte, and I came down here to see him, as I had agreed todo when I left. Poor fellow! poor fellow! poor fellow!" andmuch overcome, he buried his face in his hands.
Mr. Gorby was touched by his evident distress, and even Mrs.Hableton permitted a small tear to roll down one hard cheek as atribute of sorrow and sympathy. Presently Moreland raised his head,and spoke to Gorby in a husky tone.
"Tell me all about it," he said, leaning his cheekon his hand. "Everything you know."
He placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in hishands again, while the detective sat down and related all that heknew about Whyte's murder. When it was done he lifted up hishead, and looked sadly at the detective.
"If I had been in town," he said, "this wouldnot have happened, for I was always beside Whyte."
"You knew him very well, sir?" said the detective,in a sympathetic tone.
"We were like brothers," replied Moreland,mournfully. "I came out from England in the same steamer withhim, and used to visit him constantly here."
Mrs. Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was thecase.
"In fact," said Mr. Moreland, after a moment'sthought, "I believe I was with him on the night he wasmurdered."
Mrs. Hableton gave a slight scream, and threw her apron over herface, but the detective sat unmoved, though Moreland's lastremark had startled him considerably.
"What's the matter?" said Moreland, turning toMrs. Hableton. "Don't be afraid; I didn't killhim—no—but I met him last Thursday week, and I left forthe country on Friday morning at half-past six."
"And what time did you meet Whyte on Thursdaynight?" asked Gorby.
"Let me see," said Moreland, crossing his legs andlooking thoughtfully up to the ceiling, "it was abouthalf-past nine o'clock. I was in the Orient Hotel, in BourkeStreet. We had a drink together, and then went up the street to anhotel in Russell Street, where we had another. In fact," saidMoreland, coolly, "we had several other drinks."
"Brutes!" muttered Mrs. Hableton, below herbreath.
"Yes," said Gorby, placidly. "Goon."
"Well of—it's hardly the thing to confessit," said Moreland, looking from one to the other with apleasant smile, "but in a case like this, I feel it my dutyto throw all social scruples aside. We both became verydrunk."
"Ah! Whyte was, as we know, drunk when he got into thecab—and you—?"
"I was not quite so bad as Whyte," answered theother. "I had my senses about me. I fancy he left the hotelsome minutes before one o'clock on Friday morning."
"And what did you do?"
"I remained in the hotel. He left his overcoat behind him,and I picked it up and followed him shortly afterwards, to returnit. I was too drunk to see in which direction he had gone, andstood leaning against the hotel door in Bourke Street with the coatin my hand. Then some one came up, and, snatching the coat from me,made off with it, and the last thing I remember was shouting out:'Stop, thief!' Then I must have fallen down, for nextmorning I was in bed with all my clothes on, and they were verymuddy. I got up and left town for the country by the six-thirtytrain, so I knew nothing about the matter until I came back toMelbourne tonight. That's all I know."
"And you had no impression that Whyte was watched thatnight?"
"No, I had not," answered Moreland, frankly."He was in pretty good spirits, though he was put out atfirst."
"What was the cause of his being put out?"
Moreland arose, and going to a side table, brought Whyte'salbum, which he laid on the table and opened in silence. Thecontents were very much the same as the photographs in the room,burlesque actresses and ladies of the ballet predominating; but Mr.Moreland turned over the pages till nearly the end, when he stoppedat a large cabinet photograph, and pushed the album towards Mr.Gorby.
"That was the cause," he said.
It was the portrait of a charmingly pretty girl, dressed inwhite, with a sailor hat on her fair hair, and holding a lawntennis racquet. She was bending half forward, with a winning smile,and in the background bloomed a mass of tropical plants. Mrs.Hableton uttered a cry of surprise at seeing this.
"Why, it's Miss Frettlby," she said."How did he know her?"
"Knew her father—letter of introduction, and allthat sort of thing," said Mr. Moreland, glibly.
"Ah! indeed," said Mr. Gorby, slowly. "So Mr.Whyte knew Mark Frettlby, the millionaire; but how did he obtain aphotograph of the daughter?"
"She gave it to him," said Moreland. "The factis, Whyte was very much in love with Miss Frettlby."
"And she—"
"Was in love with someone else," finished Moreland."Exactly! Yes, she loved a Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, to whom sheis now engaged. He was mad on her; and Whyte and he used to quarreldesperately over the young lady."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Gorby. "And do you knowthis Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Oh, dear, no!" answered the other, coolly."Whyte's friends were not mine. He was a rich young manwho had good introductions. I am only a poor devil on the outskirtsof society, trying to push my way in the world."
"You are acquainted with his personal appearance, ofcourse?" observed Mr. Gorby.
"Oh, yes, I can describe that," said Moreland."In fact, he's not at all unlike me, which I take to berather a compliment, as he is said to be good-looking. He is tall,rather fair, talks in a bored sort of manner, and is altogetherwhat one would call a heavy swell; but you must have seenhim," he went on, turning to Mrs. Hableton, "he washere three or four weeks ago, Whyte told me."
"Oh, that was Mr. Fitzgerald, was it?" said Mrs.Hableton, in surprise. "Yes, he is rather like you; the ladythey quarrelled over must have been Miss Frettlby."
"Very likely," said Moreland, rising. "Well,I'm off; here's my address," putting a card inGorby's, hand. "I'm glad to be of any use to youin this matter, as Whyte was my dearest friend, and I'll doall in my power to help you to find out the murderer."
"I don't think that is a very difficultmatter," said Mr. Gorby, slowly.
"Oh, you have your suspicions?" asked Moreland,looking at him.
"I have."
"Then who do you think murdered Whyte?"
Mr. Gorby paused a moment, and then said deliberately: "Ihave an idea—but I am not certain—when I am certain,I'll speak."
"You think Fitzgerald killed my friend," saidMoreland. "I see it in your face."
Mr. Gorby smiled. "Perhaps," he said, ambiguously."Wait till I'm certain."
The old Greek legend of Midas turning everything he touched intogold, is truer than most people imagine. Mediaeval superstitionchanged the human being who possessed such a power into thephilosopher's stone—the stone which so many alchemistssought in the dark ages. But we of the nineteenth century havegiven back into human hands this power of transformation.
But we do not ascribe it either to Greek deity, or tosuperstition; we call it luck. And he who possesses luck should behappy notwithstanding the proverb which hints the contrary. Luckmeans more than riches—it means happiness in most of thosethings, which the fortunate possessor of it may choose to touch.Should he speculate, he is successful; if he marry, his wife willsurely prove everything to be desired; should he aspire to aposition, social or political, he not only attains it, but does sowith comparative ease. Worldly wealth, domestic happiness, highposition, and complete success—all these things belong to theman who has luck.
Mark Frettlby was one of these fortunate individuals, and hisluck was proverbial throughout Australia. If there was anyspeculation for which Mark Frettlby went in, other men would surelyfollow, and in every case the result turned out as well, and inmany cases even better than they expected. He had come out in theearly days of the colony with comparatively little money, but hisgreat perseverance and never-failing luck had soon changed hishundreds into thousands, and now at the age of fifty-five he didnot himself know the extent of his income. He had large stationsscattered all over the Colony of Victoria, which brought him in asplendid income; a charming country house, where at certain seasonsof the year he dispensed hospitality to his friends; and amagnificent town house down in St. Kilda, which would have been notunworthy of Park Lane.
Nor were his domestic relations less happy—he had acharming wife, who was one of the best known and most popularladies of Melbourne, and an equally charming daughter, who, beingboth pretty and an heiress, naturally attracted crowds of suitors.But Madge Frettlby was capricious, and refused innumerable offers.Being an extremely independent young person, with a mind of herown, she decided to remain single, as she had not yet seen anyoneshe could love, and with her mother continued to dispense thehospitality of the mansion at St. Kilda.
But the fairy prince comes at length to every woman, and in thisinstance he came at his appointed time, in the person of one BrianFitzgerald, a tall, handsome, fair-haired young man hailing fromIreland.
He had left behind him in the old country a ruined castle and afew acres of barren land, inhabited by discontented tenants, whorefused to pay the rent, and talked darkly about the Land Leagueand other agreeable things. Under these circumstances, with no rentcoming in, and no prospect of doing anything in the future, Brianhad left the castle of his forefathers to the rats and the familyBanshee, and had come out to Australia to make his fortune.
He brought letters of introduction to Mark Frettlby, and thatgentleman, taking a fancy to him, assisted him by every means inhis power. Under Frettlby's advice Brian bought a station,and, to his astonishment, in a few years he found himself growingrich. The Fitzgeralds had always been more famous for spending thanfor saving, and it was an agreeable surprise to their latestrepresentative to find the money rolling in instead of out. Hebegan to indulge in castles in the air concerning that other castlein Ireland, with the barren acres and discontented tenants. In hismind's-eye he saw the old place rise up in all its pristinesplendour from out its ruins; he saw the barren acres wellcultivated, and the tenants happy and content—he was ratherdoubtful on this latter point, but, with the rash confidence ofeight and twenty, determined to do his best to perform even theimpossible.
Having built and furnished his castle in the air, Briannaturally thought of giving it a mistress, and this time actualappearance took the place of vision. He fell in love with MadgeFrettlby, and having decided in his own mind that she and noneother was fitted to grace the visionary halls of his renovatedcastle, he watched his opportunity, and declared himself. She,woman-like, coquetted with him for some time, but at last, unableto withstand the impetuosity of her Irish lover, confessed in a lowvoice, with a pretty smile on her face, that she could not livewithout him. Whereupon—well—lovers being of aconservative turn of mind, and accustomed to observe thetraditional forms of wooing, the result can easily be guessed.Brian hunted all over the jewellers' shops in Melbourne withlover-like assiduity, and having obtained a ring wherein were setturquoise stones as blue as his own eyes, he placed it on herslender finger, and at last felt that his engagement was anaccomplished fact.
He next proceeded to interview the father, and had just screwedup his courage to the awful ordeal, when something occurred whichpostponed the interview indefinitely. Mrs. Frettlby was outdriving, and the horses took fright and bolted. The coachman andgroom both escaped unhurt, but Mrs. Frettlby was thrown out andkilled instantly.
This was the first really great trouble which had fallen on MarkFrettlby, and he seemed stunned by it. Shutting himself up in hisroom he refused to see anyone, even his daughter, and appeared atthe funeral with a white and haggard face, which shocked everyone.When everything was over, and the body of the late Mrs. Frettlbywas consigned to the earth, with all the pomp and ceremony whichmoney could give, the bereaved husband rode home, and resumed hisold life. But he was never the same again. His face, which hadalways been so genial and so bright, became stern and sad. Heseldom smiled, and when he did, it was a faint wintry smile, whichseemed mechanical. His whole interest in life was centred in hisdaughter. She became the sole mistress of the St. Kilda mansion,and her father idolised her. She was apparently the one thing leftto him which gave him a pleasure in existence. In truth, had it notbeen for her bright presence, Mark Frettlby would fain have beenlying beside his dead wife in the quiet graveyard.
After a time Brian again resolved to ask Mr. Frettlby for thehand of his daughter. But for the second time fate interposed. Arival suitor made his appearance, and Brian's hot Irishtemper rose in anger at him.
Mr. Oliver Whyte had come out from England a few monthspreviously, bringing with him a letter of introduction to Mr.Frettlby, who received him hospitably, as was his custom. Takingadvantage of this, Whyte lost no time in making himself perfectlyat home in the St. Kilda mansion.
From the outset Brian took a dislike to the new-comer. He was astudent of Lavater, and prided himself on his perspicuity inreading character. His opinion of Whyte was anything but flatteringto that gentleman; while Madge shared his repulsion towards thenew-comer.
On his part Mr. Whyte was nothing if not diplomatic. He affectednot to notice the coldness of Madge's reception of him. Onthe contrary he began to pay her the most marked attentions, muchto Brian's disgust. At length he asked her to be his wife,and notwithstanding her prompt refusal, spoke to her father on thesubject. Much to the astonishment of his daughter, Mr. Frettlby notonly consented to Whyte paying his addresses to Madge, but gavethat young lady to understand that he wished her to consider hisproposals favourably.
In spite of all Madge could say, he refused to alter hisdecision, and Whyte, feeling himself safe, began to treat Brianwith an insolence which was highly galling to Fitzgerald'sproud nature. He had called on Whyte at his lodgings, and after aviolent quarrel he had left the house vowing to kill him, should hemarry Madge Frettlby.
The same night Fitzgerald had an interview with Mr. Frettlby. Heconfessed that he loved Madge, and that his love was returned. So,when Madge added her entreaties to Brian's, Mr. Frettlbyfound himself unable to withstand the combined forces, and gave hisconsent to their engagement.
Whyte was absent in the country for the next few days after hisstormy interview with Brian, and it was only on his return that helearnt that Madge was engaged to his rival. He saw Mr. Frettlby,and having learnt from his own lips that such was the case, he leftthe house at once, and swore that he would never enter it again. Helittle knew how prophetic were his words, for on that same night hemet his death in the hansom cab. He had passed out of the life ofboth the lovers, and they, glad that he troubled them no more,never suspected for a moment that the body of the unknown man foundin Royston's cab was that of Oliver Whyte.
About two weeks after Whyte's disappearance Mr. Frettlbygave a dinner party in honour of his daughter's birthday. Itwas a delightful evening, and the wide French windows which led onto the verandah were open, letting in a gentle breeze from theocean. Outside there was a kind of screen of tropical plants, andthrough the tangle of the boughs the guests, seated at the table,could just see the waters of the bay glittering in the palemoonlight. Brian was seated opposite to Madge, and every now andthen he caught a glimpse of her bright face from behind the fruitand flowers, which stood in the centre of the table. Mark Frettlbywas at the head of the table, and appeared in very good spirits.His stern features were somewhat relaxed, and he drank more winethan usual.
The soup had just been removed when some one, who was late,entered with apologies and took his seat. Some one in this case wasMr. Felix Rolleston, one of the best known young men in Melbourne.He had an income of his own, scribbled a little for the papers, wasto be seen at every house of any pretensions in Melbourne, and wasalways bright, happy, and full of news. For details of any scandalyou were safe in applying to Felix Rolleston. He knew all that wasgoing on, both at home and abroad. And his knowledge, if not veryaccurate, was at least extensive, while his conversation waspiquant, and at times witty. Calton, one of the leading lawyers ofthe city, remarked that "Rolleston put him in mind of whatBeaconsfield said of one of the personages in Lothair, 'Hewasn't an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets were alwaysfull of sixpences.'" Be it said in his favour thatFelix was free with his sixpences.
The conversation, which had shown signs of languishing beforehis arrival, now brightened up.
"So awfully sorry, don't you know," saidFelix, as he slipped into a seat by Madge; "but a fellow likeme has got to be careful of his time—so many calls onit."
"So many calls in it, you mean," retorted Madge,with a disbelieving smile. "Confess, now, you have beenpaying a round of visits."
"Well, yes," assented Mr. Rolleston;"that's the disadvantage of having a large circle ofacquaintances. They give you weak tea and thin bread and butter,whereas—"
"You would rather have something else," finishedBrian.
There was a laugh at this, but Mr. Rolleston disdained to noticethe interruption.
"The only advantage of five o'clock tea," hewent on, "is, that it brings people together, and one hearswhat's going on."
"Ah, yes, Rolleston," said Mr. Frettlby, who waslooking at him with an amused smile. "What news haveyou?"
"Good news, bad news, and such news as you have neverheard of," quoted Rolleston gravely. "Yes, I have a bitof news—haven't you heard it?"
Rolleston felt he held sensation in his hands. There was nothinghe liked better.
"Well, do you know," he said, gravely fixing in hiseyeglass, "they have found out the name of the fellow who wasmurdered in the hansom cab."
"Never!" cried every one eagerly.
"Yes," went on Rolleston, "and what'smore, you all know him."
"It's never Whyte?" said Brian, in a horrifiedtone.
"Hang it, how did you know?" said Rolleston, ratherannoyed at being forestalled. "Why, I just heard it at theSt. Kilda station."
"Oh, easily enough," said Brian, rather confused."I used to meet Whyte constantly, and as I have not seen himfor the last two weeks, I thought he might be thevictim."
"How did they find out?" asked Mr. Frettlby, idlytoying with his wine-glass.
"Oh, one of those detective fellows, you know,"answered Felix. "They know everything."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Frettlby,referring to the fact that Whyte was murdered. "He had aletter of introduction to me, and seemed a clever, pushing youngfellow."
"A confounded cad," muttered Felix, under hisbreath; and Brian, who overheard him, seemed inclined to assent.For the rest of the meal nothing was talked about but the murder,and the mystery in which it was shrouded. When the ladies retiredthey chatted about it in the drawingroom, but finally dropped itfor more agreeable subjects. The men, however, when the cloth wasremoved, filled their glasses, and continued the discussion withunabated vigour. Brian alone did not take part in the conversation.He sat moodily staring at his untasted wine, wrapped in a brownstudy.
"What I can't make out," observed Rolleston,who was amusing himself with cracking nuts, "is why they didnot find out who he was before."
"That is not hard to answer," said Frettlby, fillinghis glass. "He was comparatively little known here, as he hadbeen out from England such a short time, and I fancy that this wasthe only house at which he visited."
"And look here, Rolleston," said Calton, who wassitting near him, "if you were to find a man dead in a hansomcab, dressed in evening clothes—which nine men out of ten arein the habit of wearing in the evening—no cards in hispockets, and no name on his linen, I rather think you would find ithard to discover who he was. I consider it reflects great credit onthe police for finding out so quickly."
"Puts one in mind of 'The Leavenworth Case,'and all that sort of thing," said Felix, whose reading was ofthe lightest description. "Awfully exciting, like putting aChinese puzzle together. Gad, I wouldn't mind being adetective myself."
"I'm afraid if that were the case," said Mr.Frettlby, with an amused smile, "criminals would be prettysafe."
"Oh, I don't know so much about that,"answered Felix, shrewdly; "some fellows are like trifle at aparty, froth on top, but something better underneath."
"What a greedy simile," said Calton, sipping hiswine; "but I'm afraid the police will have a moredifficult task in discovering the man who committed the crime. Inmy opinion he's a deuced clever fellow."
"Then you don't think he will be discovered?"asked Brian, rousing himself out of his brown study.
"Well, I don't go as far as that," rejoinedCalton; "but he has certainly left no trace behind him, andeven the Red Indian, in whom instinct for tracking is so highlydeveloped, needs some sort of a trail to enable him to find out hisenemies. Depend upon it," went on Calton, warming to hissubject, "the man who murdered Whyte is no ordinary criminal;the place he chose for the committal of the crime was such a safeone."
"Do you think so?" said Rolleston. "Why, Ishould think that a hansom cab in a public street would be veryunsafe."
"It is that very fact that makes it safer," repliedMr. Calton, epigrammatically. "You read De Quincey'saccount of the Marr murders in London, and you will see that themore public the place the less risk there is of detection. Therewas nothing about the gentleman in the light coat who murderedWhyte to excite Royston's suspicions. He entered the cab withWhyte; no noise or anything likely to attract attention was heard,and then he alighted. Naturally enough, Royston drove to St. Kilda,and never suspected Whyte was dead till he looked inside andtouched him. As to the man in the light coat, he doesn't livein Powlett Street—no—nor in East Melbourneeither."
"Why not?" asked Frettlby.
"Because he wouldn't have been such a fool as toleave a trail to his own door; he did what the fox oftendoes—he doubled. My opinion is that he went either rightthrough East Melbourne to Fitzroy, or he walked back through theFitzroy Gardens into town. There was no one about at that time ofthe morning, and he could return to his lodgings, hotel, orwherever he is staying, with impunity. Of course, this is a theorythat may be wrong; but from what insight into human nature myprofession has given me, I think that my idea is a correctone."
All present agreed with Mr. Calton's idea, as it reallydid seem the most natural thing that would be done by a mandesirous of escaping detection.
"Tell you what," said Felix to Brian, as they wereon their way to the drawing-room, "if the fellow thatcommitted the crime, is found out, by gad, he ought to get Caltonto defend him."
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room a young lady wasengaged in playing one of those detestable pieces of theMorceaude Salon order, in which an unoffending air is taken, andvariations embroidered on it, till it becomes a perfect agony todistinguish the tune, amid the perpetual rattle of quavers anddemi-semi-quavers. The melody in this case was "Over theGarden Wall," with variations by Signor Thumpanini, and theyoung lady who played it was a pupil of that celebrated Italianmusician. When the male portion of the guests entered, the air wasbeing played in the bass with a great deal of power (that is, theloud pedal was down), and with a perpetual rattle of treble notes,trying with all their shrill might to drown the tune.
"Gad! it's getting over the garden wall in ahailstorm," said Felix, as he strolled over to the piano, forhe saw that the musician was Dora Featherweight, an heiress to whomhe was then paying attention, in the hope that she might be inducedto take the name of Rolleston. So, when the fair Dora had paralysedher audience with one final bang and rattle, as if the gentlemangoing over the garden wall had tumbled into the cucumber-frame,Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.
"Such power, you know, Miss Featherweight," he said,sinking into a chair, and mentally wondering if any of the pianostrings had given way at that last crash. "You put your heartinto it—and all your muscle, too, by gad," he addedmentally.
"It's nothing but practice," answered MissFeatherweight, with a modest blush. "I am at the piano fourhours every day."
"Good heavens!" thought Felix, "what a timethe family must have of it." But he kept this remark tohimself, and, screwing his eye-glass into his left organ of vision,merely ejaculated, "Lucky piano."
Miss Featherweight, not being able to think of any answer tothis, looked down and blushed, while the ingenuous Felix looked upand sighed.
Madge and Brian were in a corner of the room talking overWhyte's death.
"I never liked him," she said, "but it ishorrible to think of him dying like that."
"I don't know," answered Brian, gloomily;"from all I can hear dying by chloroform is a very easydeath."
"Death can never be easy," replied Madge,"especially to a young man so full of health and spirits asMr. Whyte was."
"I believe you are sorry he's dead," saidBrian, jealously.
"Aren't you?" she asked in some surprise.
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," quotedFitzgerald. "But as I detested him when alive, youcan't expect me to regret his end."
Madge did not answer him, but glanced quickly at his face, andfor the first time it struck her that he looked ill.
"What is the matter with you, dear?" she asked,placing her hand on his arm. "You are not lookingwell."
"Nothing—nothing," he answered hurriedly."I've been a little worried about businesslately—but come," he said, rising, "let us gooutside, for I see your father has got that girl with thesteam-whistle voice to sing."
The girl with the steam-whistle voice was Julia Featherweight,the sister of Rolleston's inamorata, and Madge stifled alaugh as she went on to the verandah with Fitzgerald.
"What a shame of you," she said, bursting into alaugh when they were safely outside; "she's been taughtby the best masters."
"How I pity them," retorted Brian, grimly, as Juliawailed out, "Meet me once again," with an ear-piercingshrillness.
"I'd much rather listen to our ancestral Banshee,and as to meeting her again, one interview would be more thanenough." Madge did not answer, but leaning lightly over thehigh rail of the verandah looked out into the beautiful moonlitnight. There were a number of people passing along the Esplanade,some of whom stopped and listened to Julia's shrill notes.One man in particular seemed to have a taste for music, for hepersistently stared over the fence at the house. Brian and Madgetalked of divers subjects, but every time Madge looked up she sawthe man watching the house.
"What does that man want, Brian?" she asked.
"What man?" asked Brian, starting. "Oh,"he went on indifferently, as the watcher moved away from the gateand crossed the road on to the footpath, "he's taken upwith the music, I suppose; that's all."
Madge said nothing, but she could not help thinking there wasmore in it than the music. Presently Julia ceased, and she proposedto go in.
"Why?" asked Brian, who was lying back in acomfortable seat, smoking a cigarette. "It's niceenough here."
"I must attend to my guests," she answered, rising."You stop here and finish your cigarette," and with agay laugh she flitted into the house.
Brian sat and smoked, staring out into the moonlight the while.Yes, the man was certainly watching the house, for he sat on one ofthe seats, and kept his eyes fixed on the brilliantly-lightedwindows. Brian threw away his cigarette and shivered slightly.
"Could anyone have seen me?" he muttered, risinguneasily.
"Pshaw! of course not; and the cabman would neverrecognise me again. Curse Whyte, I wish I'd never set eyesupon him."
He gave one glance at the dark figure on the seat, and then,with a shiver, passed into the warm, well-lighted room. He did notfeel easy in his mind, and he would have felt still less so had heknown that the man on the seat was one of the cleverest of theMelbourne detectives.
Mr. Gorby had been watching the Frettlby mansion the wholeevening, and was getting rather annoyed. Moreland did not knowwhere Fitzgerald lived, and as that was one of the primary factsthe detective wished to ascertain, he determined to watchBrian's movements, and to trace him home.
"If he's the lover of that pretty girl, I'llwait till he leaves the house," argued Mr. Gorby to himself,as he took his seat on the Esplanade. "He won't longremain away from her, and once he leaves the house it will be nodifficult matter to find out where he lives."
When Brian made his appearance early in the evening, on his wayto Mark Frettlby's mansion, he wore evening dress, a lightovercoat, and a soft hat.
"Well, I'm dashed!" ejaculated Mr. Gorby, whenhe saw Fitzgerald disappear; "if he isn't a fool Idon't know who is, to go about in the very clothes he worewhen he polished Whyte off, and think he won't be recognised.Melbourne ain't Paris or London, that he can afford to be socareless, and when I put the darbies on him he will be astonished.Ah, well," he went on, lighting his pipe and taking a seat onthe Esplanade, "I suppose I'll have to wait here tillhe comes out."
Mr. Gorby's patience was pretty severely tried, for hourafter hour passed, and no one appeared. He smoked several pipes,and watched the people strolling along in the soft silvermoonlight. A bevy of girls passed by with their arms round oneanother's waists. Then a young man and woman, evidentlylovers, came walking along. They sat down by Mr. Gorby and lookedhard at him, to hint that he need not stay. But the detective tookno heed of them, and kept his eyes steadily upon the great houseopposite. Finally, the lovers took themselves off with a very badgrace.
Then Mr. Gorby saw Madge and Brian come out on to the verandah,and heard in the stillness of the night, a sound weird andunearthly. It was Miss Featherweight singing. He saw Madge go in,shortly followed by Brian. The latter turned and stared at him fora moment.
"Ah," said Gorby to himself as he re-lit his pipe;"your conscience is a-smiting you, is it? Wait a bit, my boy,till I have you in gaol."
Then the guests came out of the house, and their black figuresdisappeared one by one from the moonlight as they shook hands andsaid good-night.
Shortly after Brian came down the path with Frettlby at hisside, and Madge hanging on her father's arm. Frettlby openedthe gate and held out his hand.
"Good-night, Fitzgerald," he said, in a heartyvoice; "come soon again."
"Good-night, Brian, dearest," said Madge, kissinghim, "and don't forget to-morrow."
Then father and daughter closed the gate, leaving Brian outside,and walked back to the house.
"Ah!" said Mr. Gorby to himself, "if you onlyknew what I know, you wouldn't be so precious kind tohim."
Brian strolled along the Esplanade, and crossing over, passed byGorby and walked on till he was opposite the Esplanade Hotel. Thenhe leaned his arms on the fence, and, taking off his hat, enjoyedthe calm beauty of the hour.
"What a good-looking fellow," murmured Mr. Gorby, ina regretful tone. "I can hardly believe it of him, but theproofs are too clear."
The night was perfectly still. Not a breath of wind stirred, forwhat breeze there had been had long since died away. But Briancould see the white wavelets breaking lightly on the sands. Thelong narrow pier ran out like a black thread into the sheet ofgleaming silver, and away in the distance the line of theWilliamstown lights sparkled like some fairy illumination.
Over all this placid scene of land and water was a sky such asDoré loved—a great heavy mass of rain-clouds heapedone on top of the other, as the rocks the Titans piled to reachOlympus. Then a break in the woof, and a bit of dark blue sky couldbe seen glittering with stars, in the midst of which sailed theserene moon, shedding down her light on the cloudland beneath,giving to it all, one silver lining.
Somewhat to the annoyance of Mr. Gorby, who had no eye for thepicturesque, Brian gazed at the sky for several minutes, admiringthe wonderful beauty of its broken masses of light and shade. Atlength he lit a cigarette and walked down the steps on to thepier.
"Oh, suicide, is it?" muttered Mr. Gorby. "Notif I can help it." And he lit his pipe and followed him.
He found Brian leaning over the parapet at the end of the pier,looking at the glittering waters beneath, which kept rising andfalling in a dreamy rhythm, that soothed and charmed the ear."Poor girl! poor girl!" the detective heard him mutteras he came up. "If she only knew all! Ifshe—"
At this moment he heard the approaching step, and turned roundsharply. The detective saw that his face was ghastly pale in themoonlight, and his brows wrinkled in anger.
"What the devil do you want?" he burst out, as Gorbypaused. "What do you mean by following me all over theplace?"
"Saw me watching the house," said Gorby to himself."I'm not following you, sir," he said aloud."I suppose the pier ain't private property. I only camedown here for a breath of fresh air."
Fitzgerald did not answer, but turned sharply on his heel, andwalked quickly up the pier, leaving Gorby staring after him.
"He's getting frightened," soliloquised thedetective to himself, as he strolled easily along, keeping theblack figure in front well in view. "I'll have to keepa sharp eye on him or he'll be clearing out ofVictoria."
Brian walked rapidly up to the St. Kilda station, for on lookingat his watch he found that he would just have time to catch thelast train. He arrived a few minutes before it started, so, gettinginto the smoking carriage at the near end of the platform, he lit acigarette, and, leaning back in his seat, watched the late comershurrying into the station. Just as the last bell rang he saw a manrush along to catch the train. It was the same man who had beenwatching him the whole evening, and Brian felt confident that hewas being followed. He comforted himself, however, with the thoughtthat this pertinacious follower might lose the train, and, being inthe last carriage himself, he kept a look out along the platform,expecting to see his friend of the Esplanade standing disappointedon it. There was no appearance of him, so Brian, sinking back intohis seat, lamented his ill-luck in not shaking off this man whokept him under such strict surveillance.
"Confound him!" he muttered softly. "I expecthe will follow me to East Melbourne, and find out where I live, buthe shan't if I can help it."
There was no one but himself in the carriage, and he feltrelieved at this because he was in no humour to hear chatter.
"Murdered in a cab," he said, lighting a freshcigarette, and blowing a cloud of smoke. "A romance in reallife, which beats Miss Braddon hollow. There is one thing certain,he won't come between Madge and me again. Poor Madge!"with an impatient sigh. "If she only knew all, there wouldnot be much chance of our marriage; but she can never find out, andI don't suppose anyone else will."
Here a thought suddenly struck him, and rising out of his seat,he walked to the other end of the carriage, and threw himself onthe cushions, as if desirous to escape from himself.
"What grounds can that man have for suspecting me?"he said aloud. "No one knows I was with Whyte on that night,and the police can't possibly bring forward any evidence toshow that I was. Pshaw!" he went on, impatiently buttoning uphis coat. "I am like a child, afraid of my shadow—thefellow on the pier is only some one out for a breath of fresh air,as he said himself—I am quite safe."
At the same time, he felt by no means easy in his mind, and ashe stepped out on to the platform at the Melbourne station helooked round apprehensively, as if he half expected to feel thedetective's hand upon his shoulder. But he saw no one at alllike the man he had met on the St. Kilda pier, and with a sigh ofrelief he left the station. Mr. Gorby, however, was not far away.He was following at a safe distance. Brian walked slowly alongFlinders Street apparently deep in thought. He turned up RussellStreet and did not stop until he found himself close to the Burkeand Wills' monument—the exact spot where the cab hadstopped on the night of Whyte's murder.
"Ah!" said the detective to himself, as he stood inthe shadow on the opposite side of the street. "You'regoing to have a look at it, are you?—I wouldn't, if Iwere you—it's dangerous."
Fitzgerald stood for a few minutes at the corner, and thenwalked up Collins Street. When he got to the cab-stand, oppositethe Melbourne Club, still suspecting he was followed, he hailed ahansom, and drove away in the direction of Spring Street. Gorby wasrather perplexed at this sudden move, but without delay, he hailedanother cab, and told the driver to follow the first till itstopped.
"Two can play at that game," he said, settlinghimself back in the cab, "and I'll get the better ofyou, clever as you are—and you are clever," he went onin a tone of admiration, as he looked round the luxurious hansom,"to choose such a convenient place for a murder; nodisturbance and plenty of time for escape after you had finished;it's a pleasure going after a chap like you, instead of aftermen who tumble down like ripe fruit, and ain't got any brainsto keep their crime quiet."
While the detective thus soliloquised, his cab, following on thetrail of the other, had turned down Spring Street, and was beingdriven rapidly along the Wellington Parade, in the direction ofEast Melbourne. It then turned up Powlett Street, at which Mr.Gorby was glad.
"Ain't so clever as I thought," he said tohimself. "Shows his nest right off, without any attempt tohide it."
The detective, however, had reckoned without his host, for thecab in front kept driving on, through an interminable maze ofstreets, until it seemed as though Brian were determined to drivethe whole night.
"Look 'ere, sir!" cried Gorby's cabman,looking through his trap-door in the roof of the hansom,"'ow long's this 'ere game agoin' to larst?My 'oss is knocked up, 'e is, and 'is blessed oldlegs is agivin' way under 'im!"
"Go on! go on!" answered the detective, impatiently;"I'll pay you well."
The cabman's spirits were raised by this, and by dint ofcoaxing and a liberal use of the whip, he managed to get his jadedhorse up to a pretty good pace. They were in Fitzroy by this time,and both cabs turned out of Gertrude Street into Nicholson Street;thence passed on to Evelyn Street and along Spring Street, untilBrian's cab stopped at the corner of Collins Street, andGorby saw him alight and dismiss his cab-man. He then walked downthe street and disappeared into the Treasury Gardens.
"Confound it," said the detective, as he got out andpaid his fare, which was by no means a light one, but over which hehad no time to argue, "we've come in a circle, and I dobelieve he lives in Powlett Street after all."
He went into the gardens, and saw Brian some distance ahead ofhim, walking rapidly. It was bright moonlight, and he could easilydistinguish Fitzgerald by his light coat.
As he went along that noble avenue with its elms in their winterdress, the moon shining through their branches wrought a fantastictracery, on the smooth asphalte. And on either side Gorby could seethe dim white forms of the old Greek gods and goddesses—VenusVictrix, with the apple in her hand (which Mr. Gorby, in his happyignorance of heathen mythology, took for Eve offering Adam theforbidden fruit); Diana, with the hound at her feet, and Bacchusand Ariadne (which the detective imagined were the Babes in theWood). He knew that each of the statues had queer names, butthought they were merely allegorical. Passing over the bridge, withthe water rippling quietly underneath, Brian went up the smoothyellow path to where the statue of Hebe, holding the cup, seemsinstinct with life; and turning down the path to the right, he leftthe gardens by the end gate, near which stands the statue of theDancing Faun, with the great bush of scarlet geranium burning likean altar before it. Then he went along the Wellington Parade, andturned up Powlett Street, where he stopped at a house nearCairns' Memorial Church, much to Mr. Gorby's relief,who, being like Hamlet, "fat and scant of breath,"found himself rather exhausted. He kept well in the shadow,however, and saw Fitzgerald give one final look round before hedisappeared into the house. Then Mr. Gorby, like the Robber Captainin Ali Baba, took careful stock of the house, and fixed itslocality and appearance well in his mind, as he intended to call atit on the morrow.
"What I'm going to do," he said, as he walkedslowly back to Melbourne, "is to see his landlady whenhe's out, and find out what time he came in on the night ofthe murder. If it fits into the time he got out of Rankin'scab, I'll get out a warrant, and arrest him straightoff."
In spite of his long walk, and still longer drive, Brian did notsleep well that night. He kept tossing and turning, or lying on hisback, wide awake, looking into the darkness and thinking of Whyte.Towards dawn, when the first faint glimmer of morning came throughthe venetian blinds, he fell into a sort of uneasy doze, haunted byhorrible dreams. He thought he was driving in a hansom, whensuddenly he found Whyte by his side, clad in white cerements,grinning and gibbering at him with ghastly merriment. Then the cabwent over a precipice, and he fell from a great height, down, down,with the mocking laughter still sounding in his ears, until he wokewith a loud cry, and found it was broad daylight, and that drops ofperspiration were standing on his brow. It was no use trying tosleep any longer, so, with a weary sigh, he arose and went to histub, feeling jaded and worn out by worry and want of sleep. Hisbath did him some good. The cold water brightened him up and pulledhim together. Still he could not help giving a start of surprisewhen he saw his face reflected in the mirror, old andhaggard-looking, with dark circles round the eyes.
"A pleasant life I'll have of it if this sort ofthing goes on," he said, bitterly, "I wish I had neverseen, or heard of Whyte."
He dressed himself carefully. He was not a man to neglect histoilet, however worried and out of sorts he might happen to feel.Yet, notwithstanding all his efforts the change in his appearancedid not escape the eye of his landlady. She was a small, dried-uplittle woman, with a wrinkled yellowish face. She seemed parched upand brittle. Whenever she moved she crackled, and one went inconstant dread of seeing a wizen-looking limb break off short likethe branch of some dead tree. When she spoke it was in a voice hardand shrill, not unlike the chirp of a cricket. When—as wasfrequently the case—she clothed her attenuated form in afaded brown silk gown, her resemblance to that lively insect wasremarkable.
And, as on this morning she crackled into Brian'ssitting-room with the Argus and his coffee, a lookof dismay at his altered appearance, came over her stony littlecountenance.
"Dear me, sir," she chirped out in her shrill voice,as she placed her burden on the table, "are you tookbad?"
Brian shook his head.
"Want of sleep, that's all, Mrs. Sampson," heanswered, unfolding the Argus.
"Ah! that's because ye ain't got enough bloodin yer 'ead," said Mrs. Sampson, wisely, for she hadher own ideas on the subject of health. "If you ain'tgot blood you ain't got sleep."
Brian looked at her as she said this, for there seemed such anobvious want of blood in her veins that he wondered if she had everslept in all her life.
"There was my father's brother, which, of course,makes 'im my uncle," went on the landlady, pouring outa cup of coffee for Brian, "an' the blood 'e'ad was somethin' astoundin', which it made'im sleep that long as they 'ad to draw pints from'im afore 'e'd wake in themornin'."
Brian had the Argus before his face, and underits friendly cover he laughed quietly to himself.
"His blood poured out like a river," went on thelandlady, still drawing from the rich stores of her imagination,"and the doctor was struck dumb with astonishment atseein' the Nigagerer which burst from 'im—butI'm not so full-blooded myself."
Fitzgerald again stifled a laugh, and wondered that Mrs. Sampsonwas not afraid of being treated as were Ananias and Sapphira.However, he said nothing, but merely intimated that if she wouldleave the room he would take his breakfast.
"An' if you wants anythin' else, Mr.Fitzgerald," she said, going to the door, "you knowsyour way to the bell as easily as I do to the kitching," and,with a final chirrup, she crackled out of the room.
As soon as the door was closed, Brian put down his paper androared, in spite of his worries. He had that extraordinaryvivacious Irish temperament, which enables a man to put all troublebehind his back, and thoroughly enjoy the present. His landlady,with her Arabian Nightlike romances, was a source of greatamusement to him, and he felt considerably cheered by the odd turnher humour had taken this morning. After a time, however, hislaughter ceased, and his troubles came crowding on him again. Hedrank his coffee, but pushed away the food which was before him;and looked through the Argus, for the latest reportabout the murder case. What he read made his cheek turn a shadepaler than before. He could feel his heart thumping wildly.
"They've found a clue, have they?" hemuttered, rising and pacing restlessly up and down. "I wonderwhat it can be? I threw that man off the scent last night, but ifhe suspects me, there will be no difficulty in his finding outwhere I live. Bah! What nonsense I am talking. I am the victim ofmy own morbid imagination. There is nothing to connect me with thecrime, so I need not be afraid of my shadow. I've a good mindto leave town for a time, but if I am suspected that would excitesuspicion. Oh, Madge! my darling," he cried passionately,"if you only knew what I suffer, I know that you would pityme—but you must never know the truth—Never!Never!" and sinking into a chair by the window, he coveredhis face with his hands. After remaining in this position for someminutes, occupied with his own gloomy thoughts, he arose and rangthe bell. A faint crackle in the distance announced that Mrs.Sampson had heard it, and she soon came into the room, looking morelike a cricket than ever. Brian had gone into his bedroom, andcalled out to her from there—
"I am going down to St. Kilda, Mrs. Sampson," hesaid, "and probably I shall not be back all day."
"Which I 'opes it 'ull do you good," sheanswered, "for you've eaten nothin', an'the sea breezes is miraculous for makin' you take to yourvictuals. My mother's brother, bein' a sailor,an' wonderful for 'is stomach, which, when 'e'ad done a meal, the table looked as if a low-cuss had goneover it."
"A what?" asked Fitzgerald, buttoning hisgloves.
"A low-cuss!" replied the landlady, in surprise athis ignorance, "as I've read in 'Oly Writ, as'ow John the Baptist was partial to 'em, not that Ithink they'd be very fillin', tho', to be sure,'e 'ad a sweet tooth, and ate 'oney with'em."
"Oh! you mean locusts," said Brian nowenlightened.
"An' what else?" asked Mrs. Sampson,indignantly; "which, tho' not bein' ascholar'd, I speaks English, I 'opes, my mother'ssecond cousin 'avin' 'ad first prize at aspellin' bee, tho' 'e died early through brainfever, 'avin' crowded 'is 'ead over muchwith the dictionary."
"Dear me!" answered Brian, mechanically. "Howunfortunate!" He was not listening to Mrs. Sampson'sremarks. He suddenly remembered an arrangement which Madge hadmade, and which up till now had slipped his memory.
"Mrs. Sampson," he said, turning round at the door,"I am going to bring Mr. Frettlby and his daughter to have acup of afternoon tea here, so you might have some ready."
"You 'ave only to ask and to 'ave,"answered Mrs. Sampson, hospitably, with a gratified crackle of allher joints. "I'll make the tea, sir, an' alsosome of my own perticler cakes, bein' a special kind I'ave, which my mother showed me 'ow to make,'avin' been taught by a lady as she nussed thro'the scarlet fever, tho' bein' of a weak constitootion,she died soon arter, bein' in the 'abit ofcontractin' any disease she might chance on."
Brian hurried off lest in her Poe-like appreciation of them,Mrs. Sampson should give vent to more charnel-house horrors.
At one period of her life, the little woman had been a nurse,and it was told of her that she had frightened one of her patientsinto convulsions during the night by narrating to her the historyof all the corpses she had laid out. This ghoul-like tendency inthe end proved fatal to her professional advancement.
As soon as Fitzgerald had gone, she went over to the window andwatched him as he walked slowly down the street—a tall,handsome man, of whom any woman would be proud.
"What an awful thing it are to think 'e'll bea corpse some day," she chirped cheerily to herself,"tho' of course bein' a great swell in 'isown place, 'e'll 'ave a nice airy vault, which'ud be far more comfortable than a close, stuffy grave, eventho' it 'as a tombstone an' vi'lets overit. Ah, now! Who are you, impertinence?" she broke off, as astout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang thebell, "a-pullin' at the bell as if it were a pump'andle."
As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby,did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried downthe stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage her bell hadreceived.
Mr. Gorby had seen Brian go out, and deeming it a goodopportunity for enquiry had lost no time in making a start.
"You nearly tored the bell down," said Mrs. Sampson,as she presented her thin body and wrinkled face to the view of thedetective.
"I'm very sorry," answered Gorby, meekly."I'll knock next time."
"Oh, no you won't," said the landlady, tossingher head, "me not 'avin' a knocker, an'your 'and a-scratchin' the paint off the door, which itain't been done over six months by my sister-in-law'scousin, which 'e is a painter, with a shop in Fitzroy,an' a wonderful heye to colour."
"Does Mr. Fitzgerald live here?" asked Mr. Gorby,quietly.
"He do," replied Mrs. Sampson, "but'e's gone out, an' won't be back till thearternoon, which any messige 'ull be delivered to 'impunctual on 'is arrival."
"I'm glad he's not in," said Mr. Gorby."Would you allow me to have a few moments'conversation?"
"What is it?" asked the landlady, her curiositybeing roused.
"I'll tell you when we get inside," answeredMr. Gorby.
She looked at him with her sharp little eyes, and seeing nothingdisreputable about him, led the way upstairs, crackling loudly thewhole time. This so astonished Mr. Gorby that he cast about in hisown mind for an explanation of the phenomenon.
"Wants oiling about the jints," was his conclusion,"but I never heard anything like it, and she looks as ifshe'd snap in two, she's that brittle."
Mrs. Sampson took Gorby into Brian's sitting-room, andhaving closed the door, sat down and prepared to hear what he hadto say for himself.
"I 'ope it ain't bills," she said."Mr. Fitzgerald 'avin' money in the bank, andeverythin' respectable like a gentleman as 'e is,tho', to be sure, your bill might come down on him unbeknown,'e not 'avin' kept it in mind, which itain't everybody as 'ave sich a good memory as my aunton my mother's side, she 'avin' been famous for'er dates like a 'istory, not to speak of 'ermultiplication tables, and the numbers of people's'ouses."
"It's not bills," answered Mr. Gorby, who,having vainly attempted to stem the shrill torrent of words, hadgiven in, and waited mildly until she had finished; "I onlywant to know a few things about Mr. Fitzgerald'shabits."
"And what for?" asked Mrs. Sampson, indignantly."Are you a noospaper a-putin' in articles about peoplewho don't want to see 'emselves in print, which I knowsyour 'abits, my late 'usband 'avin' bin aprinter on a paper which bust up, not 'avin' the moneyto pay wages, thro' which, there was doo to him the sum ofone pound seven and sixpence halfpenny, which I, bein''is widder, ought to 'ave, not that I expects to see iton this side of the grave—oh, dear, no!" and she gave ashrill, elfish laugh.
Mr. Gorby, seeing that unless he took the bull by the horns, hewould never be able to get what he wanted, grew desperate, andplunged inmedias res.
"I am an insurance agent," he said, rapidly, so asto prevent any interruption, "and Mr. Fitzgerald desires toinsure his life in our company. I, therefore, want to find out ifhe is a good life to insure; does he live temperately? keep earlyhours? and, in fact, all about him?"
"I shall be 'appy to answer any enquiries which maybe of use to you, sir," replied Mrs. Sampson;"knowin' as I do, 'ow good a insurance is to afamily, should the 'ead of it be taken off unexpected,leavin' a widder, which, as I know, Mr. Fitzgerald isa-goin' to be married soon, an' I 'opes'e'll be 'appy, tho' thro' it I losesa lodger as 'as allays paid regler, an' be'avedlike a gentleman."
"So he is a temperate man?" said Mr. Gorby, feelinghis way cautiously.
"Not bein' a blue ribbing all the same,"answered Mrs. Sampson; "and I never saw him the wuss fordrink, 'e being allays able to use his latch-key, and take'is boots off afore going to bed, which is no more than awoman ought to expect from a lodger, she 'avin' to do'er own washin'."
"And he keeps good hours?"
"Allays in afore the clock strikes twelve," answeredthe landlady; "tho', to be sure, I uses it as a figgerof speech, none of the clocks in the 'ouse strikin' butone, which is bein' mended, 'avin' broke throughoverwindin'."
"Is he always in before twelve?" asked Mr. Gorby,keenly disappointed at this answer.
Mrs. Sampson eyed him waggishly, and a smile crept over herwrinkled little face.
"Young men, not bein' old men," she replied,cautiously, "and sinners not bein' saints, it'snot nattral as latch-keys should be made for ornament instead ofuse, and Mr. Fitzgerald bein' one of the 'andsomest menin Melbourne, it ain't to be expected as 'e should let'is latch-key git rusty, tho' 'avin' a goodmoral character, 'e uses it with moderation."
"But I suppose you are seldom awake when he comes inreally late," said the detective.
"Not as a rule," assented Mrs. Sampson;"bein' a 'eavy sleeper, and much disposed forbed, but I 'ave 'eard 'im come in arter twelve,the last time bein' Thursday week."
"Ah!" Mr. Gorby drew a long breath, for Thursdayweek was the night upon which the murder was committed.
"Bein' troubled with my 'ead," said Mrs.Sampson, "thro' 'avin' been out in the sunall day a-washin', I did not feel so partial to my bed thatnight as in general, so went down to the kitching with the intentof getting a linseed poultice to put at the back of my 'ead,it being calculated to remove pain, as was told to me, when a nuss,by a doctor in the horspital, 'e now bein' in businessfor hisself, at Geelong, with a large family, 'avin'married early. Just as I was leavin' the kitching I'eard Mr. Fitzgerald a-comin' in, and, turnin'round, looked at the clock, that 'avin' been my customwhen my late 'usband came in, in the early mornin', Ibein' a-preparin' 'is meal."
"And the time was?" asked Mr. Gorby,breathlessly.
"Five minutes to two o'clock," replied Mrs.Sampson. Mr. Gorby thought for a moment.
"Cab was hailed at one o'clock—started for St.Kilda at about ten minutes past—reached Grammar School, say,at twenty-five minutes past—Fitzgerald talks five minutes tocabman, making it half-past—say, he waited ten minutes forother cab to turn up, makes it twenty minutes to two—it wouldtake another twenty minutes to get to East Melbourne—and fiveminutes to walk up here—that makes it five minutes past twoinstead of before—confound it. 'Was your clock in thekitchen right?'" he asked, aloud.
"Well, I think so," answered Mrs. Sampson. "Itdoes get a little slow sometimes, not 'avin' beencleaned for some time, which my nevy bein' a watchmaker Iallays 'ands it over to 'im."
"Of course it was slow on that night," said Gorby,triumphantly.
"He must have come in at five minutes past two—whichmakes it right."
"Makes what right?" asked the landlady, sharply."And 'ow do you know my clock was ten minuteswrong?"
"Oh, it was, was it?" asked Gorby, eagerly.
"I'm not denyin' of it," replied Mrs.Sampson; "clocks ain't allays to be relied on more thanmen an' women—but it won't be anythin' agin'is insurance, will it, as in general 'e's inafore twelve?"
"Oh, all that will be quite safe," answered thedetective, delighted with the information he had obtained."Is this Mr. Fitzgerald's room?"
"Yes, it is," replied the landlady; "but'e furnished it 'imself, bein' of a luxurus turnof mind, not but what 'is taste is good, tho' far be itfrom me to deny I 'elped 'im to select; but'avin' another room of the same to let, any friends asyou might 'ave in search of a 'ome 'ud be welllooked arter, my references bein' very 'igh, an'my cookin' tasty—an' if—"
Here a ring at the front door bell called Mrs. Sampson away, sowith a hurried word to Gorby she crackled downstairs. Left tohimself, Mr. Gorby arose and looked round the room. It wasexcellently furnished, and the pictures were good. At one end ofthe room, by the window, there was a writing-table covered withpapers.
"It's no good looking for the papers he took out ofWhyte's pocket, I suppose," said the detective tohimself, as he turned over some letters, "as I don'tknow what they are, and I couldn't tell them if I saw them;but I'd like to find that missing glove and the bottle thatheld the chloroform—unless he's done away with them.There doesn't seem any sign of them here, so I'll havea look in his bedroom."
There was no time to lose, as Mrs. Sampson might return at anymoment, so Mr. Gorby walked quickly into the bedroom, which openedoff the sitting-room. The first thing that caught thedetective's eye was a large photograph, in a plush frame, ofMadge Frettlby. It stood on the dressing-table, and was similar tothat one which he had already seen in Whyte's album. He tookit up with a laugh.
"You're a pretty girl," he said,apostrophising the picture, "but you give your photograph totwo young men, both in love with you, and both hot-tempered. Theresult is that one is dead, and the other won't survive himlong. That's what you've done."
He put it down again, and looking round the room, caught sightof a light covert coat hanging behind the door and also a softhat.
"Ah," said the detective, going up to the door,"here is the very coat you wore when you killed that poorfellow. I wonder what you have in the pockets," and heplunged his hand into them in turn. There were an old theatreprogramme and a pair of brown gloves in one, but in the secondpocket Mr. Gorby made a discovery—none other than that of themissing glove. There it was—a soiled white glove for theright hand, with black bands down the back; and the detectivesmiled in a gratified manner as he put it carefully in hispocket.
"My morning has not been wasted," he said tohimself. "I've found out that he came in at a timewhich corresponds to all his movements after one o'clock onThursday night, and this is the missing glove, which clearlybelonged to Whyte. If I could only get hold of the chloroformbottle I'd be satisfied."
But the chloroform bottle was not to be found, though hesearched most carefully for it. At last, hearing Mrs. Sampsoncoming upstairs again, he gave up the search, and came back to thesitting-room.
"Threw it away, I suspect," he said, as he sat downin his, old place; "but it doesn't matter. I think Ican form a chain of evidence, from what I have discovered, whichwill be sufficient to convict him. Besides, I expect when he isarrested he will confess everything; he seems to feel remorse forwhat he has done."
The door opened, and Mrs. Sampson entered the room in a state ofindignation.
"One of them Chinese 'awkers," she explained,"'e's bin a-tryin' to git the better of meover carrots—as if I didn't know what carrotswas—and 'im a-talkin' about a shillin' inhis gibberish, as if 'e 'adn't been brought up ina place where they don't know what a shillin' is. But Inever could abide furreigners ever since a Frenchman, as taught me'is language, made orf with my mother's silver tea-pot,unbeknown to 'er, it bein' set out on the sideboard forcompany."
Mr. Gorby interrupted these domestic reminiscences of Mrs.Sampson's by stating that, now she had given him allnecessary information, he would take his departure.
"An' I 'opes," said Mrs. Sampson, as sheopened the door for him, "as I'll 'ave thepleasure of seein' you again should any business onbe'alf of Mr. Fitzgerald require it."
"Oh, I'll see you again," said Mr. Gorby, withheavy jocularity, "and in a way you won't like, asyou'll be called as a witness," he added, mentally."Did I understand you to say, Mrs. Sampson," he wenton, "that Mr. Fitzgerald would be at home thisafternoon?"
"Oh, yes, sir, 'e will," answered Mrs.Sampson, "a-drinkin' tea with his young lady, who isMiss Frettlby, and 'as got no end of money, not but what Imightn't 'ave 'ad the same 'ad I been bornin a 'igher spear."
"You need not tell Mr. Fitzgerald I have been here,"said Gorby, closing the gate; "I'll probably call andsee him myself this afternoon."
"What a stout person 'e are," said Mrs.Sampson to herself, as the detective walked away, "just likemy late father, who was allays fleshy, bein' a great eater,and fond of 'is glass, but I took arter my mother'sfamily, they bein' thin-like, and proud of keeping'emselves so, as the vinegar they drank could testify, notthat I indulge in it myself."
She shut the door, and went upstairs to take away the breakfastthings, while Gorby was being driven along at a good pace to thepolice office, to obtain a warrant for Brian's arrest, on acharge of wilful murder.
It was a broiling hot day—one of those cloudless days,with the blazing sun beating down on the arid streets, and castingdeep, black shadows—a real Australian December day dropped bymistake of the clerk of the weather into the middle of August. Theprevious week having been really chilly, it was all the morewelcome.
It was Saturday morning, and fashionable Melbourne was"doing the Block." Collins Street is to the Southerncity what Bond Street and the Row are to London, and the Boulevardsto Paris.
It is on the Block that people show off their new dresses, bowto their friends, cut their enemies, and chatter small talk. Thesame thing no doubt occurred in the Appian Way, the fashionablestreet of Imperial Rome, when Catullus talked gay nonsense toLesbia, and Horace received the congratulations of his friends overhis new volume of society verses. History repeats itself, and everycity is bound by all the laws of civilisation to have one specialstreet, wherein the votaries of fashion can congregate.
Collins Street is not, of course, such a grand thoroughfare asthose above mentioned, but the people who stroll up and down thebroad pavement are quite as charmingly dressed, and as pleasant asany of the peripatetics of those famous cities. As the sun bringsout bright flowers, so the seductive influence of the hot weatherhad brought out all the ladies in gay dresses of innumerablecolours, which made the long street look like a restlessrainbow.
Carriages were bowling smoothly along, their occupants smilingand bowing as they recognised their friends on the side walk.Lawyers, their legal quibbles finished for the week, were strollingleisurely with their black bags in their hands; portly merchants,forgetting Flinder's Lane and incoming ships, walked besidetheir pretty daughters; and the representatives of swelldom werestalking along in their customary apparel of curly brimmed hats,high collars, and immaculate suits. Altogether, it was a pleasantand animated scene, which would have delighted the heart of anyonewho was not dyspeptic, or in love—dyspeptic people and lovers(disappointed ones, of course) being wont to survey the world in acynical vein.
Madge Frettlby was engaged in that occupation so dear to everyfemale heart—shopping. She was in Moubray, Rowan, andHicks', turning over ribbons and laces, while the faithfulBrian waited for her outside, and amused himself by looking at thehuman stream which flowed along the pavement.
He disliked shopping quite as much as the majority of his sex,and though as a lover he felt a certain amount of self-abnegationto be becoming in him, it was difficult to drive away the thoughtsof his pleasant club, where he could be reading and smoking, with,perchance, something cooling in a glass beside him.
However, after she had purchased a dozen or more articles shedid not want, Madge remembered that Brian was waiting for her, andhurried to the door.
"I haven't been many minutes, have I, dear?"she said, touching him lightly on the arm.
"Oh, dear no," answered Brian, looking at his watch,"only thirty—a mere nothing, considering a new dresswas being discussed."
"I thought I had been longer," said Madge, her browclearing; "but still I am sure you feel a martyr."
"Not at all," replied Fitzgerald, handing her intothe carriage; "I enjoyed myself very much."
"Nonsense," she laughed, opening her sunshade, whileBrian took his seat beside her; "that's one of thosesocial stories—which every one considers themselves bound totell from a sense of duty. I'm afraid I did keep youwaiting—though, after all," she went on, with a truefeminine idea as to the flight of time, "I was only a fewminutes."
"And the rest," said Brian, quizzically looking ather pretty face, so charmingly flushed under her great whitehat.
Madge disdained to notice this interruption.
"James," she cried to the coachman, "drive tothe Melbourne Club. Papa will be there, you know," she saidto Brian, "and we'll take him off to have tea withus."
"But it's only one o'clock," said Brian,as the Town Hall clock came in sight. "Mrs. Sampsonwon't be ready."
"Oh, anything will do," replied Madge, "a cupof tea and some thin bread and butter isn't hard to prepare.I don't feel like lunch, and papa eats so little in themiddle of the day, and you—"
"Eat a great deal at all times," finished Brian witha laugh.
Madge went on chattering in her usual lively manner, and Brianlistened to her with delight. Her pleasant talk drove away the evilspirit which had been with him for the last three weeks. SuddenlyMadge made an observation as they were passing the Burke andWills' monument, which startled him.
"Isn't that the place where Mr. Whyte got into thecab?" she asked, looking at the corner near the ScotchChurch, where a vagrant of musical tendencies was playing"Just before the Battle, Mother," on a battered oldconcertina.
"So the papers say," answered Brian, listlessly,without turning his head.
"I wonder who the gentleman in the light coat could havebeen," said Madge, as she settled herself again.
"No one seems to know," he replied evasively.
"Ah, but they have a clue," she said. "Do youknow, Brian," she went on, "that he was dressed justlike you in a light overcoat and soft hat?"
"How remarkable," said Fitzgerald, speaking in aslightly sarcastic tone, and as calmly as he was able. "Hewas dressed in the same manner as nine out of every ten youngfellows in Melbourne."
Madge looked at him in surprise at the tone in which he spoke,so different from his usual nonchalant way of speaking. She wasabout to answer when the carriage stopped at the door of theMelbourne Club. Brian, anxious to escape any more remarks about themurder, sprang quickly out, and ran up the steps into the building.He found Mr. Frettlby smoking complacently, and reading theAge. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, and putting downthe paper, held out his hand, which the other took.
"Ah! Fitzgerald," he said, "have you left theattractions of Collins Street for the still greater ones ofClubland?"
"Not I," answered Brian. "I've come tocarry you off to afternoon tea with Madge and myself."
"I don't mind," answered Mr. Frettlby rising;"but, isn't afternoon tea at half-past one rather ananomaly?"
"What's in a name?" said Fitzgerald, absently,as they left the room. "What have you been doing allmorning?"
"I've been in here for the last half-hourreading," answered the other, carelessly.
"Wool market, I suppose?"
"No, the hansom cab murder."
"Oh, d—that thing!" said Brian, hastily; then,seeing his companion looking at him in surprise, he apologised."But, indeed," he went on, "I'm nearlyworried to death by people asking about Whyte, as if I knew allabout him, whereas I know nothing."
"Just as well you don't," answered Mr.Frettlby, as they descended the steps together; "he was not avery desirable companion."
It was on the tip of Brian's tongue to say, "And yetyou wanted him to marry your daughter," but he wiselyrefrained, and they reached the carriage in silence.
"Now then, papa," said Madge, when they were allsettled in the carriage, and it was rolling along smoothly in thedirection of East Melbourne, "what have you beendoing?"
"Enjoying myself," answered her father, "untilyou and Brian came, and dragged me out into this blazingsunshine."
"Well, Brian has been so good of late," said Madge,"that I had to reward him, so I knew that nothing wouldplease him better than to play host."
"Certainly," said Brian, rousing himself out of afit of abstraction, "especially when one has such charmingvisitors."
Madge laughed at this, and made a little grimace.
"If your tea is only equal to your compliments," shesaid lightly, "I'm sure papa will forgive us fordragging him away from his club."
"Papa will forgive anything," murmured Mr. Frettlby,tilting his hat over his eyes, "so long as he gets somewhereout of the sun. I can't say I care about playing the parts ofShadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace of a Melbournehot day."
"There now, papa is quite a host in himself," saidMadge mischievously, as, the carriage drew up at Mrs.Sampson's door.
"No, you are wrong," said Brian, as he alighted andhelped her out; "I am the host in myself thistime."
"If there is one thing I hate above another,"observed Miss Frettlby, calmly, "it's a pun, andespecially a bad one."
Mrs. Sampson was very much astonished at the early arrival ofher lodger's guests, and did not hesitate to express herastonishment.
"Bein' taken by surprise," she said, with anapologetic cackle, "it ain't to be suppose as miraculscan be performed with regard to cookin', the firehavin' gone out, not bein' kept alight on account ofthe 'eat of the day, which was that 'ot as never was,tho', to be sure, bein' a child in the early days, Iremember it were that 'ot as my sister's aunt was inthe 'abit of roastin' her jints in the sun."
After telling this last romance, and leaving her visitors indoubt whether the joints referred to belonged to an animal or toher sister's aunt or to herself, Mrs. Sampson crackled awaydownstairs to get things ready.
"What a curious thing that landlady of yours is,Brian," said Madge, from the depths of a huge arm-chair."I believe she's a grasshopper from the FitzroyGardens."
"Oh, no, she's a woman," said Mr. Frettlby,cynically. "You can tell that by the length of hertongue."
"A popular error, papa," retorted Madge, sharply."I know plenty of men who talk far more than anywoman."
"I hope I'll never meet them, then," said Mr.Frettlby, "for if I did I should be inclined to agree with DeQuincey on murder as a fine art."
Brian winced at this, and looked apprehensively at Madge, andsaw with relief that she was not paying attention to her father,but was listening intently.
"There she is," as a faint rustle at the doorannounced the arrival of Mrs. Sampson and the tea-tray. "Iwonder, Brian, you don't think the house is on fire with thatqueer noise always going on—she wants oil!"
"Yes, St. Jacob's oil," laughed Brian, as Mrs.Sampson entered, and placed her burden on the table.
"Not 'avin' any cake," said that lady,"thro' not being forewarned as to the time ofarrival—tho' it's not ofting I'm taken bysurprise—except as to a 'eadache, which, of course, isaccidental to every pusson—I ain't got nothin'but bread and butter, the baker and grocer both bein' allthat could be desired, except in the way of worryin' fortheir money, which they thinks as 'ow I keeps the bank in the'ouse, like Allading's cave, as I've 'eardtell in the Arabian Nights, me 'avin' gained it as aprize for English in my early girl'ood, bein' thenconsidered a scholard an' industrus."
Mrs. Sampson's shrill apologies for the absence of cakehaving been received, she hopped out of the room, and Madge madethe tea. The service was a quaint Chinese one, which Brian hadpicked up in his wanderings. He used it only on special occasions.As he watched Madge he could not help thinking how pretty shelooked, with her hands moving deftly among the cups and saucers, sobizarre-looking with their sprawling dragons of yellow and green.He half smiled to himself as he thought, "If they knew all, Iwonder if they would sit with me so unconcernedly."
Mr. Frettlby, too, as he looked at his daughter, thought of hisdead wife and sighed.
"Well," said Madge, as she handed them their tea,and helped herself to some thin bread and butter, "you twogentlemen are most delightful company—papa is sighing like afurnace, and Brian is staring at me with his eyes like blue chinasaucers. You ought both to be turned forth to funerals likemelancholy."
"Why like melancholy?" queried Brian, lazily.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the younglady with a smile in her pretty black eyes, "that you are nota student of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'"
"Very likely not," answered Brian; "midsummerout here is so hot that one gets no sleep, and, consequently nodreams. Depend upon it, if the four lovers whom Puck treated sobadly had lived in Australia they wouldn't have been able tosleep for the mosquitoes."
"What nonsense you two young people do talk," saidMr. Frettlby, with an amused smile, as he stirred his tea.
"Dulce est desipere in loco," observed Brian,gravely, "a man who can't carry out that observation issure not to be up to much."
"I don't like Latin," said Miss Frettlby,shaking her pretty head. "I agree with Heine's remark,that if the Romans had been forced to learn it they would not havefound time to conquer the world."
"Which was a much more agreeable task," saidBrian.
"And more profitable," finished Mr. Frettlby.
They chattered in this desultory fashion for a considerabletime, till at last Madge rose and said they must go.
Brian proposed to dine with them at St. Kilda, and then theywould all go to Brock's Fireworks. Madge consented to this,and she was just pulling on her gloves when suddenly they heard aring at the front door, and presently Mrs. Sampson talking in anexcited manner at the pitch of her voice.
"You shan't come in, I tell you," they heardher say shrilly, "so it's no good trying, whichI've allays 'eard as an Englishman's 'ouseis 'is castle, an' you're a-breakin' thelaw, as well as a-spilin' the carpets, which 'as binnewly put down."
Some one made a reply; then the door of Brian's room wasthrown open, and Gorby walked in, followed by another man.Fitzgerald turned as white as a sheet, for he felt instinctivelythat they had come for him. However, pulling himself together, hedemanded, in a haughty tone, the reason of the intrusion.
Mr. Gorby walked straight over to where Brian was standing, andplaced his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Brian Fitzgerald," he said, in a clear voice,"I arrest you in the Queen's name."
"For what?" asked Brian, steadily.
"The murder of Oliver Whyte."
At this Madge gave a cry.
"It is not true!" she said, wildly. "My God,it's not true."
Brian did not answer, but, ghastly pale, held out his hands.Gorby slipped the handcuffs on to his wrists with a feeling ofcompunction, despite his joy in running his Man down. This done,Fitzgerald turned round to where Madge was standing, pale andstill, as though turned into stone.
"Madge," he said, in a clear, low voice, "I amgoing to prison—perhaps to death; but I swear to you, by allthat I hold most sacred, that I am innocent of thismurder."
"My darling!" She made a step forward, but herfather stepped before her.
"Keep back," he said, in a hard voice; "thereis nothing between you and that man now."
She turned round with an ashen face, but with a proud look inher clear eyes.
"You are wrong," she answered, with a touch of scornin her voice. "I love him more now than ever." Then,before her father could stop her, she placed her arms round herlover's neck, and kissed him wildly.
"My darling," she said, with the tears streamingdown her white cheeks, "whatever the world may say, you arealways dearest of all to me."
Brian kissed her passionately, and moved away. Madge fell downat her father's feet in a dead faint.
Brian Fitzgerald was arrested at a few minutes past threeo'clock, and by five all Melbourne was ringing with the newsthat the perpetrator of the now famous hansom cab murder had beencaught. The evening papers were full of the affair, and theHerald went through several editions, the demand being farin the excess of the supply. Such a crime had not been committed inMelbourne since the Greer shooting case in the Opera House, and themystery by which it was surrounded, made it even more sensational.The committal of the crime in such an extraordinary place as ahansom cab had been startling enough, but the discovery that theassassin was one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne wasstill more so. Brian Fitzgerald being well known in society as awealthy squatter, and the future husband of one of the richest andprettiest girls in Victoria, it was no wonder that his arrestcaused some sensation. TheHerald, which was fortunateenough to obtain the earliest information about the arrest, madethe best use of it, and published a flaming article in its mostsensational type, somewhat after this fashion:—
HANSOM CAB TRAGEDY
ARREST OF THE SUPPOSED MURDERER
STARTLING REVELATIONS IN HIGH LIFE
It is needless to say that some of the reporters had painted thelily pretty freely, but the public were ready to believe everythingthat came out in the papers.
Mr. Frettlby, the day after Brian's arrest, had a longconversation with his daughter, and wanted her to go up to YabbaYallook Station until the public excitement had somewhat subsided.But this Madge flatly refused to do.
"I'm not going to desert him when he most needsme," she said, resolutely; "everybody has turnedagainst him, even before they have heard the facts of the case. Hesays he is not guilty, and I believe him."
"Then let him prove his innocence," said her father,who was pacing slowly up and down the room; "if he did notget into the cab with Whyte he must have been somewhere else; so heought to set up the defence of an alibi."
"He can easily do that," said Madge, with a ray ofhope lighting up her sad face, "he was here till eleveno'clock on Thursday night."
"Very probably," returned her father, dryly;"but where was he at one o'clock on Fridaymorning?"
"Besides, Mr. Whyte left the house long before Briandid," she went on rapidly. "You must remember—itwas when you quarrelled with Mr. Whyte."
"My dear Madge," said Frettlby, stopping in front ofher with a displeased look, "you are incorrect—Whyteand myself did not quarrel. He asked me if it were true thatFitzgerald was engaged to you, and I answered 'Yes.'That was all, and then he left the house."
"Yes, and Brian didn't go until two hoursafter," said Madge, triumphantly. "He never saw Mr.Whyte the whole night."
"So he says," replied Mr. Frettlby,significantly.
"I believe Brian before any one else in the world,"said his daughter, hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashingeyes.
"Ah! but will a jury?" queried her father.
"You have turned against him, too," answered Madge,her eyes filling with tears. "You believe himguilty."
"I am not prepared either to deny or confirm hisguilt," said Mr. Frettlby, coldly. "I have done what Icould to help him—I have engaged Calton to defend him, and,if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind atrest."
"My dear father," said Madge, throwing her armsround his neck, "I knew you would not desert him altogether,for my sake."
"My darling," replied her father, in a falteringvoice, as he kissed her, "there is nothing in the world Iwould not do for your sake."
Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Jail,thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escapeexcept one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.
"It would kill her; it would kill her," he said,feverishly, as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones."Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like acommon thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If Iengage a lawyer to defend me," he went on, "the firstquestion he will ask me will be where was I on that night, and if Itell him all will be discovered, and then—no—no—Icannot do it; it would kill her, my darling," and throwinghimself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.
He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and onlooking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a greatfriend of Fitzgerald's, and Brian was deeply touched by hiskindness in coming to see him.
Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian,but there was also a touch of self interest in the matter. He hadreceived a note from Mr. Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald,which he agreed to do with avidity, as he foresaw in this case anopportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australiancolonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, buthis reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw thatFitzgerald's trial for murder would cause a great sensationthroughout Australia and New Zealand, he determined to takeadvantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame,wealth, and position. So this tall, keen-eyed man, with the cleanshaven face and expressive mouth, advanced into the cell, and tookBrian by the hand.
"It is very kind of you to come and see me," saidFitzgerald; "it is at a time like this that one appreciatesfriendship."
"Yes, of course," answered the lawyer, fixing hiskeen eyes on the other's haggard face, as if he would readhis innermost thoughts. "I came partly on my own account, andpartly because Frettlby asked me to see you as to yourdefence."
"Mr. Frettlby?" said Brian, in a mechanical way."He is very kind; I thought he believed me guilty."
"No man is considered guilty until he has been provedso," answered Calton, evasively.
Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved animpatient sigh.
"And Miss Frettlby?" he asked, in a hesitatingmanner. This time he got a decided answer.
"She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear aword said against you."
"God bless her," said Brian, fervently; "sheis a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed?" headded, bitterly.
"Nothing else talked about," answered Calton,calmly. "Your arrest has for the present suspended allinterest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are atthe present moment being discussed threadbare in Clubs anddrawing-rooms."
Fitzgerald writhed. He was a singularly proud man, and there wassomething inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.
"But this is all idle chatter," said Calton, takinga seat.
"We must get to business. Of course, you will accept me asyour counsel."
"It's no good my doing so," replied Brian,gloomily. "The rope is already round my neck."
"Nonsense," replied the lawyer, cheerfully,"the rope is round no man's neck until he is on thescaffold. Now, you need not say a word," he went on, holdingup his hand as Brian was about to speak; "I intend to defendyou, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts,except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate so muchthat one can place no reliance on them. At all events, I believefrom my heart that you are innocent, and you must walk out of theprisoner's dock a free man, if only for the sake of thatnoble girl who loves you."
Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the othergrasped warmly.
"I will not deny," went on Calton, "that thereis a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case issuch an extraordinary one, that I feel as if I were unable to letslip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don't carefor your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort ofthing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting.When you are safe we will look together for the real criminal, andthe pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitementwhen we find him out."
"I agree with everything you say," said Fitzgerald,calmly, "but I have no defence to make."
"No defence? You are not going to confess you killedhim?"
"No," with an angry flush, "but there arecertain circumstances which prevent me from defendingmyself."
"What nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply, "asif any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life.But never mind, I like these objections; they make the nut harderto crack—but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now, I wantyou to answer certain questions."
"I won't promise."
"Well, we shall see," said the lawyer, cheerfully,taking out his note-book, and resting it on his knee. "First,where were you on the Thursday night preceding themurder?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St. Kilda, and cameup to town by the eleven o'clock train."
"Eleven-twenty," corrected Brian.
Calton smiled in a gratified manner as he noted this down."A little diplomacy is all that's required," hesaid mentally. "And where did you go then?" he added,aloud.
"I met Rolleston in the train, and we took a cab from theFlinders Street station up to the Club."
"What Club?"
"The Melbourne Club."
"Yes?" interrogatively.
"Rolleston went home, and I went into the Club and playedcards for a time."
"When did you leave the Club?"
"A few minutes to one o'clock in themorning."
"And then, I suppose, you went home?"
"No; I did not."
"Then where did you go?"
"Down the street."
"Rather vague. I presume you mean CollinsStreet?"
"Yes."
"You were going to meet some one, I suppose?"
"I never said so."
"Probably not; but young men don't wander about thestreets at night without some object."
"I was restless and wanted a walk."
"Indeed! How curious you should prefer going into theheart of the dusty town for a walk to strolling through the FitzroyGardens, which were on your way home! It won't do; you had anappointment to meet some one."
"Well—er—yes."
"I thought as much. Man or woman?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Then I must find out for myself."
"You can't."
"Indeed! Why not?"
"You don't know where to look for her."
"Her," cried Calton, delighted at the success of hiscraftily-put question. "I knew it was a woman."
Brian did not answer, but sat biting his lips with vexation.
"Now, who is this woman?"
No answer.
"Come now, Fitzgerald, I know that young men will be youngmen, and, of course, you don't like these things talkedabout; but in this case your character must be sacrificed to saveyour neck. What is her name?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh! you know it, then?"
"Well, yes."
"And you won't tell me?"
"No!"
Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him;first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second that it hadbeen with a woman. He pursued another line.
"When did you last see Whyte!"
Brian answered with great reluctance, "I saw him drunk bythe Scotch Church."
"What! you were the man who hailed the hansom?"
"Yes," assented the other, hesitating slightly,"I was!"
The thought flashed through Calton's brain as to whetherthe young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged toconfess that things looked very black against him.
"Then what the newspapers said was correct?"
"Partly."
"Ah!" Calton drew a long breath—here was a rayof hope.
"You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lyingdrunk near the Scotch Church?"
"No, I did not. Had I known it was he I would not havepicked him up."
"Of course, you recognised him afterwards?"
"Yes I did. And, as the paper stated, I dropped him andwalked away."
"Why did you leave him so abruptly?"
Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.
"Because I detested him," he said, shortly.
"Why did you detest him?"
No answer. "Was it because he admired Miss Frettlby, andfrom all appearances, was going to marry her?"
"Well, yes," sullenly.
"And now," said Calton, impressively, "this isthe whole point upon which the case turns. Why did you get into thecab with him?"
"I did not get into the cab."
"The cabman declares that you did."
"He is wrong. I never came back after I recognisedWhyte."
"Then who was the man who got into the cab withWhyte?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"Not the least."
"You are certain?"
"Yes, perfectly certain."
"He seems to have been dressed exactly likeyou."
"Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of myacquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, andsoft hats."
"Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?"
"No, I don't; I know nothing about him, beyond thathe came from England a short time ago with a letter of introductionto Mr. Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marryhim."
"Where did Whyte live?"
"Down in St. Kilda, at the end of Grey Street."
"How do you know?"
"It was in the papers, and—and—"hesitatingly, "I called on him."
"Why?"
"To see if he would cease his attentions to Madge, and totell him that she was engaged to me."
"And what did he say?"
"Laughed at me. Curse him."
"You had high words, evidently?"
Brian laughed bitterly.
"Yes, we had."
"Did anyone hear you?"
"The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as Ileft the house."
"The prosecution will bring her forward as awitness."
"Very likely," indifferently.
"Did you say anything likely to incriminateyourself?"
Fitzgerald turned away his head.
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "I spokevery wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what Isaid."
"Did you threaten him?"
"Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persistedin his plan of marrying Madge."
"Ah! if the landlady can swear that she heard you say so,it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. So far as Ican see, there is only one defence, and that is an easyone—you must prove an alibi."
No answer.
"You say you did not come back and get into thecab?" said Calton, watching the face of the otherclosely.
"No, it was some one else dressed like me."
"And you have no idea who it was?"
"No, I have not."
"Then, after you left Whyte, and walked along RussellStreet, where did you go?"
"I can't tell you."
"Were you intoxicated?"
"No!" indignantly.
"Then you remember?"
"Yes."
"And where were you?"
"I can't tell you."
"You refuse."
"Yes, I do."
"Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy pricefor your refusal."
"If necessary, I will pay it."
"And you won't tell me where you were?"
"No, I won't."
Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.
"You're very foolish," he said,"sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. Youmust prove an alibi."
No answer.
"At what hour did you get home?"
"About two o'clock in the morning."
"Did you walk home?"
"Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Did you see anyone on your way home?"
"I don't know. I wasn't payingattention."
"Did anyone see you?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one andtwo o'clock on Friday morning?"
"Absolutely!"
Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.
"Did you know that Whyte carried valuable papers aboutwith him?"
Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.
"No! I did not know," he said, reluctantly.
The lawyer made a master stroke.
"Then why did you take them from him?"
"What! Had he it with him?"
Calton saw his advantage, and seized it at once.
"Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?"
"I did not take it. I didn't even know he had itwith him."
"Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what 'it'is?"
Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen.
"No! I will not," he answered steadily.
"Was it a jewel?"
"No!"
"Was it an important paper?"
"I don't know."
"Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face. And wasthat paper of importance to you?"
"Why do you ask?"
Calton fixed his keen grey eyes steadily on Brian'sface.
"Because," he answered slowly, "the man towhom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte."
Brian started up, ghastly pale.
"My God!" he almost shrieked, stretching out hishands, "it is true after all," and he fell down on thestone pavement in a dead faint.
Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and between them theyplaced him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. Herecovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he wasunfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside hestopped for a moment and looked back on the grim, grey walls.
"Brian Fitzgerald," he said to himself "youdid not commit the murder yourself, but you know whodid."
Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cabmurder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been lookedupon merely as a common murder, and one of which society need takeno cognisance beyond the bare fact of its committal. But now thatone of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne had beenarrested as the assassin, it bade fair to assume giganticproportions. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked abouthaving nourished in her bosom a viper which had unexpectedly turnedand stung her.
Morn, noon, and night, in Toorak drawing-rooms and MelbourneClubs, the case formed the principal subject of conversation. AndMrs. Grundy was horrified.
Here was a young man, "well born—the Fitzgeralds, mydear, an Irish family, with royal blood in theirveins—well-bred—most charming manners, I assure you,and so very good-looking and engaged to one of the richest girls inMelbourne—pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted hermoney, sly dog;" and this young man, who had been petted bythe ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universallypopular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgarmurder—it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to,and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for if men of youngFitzgerald's calibre were not put in them, and kept fromkilling people? And then, of course, everybody asked everybody elsewho Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. Allpeople who had met Mr. Whyte were worried to death with questionsabout him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who hewas, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of theinsane questions which some people will ask. It was talked abouteverywhere—in fashionable drawing-rooms at five o'clocktea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, overbrandies and sodas and cigarettes; by working men over theirmid-day pint, and by their wives in the congenial atmosphere of theback yard over the wash-tub. The papers were full of paragraphsabout the famous murder, and the society papers gave an interviewwith the prisoner by their special reporters, which had beencomposed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumours which theyheard around, and their own fertile imaginations.
As to the prisoner's guilt, everyone was certain of it.The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cabwith Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be nostronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that theprisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on themercy of the court. Even the church caught the contagion, andministers—Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Presbyterian,together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—tookthe hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on theprofligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark whichcould save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immoralitywas their own particular church. "Gad," as Caltonremarked, after hearing five or six ministers each claim their ownchurch as the one special vessel of safety, "there seems tobe a whole fleet of arks!"
For Mr. Felix Rolleston, acquainted as he was with allconcerned, the time was one of great and exceeding joy. He was everto the fore in retailing to his friends, plus certain garnishmentsof his own, any fresh evidence that chanced to come to light. Hisendeavour was to render it the more piquant, if not dramatic. Ifyou asked him for his definite opinion as to the innocence or guiltof the accused, Mr. Felix shook his head sagaciously, and gave youto understand that neither he, nor his dear friend Calton—heknew Calton to nod to—had yet been able to make up theirminds about the matter.
"Fact is, don't you know," observed Mr.Rolleston, wisely, "there's more in this than meets theeye, and all that sort of thing—think 'tective fellerswrong myself—don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly wellsure he didn't."
This would be followed invariably by a query in chorus of"who killed him then?"
"Aha," Felix would retort, putting his head on oneside, like a meditative sparrow; "'tective fellerscan't find out; that's the difficulty. Good mind to goon the prowl myself, by Jove."
"But do you know anything of the detectivebusiness?" some one would ask.
"Oh, dear yes," with an airy wave of his hand;"I've read Gaboreau, you know; awfully jolly life,'tectives."
Despite this evasion, Rolleston, in his heart of hearts,believed Fitzgerald guilty. But he was one of those persons, whohaving either tender hearts or obstinate natures—the latteris perhaps the more general—deem it incumbent upon them tocome forward in championship of those in trouble. There are,doubtless, those who think that Nero was a pleasant young man,whose cruelties were but the resultant of an overflow of highspirits; and who regard Henry VIII in the light of a henpeckedhusband unfortunate in the possession of six wives. These peopledelight in expressing their sympathy with great scoundrels of theNed Kelly order. They view them as the embodiment of heroism,unsympathetically and disgracefully treated by the narrowunderstanding of the law. If one half the world does kick a manwhen he is down, the other half invariably consoles the prostrateindividual with halfpence.
And therefore, even while the weight of public opinion was deadagainst Fitzgerald he had his share of avowed sympathy. There was acomfort in this for Madge. Not that if the whole countryside hadunanimously condemned her lover she would have believed him guilty.The element of logic does not enter into the championship of woman.Her love for a man is sufficient to exalt him to the rank of ademi-god. She absolutely refuses to see the clay feet of her idol.When all others forsake she clings to him, when all others frownshe smiles on him, and when he dies she reveres his memory as thatof a saint and a martyr. Young men of the present day are prone todisparage their womenkind; but a poor thing is the man, who in timeof trouble has no woman to stand by him with cheering words andloving comfort. And so Madge Frettlby, true woman that she was, hadnailed her colours to the mast. She refused surrender to anyone, orbefore any argument. He was innocent, and his innocence would beproved, for she had an intuitive feeling that he would be saved atthe eleventh hour. How, she knew not; but she was certain that itwould be so. She would have gone to see Brian in prison, but thather father absolutely forbade her doing so. Therefore she wasdependent upon Calton for all the news respecting him, and anymessage which she wished conveyed.
Brian's persistent refusal to set up the defence of analibi, annoyed Calton, the more so as he could conceive no reasonsufficiently worthy of the risk to which it subjected hisclient.
"If it's for the sake of a woman," he said toBrian, "I don't care who she is, it's absurdlyQuixotic. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if myneck was in danger I'd spare neither man, woman, nor child tosave it."
"I dare say," answered Brian; "but if you hadmy reasons you might think differently."
Yet in his own mind the lawyer had a suspicion which he thoughtmight perhaps account for Brian's obstinate concealment ofhis movements on the fatal night. He had admitted an appointmentwith a woman. He was a handsome young fellow, and probably hismorals were no better than those of his fellows. There was perhapssome intrigue with a married woman. He had perchance been with heron that night, and it was to shield her that he refused tospeak.
"Even so," argued Calton, "let him lose hischaracter rather than his life; indeed the woman herself shouldspeak. It would be hard upon her I admit; yet when a man'slife is in danger, surely nothing should stop her."
Full of these perplexing thoughts, Calton went down to St. Kildato have a talk with Madge. He intended to ask her to assist himtowards obtaining the information he needed. He had a great respectfor Madge, and thought her a really clever woman. It was justpossible, he argued, that Brian's great love might cause himto confess everything to her, at her urgent request. He found Madgeawaiting his arrival with anxiety.
"Where have you been all this time?" she said asthey sat down; "I have been counting every moment since I sawyou last. How is he?"
"Just the same," answered Calton, taking off hisgloves, "still obstinately refusing to save his own life.Where's your father?" he asked, suddenly.
"Out of town," she answered, impatiently. "Hewill not be back for a week—but what do you mean that hewon't save his own life?"
Calton leaned forward, and took her hand.
"Do you want to save his life?" he asked.
"Save his life," she reiterated, starting up out ofher chair with a cry. "God knows, I would die to savehim."
"Pish," murmured Calton to himself, as he looked ather glowing face and outstretched hands, "these women arealways in extremes. The fact is," he said aloud,"Fitzgerald is able to prove an alibi, and he refuses to doso."
"But why?"
Calton shrugged his shoulders.
"That is best known to himself—some Quixotic idea ofhonour, I fancy. Now, he refuses to tell me where he was on thatnight; perhaps he won't refuse to tell you—so you mustcome up and see him with me, and perhaps he will recover hissenses, and confess."
"But my father," she faltered.
"Did you not say he was out of town?" askedCalton.
"Yes," hesitated Madge. "But he told me not togo."
"In that case," said Calton, rising and taking uphis hat and gloves, "I won't ask you."
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Stop! will it do any good?"
Calton hesitated a moment, for he thought that if the reason ofBrian's silence was, as he surmised, an intrigue with amarried woman, he might not tell the girl he was engaged to aboutit—but, on the other hand, there might be some other reason,and Calton trusted to Madge to find it out. With these thoughts inhis mind he turned round.
"Yes," he answered, boldly, "it may save hislife."
"Then I shall go," she answered, recklessly"He is more to me than my father, and if I can save him, Iwill. Wait," and she ran out of the room.
"An uncommonly plucky girl," murmured the lawyer, ashe looked out of the window. "If Fitzgerald is not a fool hewill certainly tell her all—that is, of course, if he is ableto—queer things these women are—I quite agree withBalzac's saying that no wonder man couldn't understandwoman, seeing that God who created her failed to do so."
Madge came back dressed to go out, with a heavy veil over herface.
"Shall I order the carriage?" she asked, pulling onher gloves with trembling fingers.
"Hardly," answered Calton, dryly, "unless youwant to see a paragraph in the society papers to the effect thatMiss Madge Frettlby visited Mr. Fitzgerald ingaol—no—no—we'll get a cab. Come, mydear," and taking her arm he led her away.
They reached the station, and caught a train just as it started,yet notwithstanding this Madge was in a fever of impatience.
"How slowly it goes," she said, fretfully.
"Hush, my dear," said Calton, laying his hand on herarm. "You will betray yourself—we'll arrivesoon—and save him."
"Oh, God grant we may," she said with a low cry,clasping her hands tightly together, while Calton could see thetears falling from under her thick veil.
"This is not the way to do so," he said, almostroughly, "you'll be in hysterics soon—controlyourself for his sake."
"For his sake," she muttered, and with a powerfuleffort of will, calmed herself They soon arrived in Melbourne, and,getting a hansom, drove up quickly to the gaol. After going throughthe usual formula, they entered the cell where Brian was, and, whenthe warder who accompanied them opened the door, they found theyoung man seated on his bed. He looked up, and, on seeing Madge,rose and held out his hands with a cry of delight. She ran forward,and threw herself on his breast with a stifled sob. For a shorttime no one spoke—Calton being at the other end of the cell,busy with some notes which he had taken from his pocket, and thewarder having retired.
"My poor darling," said Madge, stroking back thesoft, fair hair from his flushed forehead, "how ill youlook."
"Yes!" answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh."Prison does not improve a man—does it?"
"Don't speak in that tone, Brian," she said;"it is not like you—let us sit down and talk calmlyover the matter."
"I don't see what good that will do," heanswered, wearily, as they sat down hand-in-hand. "I havetalked about it to Calton till my head aches, and it is nogood."
"Of course not," retorted the lawyer, sharply, as healso sat down. "Nor will it be any good until you come toyour senses, and tell us where you were on that night."
"I tell you I cannot."
"Brian, dear," said Madge, softly, taking his hand,"you must tell all—for my sake."
Fitzgerald sighed—this was the hardest temptation he hadyet been subjected to—he felt half inclined to yield, andchance the result—but one look at Madge's pure facesteeled him against doing so. What could his confession bring butsorrow and regret to one whom he loved better than his life.
"Madge!" he answered, gravely, taking her handagain, "you do not know what you ask."
"Yes, I do!" she replied, quickly. "I ask youto save yourself—to prove that you are not guilty of thisterrible crime, and not to sacrifice your life for the sakeof—of—"
Here she stopped, and looked helplessly at Calton, for she hadno idea of the reason of Fitzgerald's refusal to speak.
"For the sake of a woman," finished Calton,bluntly.
"A woman!" she faltered, still holding herlover's hand.
"Is—is—is that the reason?"
Brian averted his face.
"Yes!" he said, in a low, rough voice.
A sharp expression of anguish crossed her pale face, and,sinking her head on her hands, she wept bitterly. Brian looked ather in a dogged kind of way, and Calton stared grimly at themboth.
"Look here," he said, at length, to Brian, in anangry voice; "if you want my opinion of your conduct I thinkit's infamous—begging your pardon, Miss Frettlby, forthe expression. Here is this noble gill, who loves you with herwhole heart, and is ready to sacrifice everything for your sake,comes to implore you to save your life, and you coolly turn roundand acknowledge another woman."
Brian lifted his head haughtily, and his face flushed.
"You are wrong," he said, turning round sharply;"there is the woman for whose sake I keep silence;"and, rising up from the bed, he pointed to Madge, as she sobbedbitterly on it. She lifted up her haggard face with an air ofsurprise.
"For my sake!" she cried in a startled voice.
"Oh, he's mad," said Calton, shrugging hisshoulders; "I shall put in a defence of insanity."
"No, I am not mad," cried Fitzgerald, wildly, as hecaught Madge in his arms. "My darling! My darling! It is foryour sake that I keep silence, and I shall do so though my lifepays the penalty. I could tell you where I was on that night andsave myself: but if I did, you would learn a secret which wouldcurse your life, and I dare not speak—I dare not."
Madge looked up into his face with a pitiful smile as her tearsfell fast.
"Dearest!" she said, softly. "Do not think ofme, but only of yourself; better that I should endure misery thanthat you should die. I do not know what the secret can be, but ifthe telling of it will save your life, do not hesitate. See,"she cried, falling on her knees, "I am at your feet—Iimplore you by all the love you ever had for me, to save yourself,whatever the consequences may be to me."
"Madge," said Fitzgerald, as he raised her in hisarms, "at one time I might have done so, but now it is toolate. There is another and stronger reason for my silence, which Ihave only found out since my arrest. I know that I am closing upthe one way of escape from this charge of murder, of which I aminnocent; but as there is a God in heaven, I swear that I will notspeak."
There was a silence in the cell, broken only by Madge'sconvulsive sobs, and even Calton, cynical man of the world as hewas, felt his eyes grow wet. Brian led Madge over to him, andplaced her in his arms.
"Take her away," he said, in a broken voice,"or I shall forget that I am a man;" and turning awayhe threw himself on his bed, and covered his face with his hands.Calton did not answer him, but summoned the warder, and tried tolead Madge away. But just as they reached the door she broke awayfrom him, and, running back, flung herself on her lover'sbreast.
"My darling! My darling!" she sobbed, kissing him,"you shall not die. I shall save you in spite ofyourself;" and, as if afraid to trust herself longer, she ranout of the cell, followed by the barrister.
Madge stepped into the cab, and Calton paused a moment to tellthe cabman to drive to the railway station Suddenly she stoppedhim.
"Tell him to drive to Brian's lodgings in PowlettStreet," she said, laying her hand on Calton's arm.
"What for?" asked the lawyer, in astonishment.
"And also to go past the Melbourne Club, as I want to stopthere."
"What the deuce does she mean?" muttered Calton, ashe gave the necessary orders, and stepped into the cab.
"And now," he asked, looking at his companion, whohad let down her veil, while the cab rattled quickly down thestreet, "what do you intend to do?"
She threw back her veil, and he was astonished to see the suddenchange which had come over her. There were no tears now, and hereyes were hard and glittering, while her mouth was firmly closed.She looked like a woman who had determined to do a certain thing,and would carry out her intention at whatever cost.
"I intend to save Brian in spite of himself," shesaid, very distinctly.
"But how?"
"Ah, you think that, being a woman, I can donothing," she said, bitterly. "Well, you shallsee."
"I beg your pardon," retorted Calton, with a grimsmile, "my opinion of your sex has always been an excellentone—every lawyer's is; stands to reason that it shouldbe so, seeing that a woman is at the bottom of nine cases out often."
"The old cry."
"Nevertheless a true one," answered Calton."Ever since the time of Father Adam it has been acknowledgedthat women influence the world either for good or evil more thanmen. But this is not to the point," he went on, ratherimpatiently. "What do you propose to do?"
"Simply this," she answered. "In the firstplace, I may tell you that I do not understand Brian'sstatement that he keeps silence for my sake, as there are nosecrets in my life that can justify his saying so. The facts of thecase are simply these: Brian, on the night in question, left ourhouse at St. Kilda, at eleven o'clock. He told me that hewould call at the Club to see if there were any letters for him,and then go straight home."
"But he might have said that merely as a blind."
Madge shook her head.
"No, I don't think so. I did not ask him where hewas going. He told me quite spontaneously. I know Brian'scharacter, and he would not tell a deliberate lie, especially whenthere was no necessity for it. I am quite certain that he intendedto do as he said, and go straight home. When he got to the Club, hefound a letter there, which caused him to alter hismind."
"From whom was the letter?"
"Can't you guess," she said impatiently."From the person, man or woman, who wanted to see him andreveal this secret about me, whatever it is. He got the letter athis Club, and went down Collins Street to meet the writer. At thecorner of the Scotch Church he found Mr. Whyte, and on recognisinghim, left in disgust, and walked down Russell Street to keep hisappointment."
"Then you don't think he came back."
"I am certain he did not, for, as Brian told you, thereare plenty of young men who wear the same kind of coat and hat ashe does. Who the second man who got into the cab was I do not know,but I will swear that it was not Brian."
"And you are going to look for that letter?"
"Yes, in Brian's lodgings."
"He might have burnt it."
"He might have done a thousand things, but he didnot," she answered. "Brian is the most careless man inthe world; he would put the letter into his pocket, or throw itinto the waste-paper basket, and never think of itagain."
"In this case he did, however."
"Yes, he thought of the conversation he had with thewriter, but not of the letter itself. Depend upon it, we shall findit in his desk, or in one of the pockets of the clothes he worethat night."
"Then there's another thing," said Calton,thoughtfully. "The letter might have been delivered to himbetween the Elizabeth Street Railway Station and theClub."
"We can soon find out about that," answered Madge;"for Mr. Rolleston was with him at the time."
"So he was," answered Calton; "and here isRolleston coming down the street. We'll ask himnow."
The cab was just passing the Burke and Wills' monument,and Calton's quick eye had caught a glimpse of Rollestonwalking down the left-hand side. What first attractedCalton's attention was the glittering appearance of Felix.His well-brushed top hat glittered, his varnished boots glittered,and his rings and scarf-pin glittered; in fact, so resplendent washis appearance that he looked like an animated diamond coming alongin the blazing sunshine.
The cab drove up to the kerb, and Rolleston stopped short, asCalton sprang out directly in front of him. Madge lay back in thecab and pulled down her veil, not wishing to be recognised byFelix, as she knew that if he did it would soon be all over thetown.
"Hallo! old chap," said Rolleston, in considerableastonishment. "Where did you spring from?"
"From the cab, of course," answered Calton, with alaugh.
"A kind ofDeus ex machina," repliedRolleston, attempting a bad pun.
"Exactly," said Calton. "Look here, Rolleston,do you remember the night of Whyte's murder—you metFitzgerald at the Railway Station."
"In the train," corrected Felix.
"Well, well, no matter, you came up with him to theClub."
"Yes, and left him there."
"Did you notice if he received any message while he waswith you?"
"Any message?" repeated Felix. "No, he didnot; we were talking together the whole time, and he spoke to noone but me."
"Was he in good spirits?"
"Excellent, made me laugh awfully—but why all thisthusness?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Calton, getting back intothe cab. "I wanted a little information from you; I'llexplain next time I see you—Good-bye!"
"But I say," began Felix, but the cab had alreadyrattled away, so Mr. Rolleston turned angrily away.
"I never saw anything like these lawyers," he saidto himself. "Calton's a perfect whirlwind, byJove."
Meanwhile Calton was talking to Madge.
"You were right," he said, "there must havebeen a message for him at the Club, for he got none from the timehe left your place."
"And what shall we do now?" asked Madge, who, havingheard all the conversation, did not trouble to question the lawyerabout it.
"Find out at the Club if any letter was waiting for him onthat night," said Calton, as the cab stopped at the door ofthe Melbourne Club. "Here we are," and with a hastyword to Madge, he ran up the steps.
He went to the office of the Club to find out if any letters hadbeen waiting for Fitzgerald, and found there a waiter with whom hewas pretty well acquainted.
"Look here, Brown," said the lawyer, "do youremember on that Thursday night when the hansom cab murder tookplace if any letters were waiting here for Mr.Fitzgerald?"
"Well, really, sir," hesitated Brown,"it's so long ago that I almost forget."
Calton gave him a sovereign.
"Oh! it's not that, Mr. Calton," said thewaiter, pocketing the coin, nevertheless. "But I really doforget."
"Try and remember," said Calton, shortly.
Brown made a tremendous effort of memory, and at last gave asatisfactory answer.
"No, sir, there were none!"
"Are you sure?" said Calton, feeling a thrill ofdisappointment.
"Quite sure, sir," replied the other, confidently,"I went to the letter rack several times that night, and I amsure there were none for Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Ah! I thought as much," said Calton, heaving asigh.
"Stop!" said Brown, as though struck with a suddenidea. "Though there was no letter came by post, sir, therewas one brought to him on that night."
"Ah!" said Calton, turning sharply. "At whattime?"
"Just before twelve o'clock, sir."
"Who brought it?"
"A young woman, sir," said Brown, in a tone ofdisgust. "A bold thing, beggin' your pardon, sir; andno better than she should be. She bounced in at the door as bold asbrass, and sings out, 'Is he in?' 'Getout,' I says, 'or I'll call the perlice.''Oh no, you won't,' says she. 'You'llgive him that,' and she shoves a letter into my hands.'Who's him?' I asks. 'I dunno,' sheanswers. 'It's written there, and I can't read;give it him at once.' And then she clears out before I couldstop her."
"And the letter was for Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Yes, sir; and a precious dirty letter it was,too."
"You gave it to him, of course?"
"I did, sir. He was playing cards, and he put it in hispocket, after having looked at the outside of it, and went on withhis game."
"Didn't he open it?"
"Not then, sir; but he did later on, about a quarter toone o'clock. I was in the room, and he opens it and reads it.Then he says to himself, 'What d—d impertinence,'and puts it into his pocket."
"Was he disturbed!"
"Well, sir, he looked angry like, and put his coat and haton, and walked out about five minutes to one."
"Ah! and he met Whyte at one," muttered Calton."There's no doubt about it. The letter was anappointment, and he was going to keep it. What kind of a letter wasit?" he asked.
"Very dirty, sir, in a square envelope; but the paper wasgood, and so was the writing."
"That will do," said Calton; "I am muchobliged to you," and he hurried down to where Madge awaitedhim in the cab.
"You were right," he said to her, when the cab wasonce more in motion "He got a letter on that night, and wentto keep his appointment at the time he met Whyte."
"I knew it," cried Madge with delight. "Yousee, we will find it in his lodgings."
"I hope so," answered Calton; "but we must notbe too sanguine; he may have destroyed it."
"No, he has not," she replied. "I am convincedit is there."
"Well," answered Calton, looking at her, "Idon't contradict you, for your feminine instincts have donemore to discover the truth than my reasonings; but that is oftenthe case with women—they jump in the dark where a man wouldhesitate, and in nine cases out of ten land safely."
"Alas for the tenth!" said Miss Frettlby. "Shehas to be the one exception to prove the rule."
She had in a great measure recovered her spirits, and seemedconfident that she would save her lover. But Mr. Calton saw thather nerves were strung up to the highest pitch, and that it wasonly her strong will that kept her from breaking downaltogether.
"By Jove," he muttered, in an admiring tone, as hewatched her. "She's a plucky girl, and Fitzgerald is alucky man to have the love of such a woman."
They soon arrived at Brian's lodgings, and the door wasopened by Mrs. Sampson, who looked very disconsolate indeed. Thepoor cricket had been blaming herself severely for the informationshe had given to the false insurance agent, and the floods of tearswhich she had wept had apparently had an effect on her physicalcondition, for she crackled less loudly than usual, though hervoice was as shrill as ever.
"That sich a thing should 'ave 'appened to'im," she wailed, in her thin, high voice."An' me that proud of 'im, not 'avin'any family of my own, except one as died and went up to'eaving arter 'is father, which I 'opes as theyboth are now angels, an' friendly, as 'is nature'ad not developed in this valley of the shadder to determine'is feelin's towards 'is father when 'edied, bein' carried off by a chill, caused by the change from'ot to cold, the weather bein' thatcontrary."
They had arrived in Brian's sitting-room by this time, andMadge sank into a chair, while Calton, anxious to begin the search,hinted to Mrs. Sampson that she could go.
"I'm departin', sir," piped the cricket,with a sad shake of her head, as she opened the door;"knowin', as I do, as 'e's as innocent asan unborn babe, an' to think of me 'avin' toldthat 'orrid pusson who 'ad no regard for the truth allabout 'im as is now in a cold cell, not as what the weatherain't warm, an' 'e won't want a fire aslong as they allows 'im blankets."
"What did you tell him?" asked Calton, sharply.
"Ah! you may well say that," lamented Mrs. Sampson,rolling her dingy handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at herred-rimmed eyes, which presented quite a bacchanalian appearance,due, be it said in justice, to grief, not to liquor."'Avin' bin beguiled by that serping in light clothes aswanted to know if 'e allays come 'ome afore twelve,which I said 'e was in the 'abit of doin',tho', to be sure, 'e did sometimes use 'islatch-key."
"The night of the murder, for instance."
"Oh! don't say that, sir," said Mrs. Sampson,with a terrified crackle. "Me bein' weak an'ailin', tho' comin' of a strong family, as allayslived to a good age, thro' bein' in the 'abit ofwearin' flannels, which my mother's father thoughtbetter nor a-spilin' the inside with chemistry."
"Clever man, that detective," murmured Calton tohimself. "He got out of her by strategy what he never wouldhave done by force. It's a strong piece of evidence againstFitzgerald, but it does not matter much if he can prove an alibi.You'll likely be called as a witness for theprosecution," he said aloud.
"Me, sir!" squeaked Mrs. Sampson, tremblingviolently, and thereby producing a subdued rustle, as of wind inthe trees. "As I've never bin in the court, 'ceptthe time as father tooked me for a treat, to 'ear a murder,which there's no denyin' is as good as a play, 'ebein' 'ung, 'avin' 'it 'is wifeover the 'ead with the poker when she weren'tlookin', and a-berryin' 'er corpse in a backgarding, without even a stone to mark the place, let alone a linefrom the Psalms and a remuneration of 'er virtues."
"Well, well," said Calton, rather impatiently, as heopened the door for her, "leave us for a short time,there's a good soul. Miss Frettlby and I want to rest, and wewill ring for you when we are going."
"Thank you, sir," said the lachrymose landlady,"an' I 'opes they won't 'ang'im, which is sich a choky way of dyin'; but in life weare in death," she went on, rather incoherently, "as iswell known to them as 'as diseases, an' may be corpsedat any minute, and as—"
Here Calton, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, shutthe door, and they heard Mrs. Sampson's shrill voice andsubdued cracklings die away in the distance.
"Now then," he said, "now that we have got ridof that woman and her tongue, where are we to begin?"
"The desk," replied Madge, going over to it."it's the most likely place."
"Don't think so," said Calton, shaking hishead. "If, as you say, Fitzgerald is a careless man, he wouldnot have troubled to put it there. However; perhaps we'dbetter look."
The desk was very untidy ("Just like Brian," asMadge remarked)—full of paid and unpaid bills, old letters,play-bills, ball-programmes, and withered flowers.
"Reminiscences of former flirtations," said Calton,with a laugh, pointing to these.
"I should not wonder," retorted Miss Frettlby,coolly. "Brian always was in love with some one or other; butyou know what Lytton says, 'There are many counterfeits, butonly one Eros,' so I can afford to forget thesethings."
The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was itin the sitting-room. They tried the bedroom, but with no betterresult. Madge was about to give up the search in despair, whensuddenly Calton's eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which,by some unaccountable reason, they had over-looked. The basket washalf-full, in fact; more than half, and, on looking at it, a suddenthought struck the lawyer. He rang the bell, and presently Mrs.Sampson made her appearance.
"How long has that waste-paper basket been standing likethat?" he asked, pointing to it.
"It bein' the only fault I 'ad to find with'im," said Mrs. Sampson, "'e bein'that untidy that 'e a never let me clean it out until'e told me pussonly. 'E said as 'ow 'ethrowed things into it as 'e might 'ave to look upagain; an' I 'aven't touched it for more nor sixweeks, 'opin' you won't think me a bad'ousekeeper, it bein' 'is ownwish—bein' fond of litter an' sichlike."
"Six weeks," repeated Calton, with a look at Madge."Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago. Depend upon it, weshall find it there."
Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basketout on the floor, and both she and Calton were soon as busy amongthe fragments of paper as though they were rag-pickers.
"'Opin they ain't orf their'eads," murmured Mrs. Sampson, as she went to the door,"but it looks like it, they bein'—"
Suddenly a cry broke from Madge, as she drew out of the mass ofpaper a half-burnt letter, written on thick and creamy-lookingpaper.
"At last," she cried, rising off her knees, andsmoothing it out; "I knew he had not destroyed it."
"Pretty nearly, however," said Calton, as his eyeglanced rapidly over it; "it's almost useless as it is.There's no name to it."
He took it over to the window, and spread it out upon the table.It was dirty, and half burnt, but still it was a clue. Here is afacsimile of the letter:—
"There is not much to be gained from that, I'mafraid," said Madge, sadly. "It shows that he had anappointment—but where?"
Calton did not answer, but, leaning his head on his hands,stared hard at the paper. At last he jumped up with acry—
"I have it," he said, in an excited tone."Look at that paper; see how creamy and white it is, andabove all, look at the printing in the corner—'OTVILLA, TOORAK.'"
"Then he went down to Toorak?"
"In an hour, and back again—hardly!"
"Then it was not written from Toorak?"
"No, it was written in one of the Melbourne backslums."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the girl who brought it," said Calton,quickly. "A disreputable woman, one far more likely to comefrom the back slums than from Toorak. As to the paper, three monthsago there was a robbery at Toorak, and this is some of the paperthat was stolen by the thieves."
Madge said nothing, but her sparkling eyes and the nervoustrembling of her hands showed her excitement.
"I will see a detective this evening," said Calton,exultingly, "find out where this letter came from, and whowrote it. We'll save him yet," he said, placing theprecious letter carefully in his pocket-book.
"You think that you will be able to find the woman whowrote that?"
"Hum," said the lawyer, looking thoughtful,"she may be dead, as the letter says she is in a dyingcondition. However, if I can find the woman who delivered theletter at the Club, and who waited for Fitzgerald at the corner ofBourke and Russell Streets, that will be sufficient. All I want toprove is that he was not in the hansom cab with Whyte."
"And do you think you can do that?"
"Depends upon this letter," said Calton, tapping hispocket-book with his finger. "I'll tell youto-morrow."
Shortly afterwards they left the house, and when Calton putMadge safely into the St. Kilda train, her heart felt lighter thanit had done since Fitzgerald's arrest.
There is an old adage that says "Like draws tolike." The antithesis of this is probably that "Unlikerepels unlike." But there are times when individualism doesnot enter into the matter, and Fate alone, by throwing two personstogether, sets up a state, congenial or uncongenial, as the casemay be. Fate chose to throw together Mr. Gorby and Mr. Kilsip, andeach was something more than uncongenial to the other. Each wasequally clever in their common profession; each was a universalfavourite, yet each hated the other. They were as fire and water toone another, and when they came together, invariably there wastrouble.
Kilsip was tall and slender; Gorby was short and stout. Kilsiplooked clever; Gorby wore a smile of self-satisfaction; which alonewas sufficient to prevent his doing so. Yet, singularly enough, itwas this very smile that proved most useful to Gorby in the pursuitof his calling. It enabled him to come at information where hissharp-looking colleague might try in vain. The hearts of all wentforth to Gorby's sweet smile and insinuating manner. But whenKilsip appeared people were wont to shut up, and to retirepromptly, like alarmed snails, within their shells. Gorby gave thelie direct to those who hold that the face is ever the index to themind. Kilsip, on the other hand, with his hawk-like countenance,his brilliant black eyes, hooked nose, and small thin-lipped mouth,endorsed the theory. His complexion was quite colourless, and hishair was jet black. Altogether, he could not be called fair to lookupon. His craft and cunning were of the snake-like order. So longas he conducted his enquiries in secret he was generallysuccessful; but once let him appear personally on the scene, andfailure was assured to him. Thus, while Kilsip passed as thecleverer, Gorby was invariably the more successful—at allevents, ostensibly.
When, therefore, this hansom cab murder case was put intoGorby's hands, the soul of Kilsip was smitten with envy, andwhen Fitzgerald was arrested, and all the evidence collected byGorby seemed to point so conclusively to his guilt, Kilsip writhedin secret over the triumph of his enemy. Though he would only havebeen too glad to say that Gorby had got hold of the wrong man, yetthe evidence was so conclusive that such a thought never enteredhis head until he received a note from Mr. Calton, asking him tocall at his office that evening at eight o'clock, withreference to the murder.
Kilsip knew that Calton was counsel for the prisoner. He guessedthat he was wanted to follow up a clue. And he determined to devotehimself to whatever Calton might require of him, if only to proveGorby to be wrong. So pleased was he at the mere possibility oftriumphing over his rival, that on casually meeting him, he stoppedand invited him to drink.
The primary effect of his sudden and unusual hospitality was toarouse all Gorby's suspicions; but on second thoughts,deeming himself quite a match for Kilsip, both mentally andphysically, Gorby accepted the invitation.
"Ah!" said Kilsip, in his soft, low voice, rubbinghis lean white hands together, as they sat over their drinks,"you're a lucky man to have laid your hands on thathansom cab murderer so quickly."
"Yes; I flatter myself I did manage it pretty well,"said Gorby, lighting his pipe. "I had no idea that it wouldbe so simple—though, mind you, it required a lot of thoughtbefore I got a proper start."
"I suppose you're pretty sure he's the man youwant?" pursued Kilsip, softly, with a brilliant flash of hisblack eyes.
"Pretty sure, indeed!" retorted Mr. Gorby,scornfully, "there ain't no pretty sure about it.I'd take my Bible oath he's the man. He and Whyte hatedone another. He says to Whyte, 'I'll kill you, ifI've got to do it in the open street.' He meets Whytedrunk, a fact which he acknowledges himself; he clears out, and thecabman swears he comes back; then he gets into the cab with aliving man, and when he comes out leaves a dead one; he drives toEast Melbourne and gets into the house at a time which his landladycan prove—just the time that a cab would take to drive fromthe Grammar School on the St. Kilda Road. If you ain't afool, Kilsip, you'll see as there's no doubt aboutit."
"It looks all square enough," said Kilsip, whowondered what evidence Calton could have found to contradict such aplain statement of fact. "And what's hisdefence?"
"Mr. Calton's the only man as knows that,"answered Gorby, finishing his drink; "but, clever and all ashe is, he can't put anything in, that can go against myevidence."
"Don't you be too sure of that," sneeredKilsip, whose soul was devoured with envy.
"Oh! but I am," retorted Gorby, getting as red as aturkey-cock at the sneer. "You're jealous, you are,because you haven't got a finger in the pie."
"Ah! but I may have yet."
"Going a-hunting yourself, are you?" said Gorby,with an indignant snort. "A-hunting for what—for a manas is already caught?"
"I don't believe you've got the rightman," remarked Kilsip, deliberately.
Mr. Gorby looked upon him with a smile of pity.
"No! of course you don't, just because I'vecaught him; perhaps, when you see him hanged, you'll believeit then?"
"You're a smart man, you are," retortedKilsip; "but you ain't the Pope to beinfallible."
"And what grounds have you for saying he's not theright man?" demanded Gorby.
Kilsip smiled, and stole softly across the room like a cat.
"You don't think I'm such a fool as to tellyou? But you ain't so safe nor clever as you think,"and, with another irritating smile, he went out.
"He's a regular snake," said Gorby to himself,as the door closed on his brother detective; "but he'sbragging now. There isn't a link missing in the chain ofevidence against Fitzgerald, so I defy him. He can do hisworst."
At eight o'clock on that night the soft-footed andsoft-voiced detective presented himself at Calton's office.He found the lawyer impatiently waiting for him. Kilsip closed thedoor softly, and then taking a seat opposite to Calton, waited forhim to speak. The lawyer, however, first handed him a cigar, andthen producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses from somemysterious recess, he filled one and pushed it towards thedetective. Kilsip accepted these little attentions with the utmostgravity, yet they were not without their effect on him, as thekeen-eyed lawyer saw. Calton was a great believer in diplomacy, andnever lost an opportunity of inculcating it into young men startingin life. "Diplomacy," said Calton, to one youngaspirant for legal honours, "is the oil we cast on thetroubled waters of social, professional, and political life; and ifyou can, by a little tact, manage mankind, you are pretty certainto get on in this world."
Calton was a man who practised what he preached. He believedKilsip to have that feline nature, which likes to be stroked, to bemade much of, and he paid him these little attentions, knowing fullwell they would bear their fruit. He also knew that Kilsipentertained no friendly feeling for Gorby, that, in fact, he borehim hatred, and he determined that this feeling which existedbetween the two men, should serve him to the end he had inview.
"I suppose," he said, leaning back in his chair, andwatching the wreaths of blue smoke curling from his cigar, "Isuppose you know all the ins and the outs of the hansom cabmurder?"
"I should rather think so," said Kilsip, with acurious light in his queer eyes. "Why, Gorby does nothing butbrag about it, and his smartness in catching the supposedmurderer!"
"Aha!" said Calton, leaning forward, and putting hisarms on the table. "Supposed murderer. Eh! Does that meanthat he hasn't been convicted by a jury, or that you thinkthat Fitzgerald is innocent?"
Kilsip stared hard at the lawyer, in a vague kind of way, slowlyrubbing his hands together.
"Well," he said at length, in a deliberate manner,"before I got your note, I was convinced Gorby had got holdof the right man, but when I heard that you wanted to see me, andknowing you are defending the prisoner, I guessed that you musthave found something in his favour which you wanted me to lookafter."
"Right!" said Calton, laconically.
"As Mr. Fitzgerald said he met Whyte at the corner andhailed the cab—" went on the detective.
"How do you know that?" interrupted Calton,sharply.
"Gorby told me."
"How the devil did he find out?" cried the lawyer,with genuine surprise.
"Because he is always poking and prying about," saidKilsip, forgetting, in his indignation, that such poking and pryingformed part of detective business. "But, at any rate,"he went on quickly, "if Mr. Fitzgerald did leave Mr. Whyte,the only chance he's got of proving his innocence is that hedid not come back, as the cabman alleged."
"Then, I suppose, you think that Fitzgerald will prove analibi," said Calton.
"Well, sir," answered Kilsip, modestly, "ofcourse you know more about the case than I do, but that is the onlydefence I can see he can make."
"Well, he's not going to put in such adefence."
"Then he must be guilty," said Kilsip, promptly.
"Not necessarily," returned the barrister,drily.
"But if he wants to save his neck, he'll have toprove an alibi," persisted the other.
"That's just where the point is," answeredCalton. "He doesn't want to save his neck."
Kilsip, looking rather bewildered, took a sip of whisky, andwaited to hear what Mr. Calton had to say.
"The fact is," said Calton, lighting a fresh cigar,"he has some extraordinary idea in his head. He refusesabsolutely to say where he was on that night."
"I understand," said Kilsip, nodding his head."Woman?"
"No, nothing of the kind," retorted Calton, hastily."I thought so at first, but I was wrong. He went to see adying woman, who wished to tell him something."
"What about?"
"That's just what I can't tell you,"answered Calton quickly. "It must have been somethingimportant, for she sent for him in great haste—and he was byher bedside between the hours of one and two on Fridaymorning."
"Then he did not return to the cab?"
"No, he did not, he went to keep his appointment, but, forsome reason or other, he won't tell where this appointmentwas. I went to his rooms to-day and found this half-burnt letter,asking him to come."
Calton handed the letter to Kilsip, who placed it on the tableand examined it carefully.
"This was written on Thursday," said thedetective.
"Of course—you can see that from the date; and Whytewas murdered on Friday, the 27th."
"It was written at something Villa, Toorak," pursuedKilsip, still examining the paper. "Oh! I understand; he wentdown there."
"Hardly," retorted Calton, in a sarcastic tone."He couldn't very well go down there, have aninterview, and be back in East Melbourne in one hour—thecabman Royston can prove that he was at Russell Street at oneo'clock, and his landlady that he entered his lodging in EastMelbourne at two—no, he wasn't at Toorak."
"When was this letter delivered?"
"Shortly before twelve o'clock, at the MelbourneClub, by a girl, who, from what the waiter saw of her, appears tobe a disreputable individual—you will see it says bearer willwait him at Bourke Street, and as another street is mentioned, andas Fitzgerald, after leaving Whyte, went down Russell Street tokeep his appointment, the most logical conclusion is that thebearer of the letter waited for him at the corner of Bourke andRussell Streets. Now," went on the lawyer, "I want tofind out who the girl that brought the letter is!"
"But how?"
"God bless my soul, Kilsip! How stupid you are,"cried Calton, his irritation getting the better of him."Can't you understand—that paper came from one ofthe back slums—therefore it must have been stolen."
A sudden light flashed into Kilsip's eyes.
"Talbot Villa, Toorak," he cried quickly, snatchingup the letter again, and examining it with great attention,"where that burglary took place."
"Exactly," said Calton, smiling complacently."Now do you understand what I want—you must take me tothe crib in the back slums where the articles stolen from the housein Toorak were hidden. This paper"—pointing to theletter—"is part of the swag left behind, and must havebeen used by someone there. Brian Fitzgerald obeyed the directionsgiven in the letter, and he was there, at the time of themurder."
"I understand," said Kilsip, with a gratified purr."There were four men engaged in that burglary, and they hidthe swag at Mother Guttersnipe's crib, in a lane off LittleBourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr. Fitzgerald, inevening dress, couldn't very well have gone down thereunless—"
"He had some one with him well-known in thelocality," finished Calton, rapidly. "Exactly, thatwoman who delivered the letter at the Club guided him. Judging fromthe waiter's description of her appearance, I should thinkshe was pretty well known about the slums."
"Well," said Kilsip, rising and looking at hiswatch, "it is now nine o'clock, so if you like we willgo to the old hag's place at once—dying woman,"he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, "there was a womanwho died there about four weeks ago."
"Who was she?" asked Calton, who was putting on hisovercoat.
"Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe's, Ifancy," answered Kilsip, as they left the office. "Idon't know exactly what she was—she was called the'Queen,' and a precious handsome woman she must havebeen—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what Ican make out, was not long from England, died of consumption on theThursday night before the murder."
Bourke Street is a more crowded thoroughfare than CollinsStreet, especially at night. The theatres that it contains are inthemselves sufficient for the gathering of a considerable crowd. Itis a grimy crowd for the most part. Round the doors of the hotels anumber of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, waitingtill some kind friend shall invite them to step inside. Further ona knot of horsey-looking men are to be seen standing under theOpera House verandah giving and taking odds about the MelbourneCup, or some other meeting. Here and there are ragged street Arabs,selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, inthe full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary,draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, andthe other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in ahoarse voice, "'Erald, third 'dition, onepenny!" until the ear wearies of the constant repetition.Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here, a fast-lookinghansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to hisClub—there, a dingy-looking vehicle, drawn by a lankquadruped, which staggers blindly down the street. Alternating withthese, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, andwithin, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkleof diamonds. Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement,three violins and a harp are playing a German waltz to an admiringcrowd of attentive spectators. If there is one thing which theMelbourne folk love more than another, it is music. Their fondnessfor it is only equalled by their admiration for horse-racing. Anystreet band which plays at all decently, may be sure of a goodaudience, and a substantial remuneration for their performance.Some writer has described Melbourne, as Glasgow with the sky ofAlexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, soItalian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the natureof such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon. In spite of thedismal prognostications of Marcus Clarke regarding the futureAustralian, whom he describes as being "a tall, coarse,strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimmingand horsemanship," it is more likely that he will be acultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of thearts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarianprinciples. Climatic influence should be taken into account withregard to the future Australian, and our posterity will no moreresemble us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardyforefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandyislands of the Adriatic.
This was the conclusion at which Mr. Calton arrived as hefollowed his guide through the crowded streets, and saw with whatdeep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Straussand the sparkling melodies of Offenbach. The brilliantly-litstreet, with the never-ceasing stream of people pouring along; theshrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles, and thefitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him,and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriadphases of human character constantly passing before his eyes. Buthis guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in agreat measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little BourkeStreet, where the narrowness of the thoroughfare, with the highbuildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scatteredgas-lamps, and the few ragged-looking figures slouching along,formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene theyhad just left. Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective ledthe way down a dark lane. It was as hot as a furnace from theaccumulated heat of the day. To look up at the clear starlit skywas to experience a sensation of delicious coolness.
"Keep close to me," whispered Kilsip, touching thebarrister on the arm; "we may meet some nasty customers abouthere."
It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kindof haze so observable in Australian twilights, and this weird lightwas just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and thebarrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that noone could spring upon them unaware, and they could see sometimes onthe one side, a man cowering back into the black shadow, or on theother, a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out ofa window trying to get a breath of fresh air. There were also somechildren playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill youngvoices came echoing strangely through the gloom, mingling with abacchanalian sort of song, sung by a man, as he slouched alongunsteadily over the rough stones. Now and then a mild-lookingstring of Chinamen stole along, clad in their dull-hued blueblouses, either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, ormoving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy ontheir yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm lightthrough an open door, and within, the Mongolians were gatheredround the gambling-tables, playing fan-tan, or leaving theseductions of their favourite pastime, to glide soft-footed to themany cook-shops, where enticing-looking fowls and turkeys alreadycooked were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip turning to the left, ledthe barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darknessand gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered howhuman beings could live in such murky places.
At last, to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhatbewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes throughwhich he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, whichhe opened, and stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister tofollow. Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark,ill-smelling passage. At the end a faint light glimmered. Kilsipcaught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along thepassage. There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feelthat the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or theother of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he couldhear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just asthey got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothingelse, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in completedarkness.
"Light that," cried the detective in a peremptorytone of voice. "What do you mean by dowsing theglim?"
Thieves' argot was, evidently, well understood here, forthere was a shuffle in the dark, a muttered voice, and someone lita candle. Calton saw that the light was held by an elfish-lookingchild. Tangled masses of black hair hung over her scowling whiteface. As she crouched down on the floor against the damp wall shelooked up defiantly yet fearfully at the detective.
"Where's Mother Guttersnipe?" asked Kilsip,touching her with his foot.
She seemed to resent the indignity, and rose quickly to herfeet.
"Upstairs," she replied, jerking her head in thedirection of the right wall.
Following her direction, Calton—his eyes now somewhataccustomed to the gloom—could discern a gaping black chasm,which he presumed was the stair alluded to.
"Yer won't get much out of 'er to-night;she's a-going to start 'er booze, she is."
"Never mind what she's doing or about to do,"said Kilsip, sharply, "take me to her at once."
The girl looked him sullenly up and down, then she led the wayinto the black chasm and up the stairs. They were so shaky as tomake Calton fear they might give way. As they toiled slowly up thebroken steps he held tightly to his companion's arm. At lastthey stopped at a door through the cracks of which a faint glimmerof light was to be seen. Here the girl gave a shrill whistle, andthe door opened. Still preceded by their elfish guide, Calton andthe detective stepped through the doorway. A curious scene wasbefore them. A small square room, with a low roof, from which thepaper mildewed and torn hung in shreds; on the left hand, at thefar end, was a kind of low stretcher, upon which a woman, almostnaked, lay, amid a heap of greasy clothes. She appeared to be ill,for she kept tossing her head from side to side restlessly, andevery now and then sang snatches of song in a cracked voice. In thecentre of the room was a rough deal table, upon which stood aguttering tallow candle, which but faintly illuminated the scene,and a half empty rectangular bottle of Schnapps, with a broken cupbeside it. In front of these signs of festivity sat an old womanwith a pack of cards spread out before her, and from which she hadevidently been telling the fortune of a villainous-looking youngman who had opened the door, and who stood looking at the detectivewith no very friendly expression of countenance. He wore a greasybrown velvet coat, much patched, and a black wide-awake hat, pulleddown over his eyes. From his expression—so scowling andvindictive was it—the barrister judged his ultimate destinyto lie between Pentridge and the gallows.
As they entered, the fortune-teller raised her head, and,shading her eyes with one skinny hand, looked curiously at the newcomers. Calton thought he had never seen such a repulsive-lookingold crone; and, in truth, her ugliness was, in its verygrotesqueness well worthy the pencil of a Dore. Her face was seamedand lined with innumerable wrinkles, clearly defined by the dirtwhich was in them; bushy grey eyebrows, drawn frowningly over twopiercing black eyes, whose light was undimmed by age; a hook nose,like the beak of a bird of prey, and a thin-lipped mouth devoid ofteeth. Her hair was very luxurious and almost white, and was tiedup in a great bunch by a greasy bit of black ribbon. As to herchin, Calton, when he saw it wagging to and fro, involuntarilyquoted Macbeth's lines—
"Yeshould be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That ye are so."
She was no bad representative of the weird sisters.
As they entered she eyed them viciously, demanding,
"What the blazes they wanted."
"Want your booze," cried the child, with an elfishlaugh, as she shook back her tangled hair.
"Get out, you whelp," croaked the old hag, shakingone skinny fist at her, "or I'll tear yer 'eartout."
"Yes, she can go." said Kilsip, nodding to the girl,"and you can clear, too," he added, sharply, turning tothe young man, who stood still holding the door open.
At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective'sorder, but ultimately obeyed him, muttering, as he went out,something about "the blooming cheek of showin' swellscove's cribs." The child followed him out, her exitbeing accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a rapidity onlyattained by long practice, seized the shoe from one of her feet,and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.
"Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer," she shrieked, witha volley of oaths, "I'll break yer 'ead forye!"
Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanishedthrough the shaky door, which she closed after her.
When she had disappeared Mother Guttersnipe took a drink fromthe broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in abusiness-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with asuggestive leer.
"It's the future ye want unveiled, dearie?"she croaked, rapidly shuffling the cards; "an' oldmother 'ull tell—"
"No she won't," interrupted the detective,sharply. "I've come on business."
The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him fromunder her bushy eyebrows.
"What 'av the boys been up to now?" she asked,harshly. "There ain't no swag 'ere thistime."
Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on thebed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of"Barbara Allen"—
"Oh, mither, mither, mak' my bed,
An' mak' it saft an' narrow;
Since my true love died for me to-day
I'll die for him to-morrow."
"Shut up, cuss you!" yelled Mother Guttersnipe,viciously, "or I'll knock yer bloomin' 'eadorf," and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out herthreat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contentsinto the cup, and drank it off with avidity.
"The woman seems ill," said Calton, casting ashuddering glance at the stretcher.
"So she are," growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily."She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead ofstoppin' 'ere an' singin' them beastlythings, which makes my blood run cold. Just 'ear'er," she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke outonce more—
"Oh, little did my mither think,
When first she cradled me,
I'd die sa far away fra home,
Upon the gallows tree."
"Yah!" said the old woman, hastily, drinking somemore gin out of the cup. "She's allays a-talkin'of dyin' an' gallers, as if they were nice things tojawr about."
"Who was that woman who died here three or four weeksago?" asked Kilsip, sharply.
"'Ow should I know?" retorted MotherGuttersnipe, sullenly. "I didn't kill 'er, did I?It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin', cussher."
"Do you remember the night she died?"
"No, I don't," answered the beldame, frankly."I were drunk—blind, bloomin', blazin'drunk—s'elp me."
"You're always drunk," said Kilsip.
"What if I am?" snarled the woman, seizing herbottle. "You don't pay fur it. Yes, I'm drunk.I'm allays drunk. I was drunk last night, an' the nightbefore, an' I'm a-goin' to git drunkto-night"—with an impressive look at thebottle—"an' to-morrow night, an' I'llkeep it up till I'm rottin' in the grave."
Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed malignity washer voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.
"More fool you," he said, briefly. "Come now,on the night the 'Queen,' as you call her, died, therewas a gentleman came to see her?"
"So she said," retorted Mother Guttersnipe;"but, lor, I dunno anythin', I were drunk."
"Who said—the 'Queen?'"
"No, my gran'darter, Sal. The 'Queen,'sent 'er to fetch the toff to see 'er cut 'erlucky. Wanted 'im to look at 'is work, I s'pose,cuss 'im; and Sal prigged some paper from my box," sheshrieked, indignantly; "prigged it w'en I were toodrunk to stop 'er?"
The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with agratified expression on his face. They were right as to the paperhaving been stolen from the Villa at Toorak.
"You did not see the gentleman who came?" saidKilsip, turning again to the old hag.
"Not I, cuss you," she retorted, politely."'E came about 'arf-past one in the morning, an'you don't expects we can stop up all night, do ye?"
"Half-past one o'clock," repeated Calton,quickly. "The very time. Is this true?"
"Wish I may die if it ain't," said MotherGuttersnipe, graciously. "My gran'darter Sal kin tellye."
"Where is she?" asked Kilsip, sharply.
At this the old woman threw back her head, and howleddismay.
"She's 'ooked it," she wailed, drummingon the ground with her feet. "Gon' an' left'er pore old gran' an' joined the Army, cuss'em, a-comin' round an' a-spilin'business."
Here the woman on the bed broke out again—
"Since the flowers o' the forest area' wed awa."
"'Old yer jawr," yelled Mother Guttersnipe,rising, and making a dart at the bed. "I'll choke thelife out ye, s'elp me. D'y want me to murder ye,singin' 'em funeral things?"
Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.
"The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was herebetween one and two o'clock," he said, quickly,"is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk orasleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I'll go to thebarracks the first thing in the morning and look forher."
"I hope you'll find her," answered Calton,drawing a long breath. "A man's life hangs on herevidence."
They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipesome loose silver, which she seized on with an avariciousclutch.
"You'll drink it, I suppose?" said thebarrister, shrinking back from her.
"Werry likely," retorted the hag, with a repulsivegrin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she toreoff for the purpose. "I'm a forting to thepublic-'ouse, I am, an' it's the on'ypleasure I 'ave in my life, cuss it."
The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for sheheld the candle at the head of the stairs, as they went down, sothat they should not break their heads. As they arrived safely,they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing,"The Last Rose of Summer."
The street door was open, and, after groping their way along thedark passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the openstreet.
"Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, anddrawing a long breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out ofthat den!"
"At all events, our journey has not been wasted,"said the detective, as they walked along. "We've foundout where Mr. Fitzgerald was on the night of the murder, so he willbe safe."
"That depends upon Sal Rawlins," answered Calton,gravely; "but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feelquite ill after my experience of low life."
The next day Kilsip called at Calton's office late in theafternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him. Thedetective's face, however, looked rather dismal, and Caltonwas not reassured.
"Well!" he said, impatiently, when Kilsip had closedthe door and taken his seat. "Where is she?"
"That's just what I want to know," answeredthe detective, coolly; "I went to the Salvation Armyheadquarters and made enquiries about her. It appears that she hadbeen in the Army as a hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in aweek, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney. She carried onher old life of dissipation, but, ultimately, her friend got sickof her, and the last thing they heard about her was that she hadtaken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums. I telegraphedat once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of thename of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said theywould make enquiries, and let me know the result."
"Ah! she has, no doubt, changed her name," saidCalton, thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I wonderwhy?"
"Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect," answeredKilsip, drily. "The straying lamb did not care about beinghunted back to the fold."
"And when did she join the Army?"
"The very day after the murder."
"Rather sudden conversion?"
"Yes, but she said the death of the woman on Thursdaynight had so startled her, that she went straight off to the Armyto get her religion properly fixed up."
"The effects of fright, no doubt," said Calton,dryly. "I've met a good many examples of these suddenconversions, but they never last long as a rule—it's acase of 'the devil was sick, the devil a monk wouldbe,' more than anything else. Good-looking?"
"So-so, I believe," replied Kilsip, shrugging hisshoulders.
"Very ignorant—could neither read norwrite."
"That accounts for her not asking for Fitzgerald when shecalled at the Club—she probably did not know whom she hadbeen sent for. It will resolve itself into a question ofidentification, I expect. However, if the police can't findher, we will put an advertisement in the papers offering a reward,and send out handbills to the same effect. She must be found. BrianFitzgerald's life hangs on a thread, and that thread is SalRawlins."
"Yes!" assented Kilsip, rubbing his hands together."Even if Mr. Fitzgerald acknowledges that he was at MotherGuttersnipe's on the night in question, she will have toprove that he was there, as no one else saw him."
"Are you sure of that?"
"As sure as anyone can be in such a case. It was a latehour when he came, and everyone seems to have been asleep exceptthe dying woman and Sal; and as one is dead, the other is the onlyperson that can prove that he was there at the time when the murderwas being committed in the hansom."
"And Mother Guttersnipe?"
"Was drunk, as she acknowledged last night. She thoughtthat if a gentleman did call it must have been the otherone."
"The other one?" repeated Calton, in a puzzledvoice. "What other one?"
"Oliver Whyte."
Calton arose from his seat with a blank air of astonishment.
"Oliver Whyte!" he said, as soon as he could findhis voice. "Was he in the habit of going there?"
Kilsip curled himself up in his seat like a sleek cat, andpushing forward his head till his nose looked like the beak of abird of prey, looked keenly at Calton.
"Look here, sir," he said, in his low, purringvoice, "there's a good deal in this case whichdon't seem plain—in fact, the further we go intoit,—the more mixed up it seems to get. I went to see MotherGuttersnipe this morning, and she told me that Whyte had visitedthe 'Queen' several times while she lay ill, and thathe seemed to be pretty well acquainted with her."
"But who the deuce is this woman they call the'Queen'?" said Calton, irritably. "Sheseems to be at the bottom of the whole affair—every path wetake leads to her."
"I know hardly anything about her," replied Kilsip,"except that she was a good-looking woman, of aboutforty-nine—she come out from England to Sydney a few monthsago, then on here—how she got to Mother Guttersnipe's Ican't find out, though I've tried to pump that oldwoman, but she's as close as wax, and it's my beliefshe knows more about this dead woman than she chooses totell."
"But what could she have told Fitzgerald to make him actin this silly manner? A stranger who comes from England, and diesin a Melbourne slum, can't possibly know anything about MissFrettlby."
"Not unless Miss Frettlby was secretly married toWhyte," suggested Kilsip, "and the 'Queen'knew it."
"Nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply. "Why,she hated him and loves Fitzgerald; besides, why on earth shouldshe marry secretly, and make a confidant of a woman in one of thelowest parts of Melbourne? At one time her father wanted her tomarry Whyte, but she made such strong opposition, that heeventually gave his consent to her engagement withFitzgerald."
"And Whyte?"
"Oh, he had a row with Mr. Frettlby, and left the house ina rage. He was murdered the same night, for the sake of some papershe carried."
"Oh, that's Gorby's idea," said Kilsip,scornfully, with a vicious snarl.
"And it's mine too," answered Calton, firmly."Whyte had some valuable papers, which he always carriedabout with him. The woman who died evidently told Fitzgerald thathe did so; I gathered as much from an accidental admission hemade."
Kilsip looked puzzled.
"I must confess that it is a riddle," he said atlength; "but if Mr. Fitzgerald would only speak, it wouldclear everything up."
"Speak about what—the man who murderedWhyte?"
"Well, if he did not go quite so far as that he might atleast supply the motive for the crime."
"Perhaps so," answered Calton, as the detective roseto go; "but it's no use. Fitzgerald for some reason oranother, has evidently made up his mind not to speak, so our onlyhope in saving him lies in finding this girl."
"If she's anywhere in Australia you may be sureshe'll be found," answered Kilsip, confidently, as hetook his departure. "Australia isn't so over-crowded asall that."
But if Sal Rawlins was in Australia at all she certainly musthave been in some very remote part. All efforts to find her provedfutile. It was an open question if she was alive or dead; sheseemed to have vanished completely. She was last seen in a Sydneyden with a Chinaman whom afterwards she appears to have left. Sincethen, nothing whatever was known of her. Notices offering largerewards for her discovery were inserted in all the newspapers,Australian and New Zealand; but nothing came of them. As sheherself was unable to read there seemed little chance of herknowing of them; and, if, as Calton surmised she had changed hername, no one would be likely to tell her of them. There was onlythe bare chance that she might hear of them casually, or that shemight turn up of her own accord. If she returned to Melbourne shewould certainly go to her grandmother's. She had no motivefor not doing so. So Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, muchto Mrs. Rawlins' disgust, for, with true English pride, sheobjected to this system of espionage.
"Cuss 'im," she croaked over her eveningdrink, to an old crone, as withered and evil-looking as herself,"why can't 'e stop in 'is ownbloomin' 'ouse, an' leave minealone—a-comin' round 'ere a-pokin' andpryin' and a-perwenting people from earnin' theirlivin' an' a-gittin' drunk when they ain'twell."
"What do 'e want?" asked her friend, rubbingher weak old knees.
"Wants?—'e wants 'is throat cut,"said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously. "An' s'elp meI'll do for 'im some night w'en 'e'sa watchin' round 'ere as if it werePentridge—'e can git what he can out of that whelp asran away, but I knows suthin' 'e don't know, cuss'im."
She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having takenadvantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the brokencup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by thehair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against thewall.
"I'll have the perlice in at yer," whimperedthe assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as herrheumatics would allow her. "See if I don't."
"Get out," retorted Mother Guttersnipe,indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup. "You comea-falutin' round 'ere agin priggin' my drinks,cuss you, an' I'll cut yer throat an' wring yerwicked old 'ead orf."
The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasantproposal, and tottered out as quickly as possible, leaving MotherGuttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.
Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used everyargument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he eithermaintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered,
"It would only break her heart."
He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that hehad been at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night of the murder.After he had left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, as thecabman—Royston—had stated, he had gone along RussellStreet, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel. She had takenhim to Mother Guttersnipe's, where he had seen the dyingwoman, who had told him something he could not reveal.
"Well," said Mr. Calton, after hearing theadmission, "you might have saved us all this trouble byadmitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it maybe. Had you done so, we might have got hold of Sal Rawlins beforeshe left Melbourne; but now it's a mere chance whether sheturns up or not."
Brian did not answer to this; in fact, he seemed hardly to bethinking of what the lawyer was saying; but just as Calton wasleaving, he asked—
"How is Madge?"
"How can you expect her to be?" said Calton, turningangrily on him. "She is very ill, owing to the worry she hashad over this affair."
"My darling! My darling!" cried Brian, in agony,clasping his hands above his head. "I did it only to saveyou."
Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on hisshoulder.
"My dear fellow," he said, gravely, "theconfidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as thosebetween priest and penitent. You must tell me this secret whichconcerns Miss Frettlby so deeply."
"No," said Brian, firmly, "I will never repeatwhat that wretched woman told me. When I would not tell you before,in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now,when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by tellingit."
"I will never ask you again," said Calton, ratherannoyed, as he walked to the door. "And as to this accusationof murder, if I can find this girl, you are safe."
When the lawyer left the gaol, he went to the Detective Officeto see Kilsip, and ascertain if there was any news of Sal Rawlins;but, as usual, there was none.
"It is fighting against Fate," he said, sadly, as hewent away; "his life hangs on a mere chance."
The trial was fixed to come off in September, and, of course,there was great excitement in Melbourne as the time drew near.Great, therefore, was the disappointment when it was discoveredthat the prisoner's counsel had applied for an adjournment ofthe trial till October, on the ground that an important witness forthe defence could not be found.
In spite of the utmost vigilance on the part of the police, andthe offer of a large reward, both by Calton, on behalf of theaccused, and by Mr. Frettlby, the much-desired Sal Rawlins stillremained hidden. The millionaire had maintained a most friendlyattitude towards Brian throughout the whole affair. He refused tobelieve him guilty, and when Calton told him of the defence ofproving an alibi by means of Sal Rawlins, he immediately offered alarge reward, which was in itself enough to set every person withany time on their hands hunting for the missing witness.
All Australia and New Zealand rang with the extremely plebeianname of Sal Rawlins, the papers being full of notices offeringrewards; and handbills of staring red letters were posted up in allrailway stations, in conjunction with "Liquid Sunshine"Rum and "D.W.D." Whisky. She had become famous withoutknowing it, unless, indeed, she had kept herself concealedpurposely, but this was hardly probable, as there was no apparentmotive for her doing so. If she was above ground she must certainlyhave seen the handbills, if not the papers; and though not able toread, she could hardly help hearing something about the one topicof conversation throughout Australia. Notwithstanding all this, SalRawlins was still undiscovered, and Calton, in despair, began tothink that she must be dead. But Madge, though at times her couragegave way, was still hopeful.
"God will not permit such a judicial crime as the murderof an innocent man to be committed," she declared.
Mr. Calton, to whom she said this, shook his headdoubtfully.
"God has permitted it to take place before," heanswered softly; "and we can only judge the future by thepast."
At last, the day of the long-expected trial came, and as Caltonsat in his office looking over his brief, a clerk entered and toldhim Mr. Frettlby and his daughter wished to see him. When they camein, the barrister saw that the millionaire looked haggard and ill,and there was a worried expression on his face.
"There is my daughter, Calton," he said, afterhurried greetings had been exchanged. "She wants to bepresent in Court during Fitzgerald's trial, and nothing I cansay will dissuade her."
Calton turned, and looked at the girl in some surprise.
"Yes," she answered, meeting his look steadily,though her face was very pale; "I must be there. I shall gomad with anxiety unless I know how the trial goes on."
"But think of the disagreeable amount of attention youwill attract," urged the lawyer.
"No one will recognise me," she said calmly,"I am very plainly dressed, and I will wear this veil;"and, drawing one from her pocket, she went to a small looking-glasswhich was hanging on the wall, and tied it over her face.
Calton looked in perplexity at Mr. Frettlby.
"I'm afraid you must consent," he said.
"Very well," replied the other, almost sternly,while a look of annoyance passed over his face. "I shallleave her in your charge."
"And you?"
"I'm not coming," answered Frettlby, quickly,putting on his hat. "I don't care about seeing a manwhom I have had at my dinner-table, in the prisoner's dock,much as I sympathise with him. Good-day;" and with a curt nodhe took his leave. When the door closed on her father, Madge placedher hand on Calton's arm.
"Any hope?" she whispered, looking at him throughthe black veil.
"The merest chance," answered Calton, putting hisbrief into his bag. "We have done everything in our power todiscover this girl, but without result. If she does not come at theeleventh hour I'm afraid Brian Fitzgerald is a doomedman."
Madge fell on her knees, with a stifled cry.
"Oh, God of Mercy," she cried, raising her hands asif in prayer, "save him. Save my darling, and let him not diefor the crime of another. God—"
She dropped her face in her hands and wept convulsively, as thelawyer touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Come!" he said kindly. "Be the brave girl youwere, and we may save him yet. The hour is darkest before the dawn,you know."
Madge dried her tears, and followed the lawyer to the cab, whichwas waiting for them at the door. They drove quickly up to theCourt, and Calton put her in a quiet place, where she could see thedock, and yet be unobserved by the people in the body of the Court.Just as he was leaving her she touched his arm.
"Tell him," she whispered, in a trembling voice,"tell him I am here."
Calton nodded, and hurried away to put on his wig and gown,while Madge looked hurriedly round the Court from her point ofvantage.
It was crowded with fashionable Melbourne of both sexes, andthey were all talking together in subdued whispers, The popularcharacter of the prisoner, his good looks, and engagement to MadgeFrettlby, together with the extraordinary circumstances of thecase, had raised public curiosity to the highest pitch, and,consequently, everybody who could possibly manage to gain admissionwas there.
Felix Rolleston had secured an excellent seat beside the prettyMiss Featherweight, whom he admired so much, and he was chatteringto her with the utmost volubility.
"Puts me in mind of the Coliseum and all that sort ofthing, you know," he said, putting up his eye-glass andstarting round. "Butchered to make a Roman holiday byjove."
"Don't say such horrid things, you frivolouscreature," simpered Miss Featherweight, using hersmelling-bottle. "We are all here out of sympathy for thatpoor dear Mr. Fitzgerald."
The mercurial Felix, who had more cleverness in him than peoplegave him credit for, smiled outright at this eminently feminine wayof covering an overpowering curiosity.
"Ah, yes," he said lightly; "exactly. Idaresay Eve only ate the apple because she didn't like to seesuch a lot of good fruit go to waste."
Miss Featherweight eyed him doubtfully. She was not quitecertain whether he was in jest or earnest. Just as she was about toreply to the effect that she thought it wicked to make the Bible asubject for joking, the Judge entered and the Court rose.
When the prisoner was brought in, there was a great flutteramong the ladies, and some of them even had the bad taste toproduce opera-glasses. Brian noticed this, and he flushed up to theroots of his fair hair, for he felt his degradation acutely. He wasan intensely proud man, and to be placed in the criminal dock, witha lot of frivolous people, who had called themselves his friends,looking at him as though he were a new actor or a wild animal, wasgalling in the extreme. He was dressed in black, and looked paleand worn, but all the ladies declared that he was as good-lookingas ever, and they were sure he was innocent.
The jury were sworn in, and the Crown Prosecutor rose to deliverhis opening address.
Most of those present knew the facts only through the medium ofthe newspapers, and such floating rumours as they had been able togather. They were therefore unaware of the true history of eventswhich had led to Fitzgerald's arrest, and they prepared tolisten to the speech with profound attention.
The ladies ceased to talk, the men to stare round, and nothingcould be seen but row after row of eager and attentive faces,hanging on the words that issued from the lips of the CrownProsecutor. He was not a great orator, but he spoke clearly anddistinctly, and every word could be heard in the dead silence.
He gave a rapid sketch of the crime—merely a repetition ofwhat had been published in the newspapers—and then proceededto enumerate the witnesses for the prosecution.
He would call the landlady of the deceased to show thatill-feeling existed between the prisoner and the murdered man, andthat the accused had called on the deceased a week prior to thecommittal of the crime, and threatened his life. (There was greatexcitement at this, and several ladies decided, on the spur of themoment, that the horrid man was guilty, but the majority of themstill refused to believe in the guilt of such a good-looking youngfellow.) He would call a witness who could prove that Whyte wasdrunk on the night of the murder, and went along Russell Street, inthe direction of Collins Street; the cabman Royston could swear tothe fact that the prisoner had hailed the cab, and after going awayfor a short time, returned and entered the cab with the deceased.He would also prove that the prisoner left the cab at the GrammarSchool, in the St. Kilda Road, and on the arrival of the cab at thejunction, he discovered the deceased had been murdered. The cabmanRankin would prove that he drove the prisoner from the St. KildaRoad to Powlett Street in East Melbourne, where he got out; and hewould call the prisoner's landlady to prove that the prisonerresided in Powlett Street, and that on the night of the murder hehad not reached home till shortly after two o'clock. He wouldalso call the detective who had charge of the case, to prove thefinding of a glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of thecoat which the prisoner wore on the night of the murder; and thedoctor who had examined the body of the deceased would giveevidence that the death was caused by inhalation of chloroform. Ashe had now fully shown the chain of evidence which he proposed toprove, he would call the first witness, MALCOLM ROYSTON.
ROYSTON, on being sworn, gave the same evidence as he had givenat the inquest, from the time that the cab was hailed up to hisarrival at the St. Kilda Police Station with the dead body ofWhyte. In the cross-examination, Calton asked him if he wasprepared to swear that the man who hailed the cab, and the man whogot in with the deceased, were one and the same person.
WITNESS: I am.
CALTON: You are quite certain?
WITNESS: Yes; quite certain.
CALTON: Do you then recognise the prisoner as the man who hailedthe cab?
WITNESS (hesitatingly): I cannot swear to that. The gentlemanwho hailed the cab had his hat pulled down over his eyes, so that Icould not see his face; but the height and general appearance ofthe prisoner are the same.
CALTON: Then it is only because the man who got into the cab wasdressed like the prisoner on that night that you thought they wereboth the same?
WITNESS: It never struck me for a minute that they were not thesame. Besides, he spoke as if he had been there before. I said,"Oh, you've come back," and he said, "Yes;I'm going to take him home," and got into my cab.
CALTON: Did you notice any difference in his voice?
WITNESS: No; except that the first time I saw him he spoke in aloud voice, and the second time he came back, very low.
CALTON: You were sober, I suppose?
WITNESS (indignantly): Yes; quite sober.
CALTON: Ah! You did not have a drink, say at the Oriental Hotel,which, I believe, is near the rank where your cab stands?
WITNESS (hesitating): Well, I might have had a glass.
CALTON: So you might; you might have had several.
WITNESS (sulkily): Well, there's no law against a covefeeling thirsty.
CALTON: Certainly not; and I suppose you took advantage of theabsence of such a law.
WITNESS (defiantly): Yes, I did.
CALTON: And you were elevated?
WITNESS: Yes; on my cab.—(Laughter.)
CALTON (severely): You are here to give evidence, sir, not tomake jokes, however clever they may be. Were you, or were you not,slightly the worse for drink?
WITNESS: I might have been.
CALTON: So you were in such a condition that you did not observevery closely the man who hailed you?
WITNESS: No, I didn't—there was no reason why Ishould—I didn't know a murder was going to becommitted.
CALTON: And it never struck you it might be a different man?
WITNESS: No; I thought it was the same man the whole time.
This closed Royston's evidence, and Calton sat down verydissatisfied at not being able to elicit anything more definitefrom him. One thing appeared clear, that someone must have dressedhimself to resemble Brian, and have spoken in a low voice for fearof betraying himself.
Clement Rankin, the next witness, deposed to having picked upthe prisoner on the St. Kilda Road between one and two on Fridaymorning, and driven him to Powlett Street, East Melbourne. In thecross-examination, Calton elicited one point in theprisoner's favour.
CALTON: Is the prisoner the same gentleman you drove to PowlettStreet?
WITNESS (confidently): Oh, yes.
CALTON: How do you know? Did you see his face?
WITNESS: No, his hat was pulled down over his eyes, and I couldonly see the ends of his moustache and his chin, but he carriedhimself the same as the prisoner, and his moustache is the samelight colour.
CALTON: When you drove up to him on the St. Kilda Road, wherewas he, and what was he doing?
WITNESS: He was near the Grammar School, walking quickly in thedirection of Melbourne, and was smoking a cigarette.
CALTON: Did he wear gloves?
WITNESS: Yes, one on the left hand, the other was bare.
CALTON: Did he wear any rings on the right hand?
WITNESS: Yes, a large diamond one on the forefinger.
CALTON: Are you sure?
WITNESS: Yes, because I thought it a curious place for agentleman to wear a ring, and when he was paying me my fare, I sawthe diamond glitter on his finger in the moonlight.
CALTON: That will do.
The counsel for the defence was pleased with this bit ofevidence, as Fitzgerald detested rings, and never wore any; so hemade a note of the matter on his brief.
Mrs. Hableton, the landlady of the deceased, was then called,and deposed that Oliver Whyte had lodged with her for nearly twomonths. He seemed a quiet enough young man, but often came homedrunk. The only friend she knew he had was a Mr. Moreland, who wasoften with him. On the 14th July, the prisoner called to see Mr.Whyte, and they had a quarrel. She heard Whyte say, "She ismine, you can't do anything with her," and the prisoneranswered, "I can kill you, and if you marry her I shall do soin the open street." She had no idea at the time of the nameof the lady they were talking about. There was a great sensation inthe court at these words, and half the people present looked uponsuch evidence as being sufficient in itself to prove the guilt ofthe prisoner.
In cross-examination, Calton was unable to shake the evidence ofthe witness, as she merely reiterated the same statements over andover again.
The next witness was Mrs. Sampson, who crackled into thewitness-box dissolved in tears, and gave her answers in apiercingly shrill tone of anguish. She stated that the prisoner wasin the habit of coming home early, but on the night of the murder,had come in shortly before two o'clock.
CROWN PROSECUTOR (referring to his brief): You mean aftertwo.
WITNESS: 'Avin made a mistake once, by saying five minutesafter two to the policeman as called hisself a insurance agent,which 'e put the words into my mouth, I ain't agoin' to do so again, it bein' five minutes afore two,as I can swear to.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: You are sure your clock was right?
WITNESS: It 'adn't bin, but my nevy bein' awatchmaker, called unbeknown to me, an' made it right onThursday night, which it was Friday mornin' when Mr.Fitzgerald came 'ome.
Mrs. Sampson bravely stuck to this statement, and ultimatelyleft the witness-box in triumph, the rest of her evidence beingcomparatively unimportant as compared with this point of time. Thewitness Rankin, who drove the prisoner to Powlett Street (as swornto by him) was recalled, and gave evidence that it was twoo'clock when the prisoner got down from his cab in PowlettStreet.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: How do you know that?
WITNESS: Because I heard the Post Office clock strike.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: Could you hear it at East Melbourne?
WITNESS: It was a very still night, and I heard the chimes andthen the hour strike quite plainly.
This conflicting evidence as to time was a strong point inBrian's favour. If, as the landlady stated, on the authorityof the kitchen clock, which had been put right on the day previousto the murder, Fitzgerald had come into the house at five minutesto two, he could not possibly be the man who had alighted fromRankin's cab at two o'clock at Powlett Street.
The next witness was Dr. Chinston, who swore to the death of thedeceased by means of chloroform administered in a large quantity,and he was followed by Mr. Gorby, who deposed as to the finding ofthe glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of theprisoner's coat.
Roger Moreland, an intimate friend of the deceased, was nextcalled. He stated that he had known the deceased in London, and hadmet him in Melbourne. He was with him a great deal. On the night ofthe murder he was in the Orient Hotel in Bourke Street. Whyte camein, and was greatly excited. He was in evening dress, and wore alight coat. They had several drinks together, and then went up toan hotel in Russell Street, and had some more drinks there. Bothwitness and deceased were intoxicated. Whyte took off his lightcoat, saying he felt warm, and went out shortly afterwards, leavingwitness asleep in the bar. He was awakened by the barman, whowanted him to leave the hotel. He saw that Whyte had left his coatbehind him, and took it up with the intention of giving it to him.As he stood in the street some one snatched the coat from him andmade off with it. He tried to follow the thief, but he could not doso, being too intoxicated. He then went home, and to bed, as he hadto leave early for the country in the morning. Incross-examination:—
CALTON: When you went into the street, after leaving the hotel,did you see the deceased?
WITNESS: No, I did not; but I was very drunk, and unlessdeceased had spoken to me, I would not have noticed him.
CALTON: What was deceased excited about when you met him?
WITNESS: I don't know. He did not say.
CALTON: What were you talking about?
WITNESS: All sorts of things. London principally.
CALTON: Did the deceased mention anything about papers?
WITNESS (surprised): No, he did not.
CALTON: Are you sure?
WITNESS: Quite sure.
CALTON: What time did you get home?
WITNESS: I don't know; I was too drunk to remember.
This closed the case for the Crown, and as it was now late thecase was adjourned till the next day.
The Court was soon emptied of the busy, chattering crowd, andCalton, on looking over his notes, found that the result of thefirst day's trial was two points in favour of Fitzgerald.First: the discrepancy of time in the evidence of Rankin and thelandlady, Mrs. Sampson. Second: the evidence of the cabman Royston,as to the wearing of a ring on the forefinger of the right hand bythe man who murdered Whyte, whereas the prisoner never worerings.
These were slender proofs of innocence to put against theoverwhelming mass of evidence in favour of the prisoner'sguilt. The opinions of all were pretty well divided, some being infavour and others against, when suddenly an event happened whichsurprised everyone. All over Melbourne extras were posted, and thenews passed from lip to lip like wildfire—"Return ofthe Missing Witness, Sal Rawlins!"
And, indeed, such was the case. Sal Rawlins had made herappearance at the eleventh hour, to the heartfelt thankfulness ofCalton, who saw in her an angel from heaven, sent to save the lifeof an innocent man.
It was at the conclusion of the trial; and, together with Madge,he had gone down to his office, when his clerk entered with atelegram. The lawyer opened it hastily, and, with a silent look ofpleasure on his face, handed the telegram to Madge.
She, womanlike, being more impulsive, gave a cry when she readit, and, falling on her knees, thanked God for having heard herprayers, and saved her lover's life.
"Take me to her at once," she implored thelawyer.
She was anxious to hear from Sal Rawlins' own lips thejoyful words which would save Brian from a felon's death.
"No, my dear," answered Calton, firmly, but kindly."I can hardly take a lady to the place where Sal Rawlinslives. You will know all to-morrow, but, meanwhile, you must gohome and get some sleep."
"And you will tell him?" she whispered, clasping herhands on Calton's arm.
"At once," he answered promptly. "And I willsee Sal Rawlins to-night, and hear what she has to say. Restcontent, my dear," he added, as he placed her in thecarriage, "he is perfectly safe now."
Brian heard the good news with a deep feeling of gratitude,knowing that his life was safe, and that he could still keep hissecret. It was the natural revulsion of feeling after the unnaturallife he had been leading since his arrest. When one is young andhealthy, and has all the world before one, it is a terrible thingto contemplate a sudden death. And yet, in spite of his joy atbeing delivered from the hangman's rope, there mingled withhis delight the horror of that secret which the dying woman hadtold him with such malignant joy.
"I had rather she had died in silence than she should havebequeathed me this legacy of sorrow."
And the gaoler, seeing his haggard face the next morning,muttered to himself, "He war blest if the swell warn'tsorry he war safe."
So, while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the wearywatches of the night, Madge, in her own room, was kneeling besideher bed and thanking God for His great mercy; and Calton, the goodfairy of the two lovers, was hurrying towards the humble abode ofMrs. Rawlins, familiarly known as Mother Guttersnipe. Kilsip wasbeside him, and they were talking eagerly about the providentialappearance of the invaluable witness.
"What I like," observed Kilsip, in his soft, purringtone, "is the sell it will be for that Gorby. He was socertain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the man, and when he gets offto-morrow Gorby will be in a rage."
"Where was Sal the whole time?" asked Calton,absently, not thinking of what the detective was saying.
"Ill," answered Kilsip. "After she left theChinaman she went into the country, caught cold by falling intosome river, and ended up by getting brain fever. Some people foundher, took her in, and nursed her. When she got well she came backto her grandmother's."
"But why didn't the people who nursed her tell hershe was wanted? They must have seen the papers."
"Not they," retorted the detective. "They knewnothing."
"Vegetables!" muttered Calton, contemptuously."How can people be so ignorant! Why, all Australia has beenringing with the case. At any rate, it's money out of theirpocket. Well?"
"There's nothing more to tell," said Kilsip,"except that she turned up to-night at five o'clock,looking more like a corpse than anything else."
When they entered the squalid, dingy passage that led to MotherGuttersnipe's abode, they saw a faint light streaming downthe stair. As they climbed up they could hear the rancorous voiceof the old hag pouring forth alternate blessings and curses on herprodigal offspring, and the low tones of a girl's voice inreply. On entering the room Calton saw that the sick woman, who hadbeen lying in the corner on the occasion of his last visit, wasgone. Mother Guttersnipe was seated in front of the deal table,with a broken cup and her favourite bottle of spirits before her.She evidently intended to have a night of it, in order to celebrateSal's return, and had commenced early, so as to lose no time.Sal herself was seated on a broken chair, and leaned wearilyagainst the wall. She stood up as Calton and the detective entered,and they saw that she was a tall, slender woman of abouttwenty-five, not bad-looking, but with a pallid and haggardappearance from recent illness. She was clothed in a kind of tawdryblue dress, much soiled and torn, and had over her shoulders an oldtartan shawl, which she drew tightly across her breast as thestrangers entered. Her grandmother, who looked more weird andgrotesquely horrible than ever, saluted Calton and the detective ontheir entrance with a shrill yell, and a volley of choicelanguage.
"Oh, ye've come again, 'ave ye," shescreeched, raising her skinny arms, "to take my gal away from'er pore old gran'mother, as nussed 'er, cussher, when 'er own mother had gone a-gallivantin' withswells. I'll 'ave the lawr of ye both, s'elp me,I will."
Kilsip paid no attention to this outbreak of the old fury, butturned to the girl.
"This is the gentleman who wants to speak to you,"he said, gently, making the girl sit on the chair again, for indeedshe looked too ill to stand. "Just tell him what you toldme."
"'Bout the 'Queen,' sir?" saidSal, in a low, hoarse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton."If I'd only known as you was a-wantin' meI'd 'ave come afore."
"Where were you?" asked Calton, in a pityingtone.
"Noo South Wales," answered the girl with a shiver."The cove as I went with t' Sydney left me—yes,left me to die like a dog in the gutter."
"Cuss 'im!" croaked the old woman in asympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.
"I tooked up with a Chinerman," went on hergranddaughter, wearily, "an' lived with 'im for abit—it's orful, ain't it?" she said with adreary laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer's face."But Chinermen ain't bad; they treat a pore girl adashed sight better nor a white cove does. They don't beatthe life out of 'em with their fists, nor drag 'emabout the floor by the 'air."
"Cuss 'em!" croaked Mother Guttersnipe,drowsily, "I'll tear their 'earts out."
"I think I must have gone mad, I must," said Sal,pushing her tangled hair off her forehead, "for arter I leftthe Chiner cove, I went on walkin' and walkin' rightinto the bush, a-tryin' to cool my 'ead, for it felt onfire like. I went into a river an' got wet, an' then Itook my 'at an' boots orf an' lay down on thegrass, an' then the rain comed on, an' I walked to a'ouse as was near, where they tooked me in. Oh, sich kindpeople," she sobbed, stretching out her hands, "thatdidn't badger me 'bout my soul, but gave me good foodto eat. I gave 'em a wrong name. I was so 'fraid ofthat Army a-findin' me. Then I got ill, an' knowdnothin' for weeks. They said I was orf my chump. An'then I came back 'ere to see gran'."
"Cuss ye," said the old woman, but in such a tendertone that it sounded like a blessing.
"And did the people who took you in never tell youanything about the murder?" asked Calton.
Sal shook her head.
"No, it were a long way in the country, and they neverknowd anythin', they didn't."
"Ah! that explains it," muttered Calton tohimself.
"Come, now," he said cheerfully, "tell me allthat happened on the night you brought Mr. Fitzgerald to see the'Queen.'"
"Who's 'e?" asked Sal, puzzled.
"Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter forto the Melbourne Club."
"Oh, 'im?" said Sal, a sudden light breakingover her wan face. "I never knowd his name afore."
Calton nodded complacently.
"I knew you didn't," he said,"that's why you didn't ask for him at theClub."
"She never told me 'is name," said Sal,jerking her head in the direction of the bed.
"Then whom did she ask you to bring to her?" askedCalton, eagerly.
"No one," replied the girl. "This was the wayof it. On that night she was orfil ill, an' I sat beside'er while gran' was asleep."
"I was drunk," broke in gran', fiercely,"none of yer lies; I was blazin' drunk."
"An' ses she to me, she ses," went on thegirl, indifferent to her grandmother's interruption,"'Get me some paper an' a pencil, an' I'llwrite a note to 'im, I will.' So I goes an' gits'er what she arsks fur out of gran's box."
"Stole it, cuss ye," shrieked the old hag, shakingher fist.
"Hold your tongue," said Kilsip, in a peremptorytone.
Mother Guttersnipe burst into a volley of oaths, and having runrapidly through all she knew, subsided into a sulky silence.
"She wrote on it," went on Sal, "an'then arsked me to take it to the Melbourne Club an' give itto 'im. Ses I, 'Who's 'im?' Ses she,'It's on the letter; don't you arsk no questionsan' you won't 'ear no lies, but give it to'im at the Club, an' wait for 'im at the cornerof Bourke Street and Russell Street.' So out I goes, andgives it to a cove at the Club, an' then 'e comesalong, an' ses 'e, 'Take me to 'er,'and I tooked 'im."
"And what like was the gentleman?"
"Oh, werry good lookin'," said Sal."Werry tall, with yeller 'air an' moustache. He'ad party clothes on, an' a masher coat, an' asoft 'at."
"That's Fitzgerald right enough," mutteredCalton. "And what did he do when he came?"
"He goes right up to 'er, and she ses, 'Areyou 'e?' and 'e ses, 'I am.' Then sesshe, 'Do you know what I'm a-goin' to tellyou?' an' 'e says, 'No.' Then sheses, 'It's about 'er;' and ses 'e,lookin' very white, ''Ow dare you 'ave'er name on your vile lips?' an' she gits upan' screeches, 'Turn that gal out, an' I'lltell you;' an' 'e takes me by the arm, an'ses 'e, ''Ere git out,' an' I gitsout, an' that's all I knows."
"And how long was he with her?" asked Calton, whohad been listening attentively.
"'Bout arf-a-hour," answered Sal. "Itakes 'im back to Russell Street 'bout twenty-fiveminutes to two, 'cause I looked at the clock on the PostOffice, an' 'e gives me a sov., an' then he goesa-tearin' up the street like anything."
"Take him about twenty minutes to walk to EastMelbourne," said Calton to himself "So he must justhave got in at the time Mrs. Sampson said. He was in with the'Queen' the whole time, I suppose?" he asked,looking keenly at Sal.
"I was at that door," said Sal, pointing to it,"an' 'e couldn't 'ave got out unlessI'd seen 'im."
"Oh, it's all right," said Calton, nodding toKilsip, "there won't be any difficulty in proving analibi. But I say," he added, turning to Sal, "what werethey talking about?"
"I dunno," answered Sal. "I was at the door,an' they talks that quiet I couldn't 'ear'em. Then he sings out, 'My G—it's toohorrible!' an' I 'ear 'er a larfin'like to bust, an' then 'e comes to me, and ses, quitewild like, 'Take me out of this 'ell!' an'I tooked 'im."
"And when you came back?"
"She was dead."
"Dead?"
"As a blessed door-nail," said Sal, cheerfully.
"An' I never knowd I was in the room with acorpse," wailed Mother Guttersnipe, waking up. "Cuss'er, she was allays a-doin' contrary things."
"How do you know?" said Calton, sharply, as he roseto go.
"I knowd 'er longer nor you," croaked the oldwoman, fixing one evil eye on the lawyer; "an' I knowwhat you'd like to know; but ye shan't, yeshan't."
Calton turned from her with a shrug of his shoulders.
"You will come to the Court to-morrow with Mr.Kilsip," he said to Sal, "and tell what you have justnow told me."
"It's all true, s'elp me," said Sal,eagerly; "'e was 'ere all the time."
Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, whenMother Guttersnipe rose.
"Where's the money for finin' her?" shescreeched, pointing one skinny finger at Sal.
"Well, considering the girl found herself," saidCalton, dryly, "the money is in the bank, and will remainthere."
"An' I'm to be done out of my 'ardearned tin, s'elp me?" howled the old fury. "Cussye, I'll 'ave the lawr of ye, and get ye put inquod."
"You'll go there yourself if you don't takecare," said Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones.
"Yah!" shrieked Mother Guttersnipe, snapping herfingers at him. "What do I care about yer quod? Ain't Ibin in Pentrig', an' it ain't 'urt me, itain't? I'm as lively as a gal, I am."
And the old fury, to prove the truth of her words, danced a kindof war dance in front of Mr. Calton, snapping her fingers andyelling out curses, as an accompaniment to her ballet. Herluxurious white hair streamed out during her gyrations, and withher grotesque appearance and the faint light of the candle, shepresented a gruesome spectacle.
Calton remembered the tales he had heard of the women of Paris,at the revolution, and the way they danced "LaCarmagnole." Mother Guttersnipe would have been in herelement in that sea of blood and turbulence he thought. But hemerely shrugged his shoulders, and walked out of the room, as witha final curse, delivered in a hoarse voice, Mother Guttersnipe sankexhausted on the floor, and yelled for gin.
Next morning the Court was crowded, and numbers were unable togain admission. The news that Sal Rawlins, who alone could provethe innocence of the prisoner, had been found, and would appear inCourt that morning, had spread like wildfire, and the acquittal ofthe prisoner was confidently expected by a large number ofsympathising friends, who seemed to have sprung up on all sides,like mushrooms, in a single night. There were, of course, plenty ofcautious people left who waited to hear the verdict of the jurybefore committing themselves, and who still believed him to beguilty. But the unexpected appearance of Sal Rawlins had turned thegreat tide of public feeling in favour of the prisoner, and manywho had been loudest in their denunciations of Fitzgerald, were nowmore than half convinced of his innocence. Pious clergymen talkedin an incoherent way about the finger of God and the innocent notsuffering unjustly, which was a case of counting unhatchedchickens, 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 haddeclared his belief in Brian's innocence, and now, to hisastonishment, he found that his view of the matter was likely toprove correct. He received so much praise on all sides for hispresumed perspicuity, that he soon began to think that he hadbelieved in Fitzgerald's innocence by a calm course ofreasoning, and not because of a desire to differ from every oneelse in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolleston isnot the only man who has been astonished to find greatness thrustupon him, and come to believe himself worthy of it. He was a wiseman, however, and while in the full tide of prosperity he seizedthe flying moment, and proposed to Miss Featherweight, who, aftersome hesitation, agreed to endow him with herself and herthousands. She decided that her future husband was a man of nocommon intellect, seeing that he had long ago arrived at aconclusion which the rest of Melbourne were only beginning todiscover now, so she determined that, as soon as she assumedmarital authority, Felix, like Strephon in "Iolanthe,"should go into Parliament, and with her money and his brains shemight some day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolleston had no ideaof the political honours which his future spouse intended for him,and was seated in his old place in the court, talking about thecase.
"Knew he was innocent, don't you know," hesaid, with a complacent smile "Fitzgerald's too jollygood-looking a fellow, and all that sort of thing, to commitmurder."
Whereupon a clergyman, happening to overhear the lively Felixmake this flippant remark, disagreed with it entirely, and preacheda 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 manthat clergyman must be!" This allusion to the looks of thereverend gentleman was rather unkind, for he was by no meansbad-looking. But then Calton was one of those witty men who wouldrather lose a friend than suppress an epigram.
When the prisoner was brought in, a murmur of sympathy ranthrough the crowded Court, so ill and worn-out he looked; butCalton was puzzled to account for the expression of his face, sodifferent from that of a man whose life had been saved, or, rather,was about to be saved, for in truth it was a foregoneconclusion.
"You know who stole those papers," he thought, as helooked at Fitzgerald, keenly, "and the man who did so is themurderer of Whyte."
The judge having entered, and the Court being opened, Caltonrose to make his speech, and stated in a few words the line ofdefence he intended to take.
He would first call Albert Dendy, a watchmaker, to prove that onThursday night, at eight o'clock in the evening, he hadcalled at the prisoner's, lodgings while the landlady wasout, and while there had put the kitchen clock right, and hadregulated the same. He would also call Felix Rolleston, a friend ofthe prisoner's, to prove that the prisoner was not in thehabit of wearing rings, and frequently expressed his detestation ofsuch a custom. Sebastian Brown, a waiter at the Melbourne Club,would be called to prove that on Thursday night a letter wasdelivered to the prisoner at the Club by one Sarah Rawlins, andthat the prisoner left the Club shortly before one o'clock onFriday morning. He would also call Sarah Rawlins, to prove that shehad delivered a note to Sebastian Brown for the prisoner, at theMelbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve on Thursday Night, and thatat a few minutes past one o'clock on Friday morning she hadconducted the prisoner to a slum off Little Bourke Street, and thathe was there between one and two on Friday morning, the hour atwhich the murder was alleged to have taken place. This being hisdefence to the charge brought against the prisoner, he would callAlbert Dendy.
Albert Dendy, duly sworn, stated—
I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I rememberThursday, the 26th of July last. On the evening of that day Icalled at Powlett Street East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who is thelandlady of the prisoner. She was out at the time I called, and Iwaited in the kitchen till her return. I looked at the kitchenclock to see if it was too late to wait, and then at my watch Ifound that the clock was ten minutes fast, upon which I put itright, 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 itpossible 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 timewas 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 tenminutes 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 forfive or six years, and I never saw him wearing a ring during thattime. He has frequently told me he did not care for rings, andwould never wear them.
In cross-examination:—
CROWN PROSECUTOR: You have never seen the prisoner wearing adiamond ring?
WITNESS: No, never.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: Have you ever seen any such ring in hispossession?
WITNESS: No, I have seen him buying rings for ladies, but Inever 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, afterhaving been sworn, deposed—
I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter, addressed to him atthe Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve o'clock onThursday, 26th July. I did not know what his name was. He met meshortly after one, at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets,where I had been told to wait for him. I took him to mygrandmother's place, in a lane off Little Bourke Street.There was a dying woman there, who had sent for him. He went in andsaw her for about twenty minutes, and then I took him back to thecorner of Bourke and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quartersstrike shortly after I left him.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: You are quite certain that the prisoner wasthe man you met on that night?
WITNESS: Quite certin', s'elp me G—.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: And he met you a few minutes past oneo'clock?
WITNESS: Yes, 'bout five minutes—I 'eard theclock a-strikin' one just afore he came down the street, andwhen I leaves 'im agin, it were about twenty-five to two,'cause it took me ten minits to git 'ome, and I'eard the clock go three-quarters, jest as I gits to thedoor.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: How do you know it was exactly twenty-five totwo when you left him?
WITNESS: 'Cause I sawr the clocks—I left 'imat the corner of Russell Street, and comes down Bourke Street, so Icould see the Post Orffice clock as plain as day, an' when Igets into Swanston Street, I looks at the Town 'All premiscuslike, and sees the same time there.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: And you never lost sight of the prisoner thewhole time?
WITNESS: No, there was only one door by the room, an' Iwas a-sittin' outside it, an' when he comes out hefalls over me.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: Were you asleep?
WITNESS: Not a blessed wink.
Calton then directed Sebastian Brown to be called. Hedeposed—
I know the prisoner. He is a member of the Melbourne Club, atwhich I am a waiter. I remember Thursday, 26th July. On that nightthe last witness came with a letter to the prisoner. It was about aquarter to twelve. She just gave it to me, and went away. Idelivered it to Mr. Fitzgerald. He left the Club at about tenminutes to one.
This closed the evidence for the defence, and after the CrownProsecutor had made his speech, in which he pointed out the strongevidence against the prisoner, Calton arose to address the jury. Hewas a fine speaker, and made a splendid defence. Not a single pointescaped him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is stillremembered and spoken of admiringly in the purlieus of Temple Courtand Chancery Lane.
He began by giving a vivid description of the circumstances, ofthe murder—of the meeting of the murderer and his victim inCollins Street East—the cab driving down to St.Kilda—the getting out of the cab of the murderer aftercommitting the crime—and the way in which he had securedhimself against pursuit.
Having thus enchained the attention of the jury by the graphicmanner in which he described the crime, he pointed out that theevidence brought forward by the prosecution was purelycircumstantial, and that they had utterly failed to identify theprisoner in the dock with the man who entered the cab. Thesupposition that the prisoner and the man in the light coat wereone and the same person, rested solely upon the evidence of thecabman, Royston, who, although not intoxicated, was—judgingfrom his own statements, not in a fit state to distinguish betweenthe man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in. The crime wascommitted by means of chloroform; therefore, if the prisoner wasguilty, he must have purchased the chloroform in some shop, orobtained it from some friends. At all events, the prosecution hadnot brought forward a single piece of evidence to show how, andwhere the chloroform had been obtained. With regard to the glovebelonging 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. Certainlythere was no evidence to show that the prisoner had picked it upbefore the deceased entered the cab; but, on the other hand, therewas no evidence to show that it had been picked up in the cab. Itwas far more likely that the glove, and especially a white glove,would be picked up under the light of the lamp near the ScotchChurch, where it was easily noticeable, than in the darkness of acab, where there was very little room, and where it would be quitedark, as the blinds were drawn down. The cabman, Royston, sworepositively that the man who got out of his cab on the St. KildaRoad wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand, andthe cabman, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who gotout at Powlett Street. Against this could be placed the evidence ofone of the prisoner's most intimate friends—one who hadseen him almost daily for the last five years, and he had swornpositively that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearingrings.
The cabman Rankin had also sworn that the man who entered hiscab on the St. Kilda Road alighted at Powlett Street, EastMelbourne, at two o'clock on Friday morning, as he heard thathour strike from the Post Office clock, whereas the evidence of theprisoner's landlady showed plainly that he entered the housefive minutes previously, and her evidence was further supported bythat of the watchmaker, Dendy. Mrs. Sampson saw the hand of herkitchen clock point to five minutes to two, and, thinking it wasten minutes slow, told the detective that the prisoner did notenter the house till five minutes past two, which would just givethe man who alighted from the cab (presuming him to have been theprisoner) sufficient time to walk up to his lodgings. The evidenceof the watchmaker, Dendy, however, showed clearly that he had putthe clock right at the hour of eight on Thursday night; that it wasimpossible for it to gain ten minutes before two on Friday morning,and therefore, the time, five minutes to two, seen by the landladywas the correct one, and the prisoner was in the house five minutesbefore the other man alighted from the cab in Powlett Street.
These points in themselves were sufficient to show that theprisoner was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Pawlins mustprove conclusively to the jury that the prisoner was not the manwho committed the crime. The witness Brown had proved that thewoman Rawlins had delivered a letter to him, which he gave to theprisoner and that the prisoner left the Club, to keep theappointment spoken of in the letter, which letter, or, rather, theremains of it had been put in evidence. The woman Rawlins sworethat the prisoner met her at the corner of Russell and BourkeStreets, and had gone with her to one of the back slums, there tosee the writer of the letter. She also proved that at the time ofthe 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 tothe room, he could not possibly have left without the witnessseeing him. The woman Rawlins further proved that she left theprisoner at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets at twenty-fiveminutes to two o'clock, which was five minutes before Roystondrove his cab up to the St. Kilda Police Station, with the deadbody inside. Finally, the woman Rawlins proved her words by statingthat she saw both the Post Office and Town Hall clocks; andsupposing the prisoner started from the corner of Bourke andRussell Streets, as she says he did, he would reach East Melbournein twenty minutes, which made it five minutes to two on Fridaymorning, the time at which, according to the landlady'sstatement, he entered the house.
All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreedcompletely, and formed a chain which showed the whole of theprisoner's movements at the time of the committal of themurder. Therefore, it was absolutely impossible that the murdercould have been committed by the man in the dock. The strongestpiece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that ofthe witness Hableton, who swore that the prisoner used threatsagainst the life of the deceased. But the language used was merelythe outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient toprove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner. The defencewhich the prisoner set up was that of an alibi, and the evidence ofthe witnesses for the defence proved conclusively that the prisonercould not, and did not, commit the murder. Finally, Calton wound uphis, elaborate and exhaustive speech, which lasted for over twohours, by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to basetheir verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did sothey could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of "NotGuilty."
When Calton sat down a subdued murmur of applause was heard,which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up,strongly in favour of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, andimmediately there was a dead silence in the crowded Court—anunnatural silence, such as must have fallen on the blood-lovingRoman populace when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on thehot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long, lithe forms oflion and panther creeping steadily towards their prey. The hourbeing late the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glarethrough the wide hall.
Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of thejury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, whichseemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. Theyconversed among themselves only in whispers, until even thewhispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steadyticking of the clock, and now and then the quick-drawn breath ofsome timid on-looker. Suddenly, a woman, whose nerves wereover-strung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowdedhall. She was taken out, and again there was silence, every eyebeing now fixed on the door through which the jury would re-issuewith their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock movedslowly round—a quarter—a half—threequarters—and then the hour sounded with a silvery ring whichstartled everyone. Madge, sitting with her hands tightly claspedtogether, began to fear that her highly-strung nerves would giveway.
"My God," she muttered softly to herself;"will this suspense never end?"
Just then the door opened, and the jury re-entered. The prisonerwas again placed in the dock, and the judge resumed his seat, thistime with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.
The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman ofthe jury stood up every neck was craned forward, and every ear wason the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. Theprisoner flushed a little and then grew pale as death, giving aquick, nervous glance at the quiet figure in black, of which hecould just catch a glimpse. Then came the verdict, sharp anddecisive, "Not Guilty."
On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, sostrong 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 tocommit all present for contempt of court—his voice beinginaudible, it did not matter much—the enthusiasm could not berestrained, and it was five minutes before order was obtained. Thejudge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment, anddischarged the prisoner, in accordance with the verdict.
Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had everheard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that whichproclaimed Fitzgerald innocent.
And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passedthrough a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off theCourt, where a woman was waiting for him—a woman who clunground his neck, and sobbed out—
"My darling! My darling! I knew that God would saveyou."
The morning after the trial was concluded the following articlein reference to the matter appeared inthe Argus—
"During the past three months we have frequently in ourcolumns commented on the extraordinary case which is now so widelyknown as 'The Hansom Cab Tragedy.' We can safely saythat it is the most remarkable case which has ever come under thenotice of our Criminal Court, and the verdict given by the juryyesterday has enveloped the matter in a still deeper mystery. By atrain of strange coincidences, Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, a youngsquatter, was suspected of having murdered Whyte, and had it notbeen for the timely appearance of the woman Rawlins who turned upat the eleventh hour, we feel sure that a verdict of guilty wouldhave been given, and an innocent man would have suffered punishmentfor the crime of another. Fortunately for the prisoner, and for theinterests of justice, his counsel, Mr. Calton, by unwearieddiligence, was able to discover the last witness, and prove analibi. Had it not been for this, in spite of the remarks made bythe learned counsel in his brilliant speech yesterday, whichresulted in the acquittal of the prisoner, we question very much ifthe rest of the evidence in favour of the accused would have beensufficient to persuade the jury that he was an innocent man. Theonly points in favour of Mr. Fitzgerald were the inability of thecabman Royston to swear to him as the man who had got into the cabwith Whyte, the wearing of a diamond ring on the forefinger of theright hand (whereas Mr. Fitzgerald wears no rings), and thedifference in time sworn to by the cabman Rankin and the landlady.Against these points, however, the prosecution placed a mass ofevidence, which seemed conclusively to prove the guilt of theprisoner; but the appearance of Sal Rawlins in the witness-box putan end to all doubt. In language which could not be mistaken foranything else than the truth, she positively swore that Mr.Fitzgerald was in one of the slums off Bourke Street, between thehours of one and two on Friday morning, at which time the murderwas committed. Under these circumstances, the jury unanimouslyagreed, and returned a verdict of 'Not guilty,' and theprisoner was forthwith acquitted. We have to congratulate hiscounsel, Mr. Calton, for the able speech he made for the defence,and also Mr. Fitzgerald, for his providential escape from adishonourable and undeserved punishment. He leaves the courtwithout a stain on his character, and with the respect and sympathyof all Australians, for the courage and dignity with which hecomported himself throughout, while resting under the shadow ofsuch a serious charge.
"But now that it has been conclusively proved that he isinnocent, the question arises in every one's mind, 'Whois the murderer of Oliver Whyte?' The man who committed thisdastardly crime is still at large, and, for all we know, may be inour midst. Emboldened by the impunity with which he has escaped thehands of justice, he may be walking securely down our streets, andtalking of the very crime of which he is the perpetrator. Secure inthe thought that all traces of him have been lost for ever, fromthe time he alighted from Rankin's cab, at Powlett Street, hehas ventured probably to remain in Melbourne, and, for all thatanyone knows, he may have been in the court during the late trial.Nay, this very article, may meet his eye, and he may rejoice at thefutile efforts which have been made to find him. But let himbeware, Justice is not blind, but blind-folded, and when he leastexpects it, she will tear the bandage from her keen eyes, and draghim forth to the light of day to receive the reward of his deed.Owing to the strong evidence against Fitzgerald, that is the onlydirection in which the detectives have hitherto looked, but baffledon one side, they will look on the other, and this time may besuccessful.
"That such a man as the murderer of Oliver Whyte should beat large is a matter of danger, not only to individual citizens,but to the community at large; for it is a well-known fact that atiger who once tastes human blood never overcomes his craving forit; and, without doubt the man who so daringly and coolly murdereda drunken, and therefore defenceless man, will not hesitate tocommit a second crime. The present feeling of all classes inMelbourne must be one of terror, that such a man should be atlarge, and must, in a great measure, resemble the fear which filledeveryone's heart in London when the Marr murders werecommitted, and it was known that the murderer had escaped. Anyonewho has read De Quincy's graphic description of the crimeperpetrated by Williams must tremble to think that such anotherdevil incarnate is in our midst. It is an imperative necessity thatsuch a feeling should be done away with. But how is this to bemanaged? It is one thing to speak, and another to act. There seemsto be no possible clue discoverable at present which can lead tothe discovery of the real murderer. The man in the light coat whogot out of Rankin's cab at Powlett Street, East Melbourne(designedly, as it now appears, in order to throw suspicion onFitzgerald), has vanished as completely as the witches in Macbeth,and left no trace behind. It was two o'clock in the morningwhen he left the cab, and, in a quiet suburb like East Melbourne,no one would be about, so that he could easily escape unseen. Thereseems to be only one chance of ever tracing him, and that is to befound in the papers which were stolen from the pocket of the deadman. What they were, only two persons knew, and one knows now. Thefirst, two were Whyte and the woman who was called 'TheQueen,' and both of them are now dead. The other who knowsnow is the man who committed the crime. There can be no doubt thatthese papers were the motive for the crime, as no money was takenfrom the pockets of the deceased. The fact, also, that the paperswere carried in a pocket made inside the waistcoat of the deceasedshows that they were of value.
"Now, the reason we think that the dead woman knew of theexistence of these papers is simply this. It appears that she cameout from England with Whyte as his mistress, and after staying sometime in Sydney came on to Melbourne. How she came into such a fouland squalid den as that she died in, we are unable to say, unless,seeing that she was given to drink, she was picked up drunk by someSamaritan of the slums, and carried to Mrs. Rawlins' humbleabode. Whyte visited her there frequently, but appears to have madeno attempt to remove her to a better place, alleging as his reasonthat the doctor said she would die if taken into the air. Ourreporter learned from one of the detectives that the dead woman wasin the habit of talking to Whyte about certain papers, and on oneoccasion was overheard to say to him, 'They'll makeyour fortune if you play your cards well.' This was told tothe detective by the woman Rawlins, to whose providentialappearance Mr. Fitzgerald owes his escape. From this it can begathered that the papers—whatever they might be—were ofvalue, and sufficient to tempt another to commit a murder in orderto obtain them. Whyte, therefore, being dead, and his murdererhaving escaped, the only way of discovering the secret which liesat the root of this tree of crime, is to find out the history ofthe woman who died in the slum. Traced back for some years,circumstances may be discovered which will reveal what these paperscontained, and once that is found, we can confidently say that themurderer will soon be discovered. This is the only chance offinding out the cause, and the author of this mysterious murder;and if it fails, we fear the hansom cab tragedy will have to berelegated to the list of undiscovered crimes, and the assassin ofWhyte will have no other punishment than that of the remorse of hisown conscience."
A hot December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazingdown on the earth, clothed in all the beauty of summer garments.Such a description of snowy December sounds perchance a triflestrange to English ears. It may strike them as being somewhatfantastic, as was the play in "A Midsummer Night'sDream," to Demetrius when he remarked, "This is hot iceand wondrous cold fire."
But here in Australia we are in the realm of contrariety, andmany things other than dreams go by contrary. Here black swans arean established fact, and the proverb concerning them, made whenthey were considered as mythical a bird as the Phoenix, has beenrendered null and void by the discoveries of Captain Cook. Hereironwood sinks and pumice stone floats, which must strike thecurious spectator as a queer freak on the part of Dame Nature. Athome the Edinburgh mail bears the hardy traveller to a coldclimate, with snowy mountains and wintry blasts; but here thefurther north one goes the hotter it gets, till one arrives inQueensland, where the heat is so great that a profane traveller ofan epigrammatic turn of mind once fittingly called it, "Anamateur hell."
But however contrary, as Mrs. Gamp would say, Nature may be inher dealings, the English race out in this great continent are muchthe same as in the old country—John Bull, Paddy, and Sandy,all being of a conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinionsas to the keeping up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmasday, with the sun one hundred odd in the shade, Australianrevellers sit down to the roast beef and plum-pudding of OldEngland, which they eat contentedly as the orthodox thing, and onNew Year's Eve the festive Celt repairs to the doors of his"freends" with a bottle of whisky and a cheering verseof Auld Lang Syne.
Still it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality toa nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy;but keeps his Christmas in the old fashion, and wears his clothesin the new fashion, without regard to heat or cold. A nation thatnever surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to givein to the fire of the sun, but if some ingenious mortal would onlyinvent some light and airy costume, after the fashion of the Greekdress, and Australians would consent to adopt the same, life inMelbourne and her sister cities would be much cooler than it is atpresent.
Madge was thinking somewhat after this fashion as she sat on thewide verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and staredout at the wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazingsun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat,hanging midway between heaven and earth, and through its tremulousveil the distant hills looked aerial and unreal.
Stretched out before her was the garden with its intensely vividflowers. To look at them merely was to increase one's caloriccondition. Great bushes of oleanders, with their bright pinkblossoms, luxurious rose trees, with their yellow, red, and whiteblooms, and all along the border a rainbow of many-colouredflowers, with such brilliant tints that the eye ached to see themin the hot sunshine, and turned restfully to the cool green of thetrees which encircled the lawn. In the centre was a round pool,surrounded by a ring of white marble, and containing a still sheetof water, which flashed like a mirror in the blinding light.
The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long low house,with no upper-storey, and with a wide verandah running nearly roundit. Cool green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out thesun, and all along were scattered lounging chairs of basket-work,with rugs, novels, empty soda-water bottles, and all the otherevidences that Mr. Frettlby's guests had been wise, andstayed inside during the noonday heat.
Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs, and shedivided her attention between the glowing beauty of the worldoutside, which she could see through a narrow slit in the blinds.But she did not seem greatly interested in her book, and it was notlong before she let it fall unheeded to the ground and took refugein her own thoughts. The trial through which she had so recentlypassed had been a great one, and it had not been without itsoutward result. It had left its impress on her beautiful face, andthere was a troubled look in her eyes. After Brian'sacquittal of the murder of Oliver Whyte, she had been taken by herfather up to the station, in the hope that it would restore her tohealth. The mental strain which had been on her during the trialhad nearly brought on an attack of brain fever; but here, far fromthe excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country,she had recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are moreimpressionable than men, and it is, perhaps, for this reason thatthey 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 Madgefrom a bright and merry girl into a grave and beautiful woman.Sorrow is a potent enchantress. Once she touches the heart, lifecan never be quite the same again. We never more surrenderourselves entirely to pleasure; and often we find so many of thethings we have longed for are after all but dead sea fruit. Sorrowis the veiled Isis of the world, and once we penetrate her mysteryand see her deeply-furrowed face and mournful eyes, the magic lightof romance dies all away, and we realise the hard bitter fact oflife in all its nakedness.
Madge felt something of all this. She saw the world now, not asthe fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowfulvale 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 fewwhite hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character,from being gay and bright, had become moody and irritable. Afterthe trial he had left town immediately, in order to avoid meetingwith his friends, and had gone up to his station, which was next tothat of the Frettlbys'. There he worked hard all day, andsmoked hard all night, thinking ever the secret which the deadwoman had told him, and which threatened to overshadow his life.Every now and then he rode over and saw Madge. But this wasgenerally when he knew her father to be away from Melbourne, for oflate he had disliked the millionaire. Madge could not but condemnhis attitude, remembering how her father had stood beside him inhis recent trouble. Yet there was another reason why Brian keptaloof from Yabba Yallook station. He did not wish to meet any ofthe gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial hewas an object of curiosity and sympathy to everyone—aposition galling enough to his proud nature.
At Christmas time Mr. Frettlby had asked several people up fromMelbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yetshe could not refuse her father, and had to play hostess with asmiling brow and aching heart.
Felix Rolleston, who a month since had joined the noble army ofbenedicts, was there with Mrs. Rolleston, nee Miss Featherweight,who ruled him with a rod of iron. Having bought Felix with hermoney, she had determined to make good use of him, and, beingambitious to shine in Melbourne society, had insisted upon Felixstudying politics, so that when the next general election cameround he could enter Parliament. Felix had rebelled at first, butultimately gave way, as he found that when he had a good novelconcealed among his parliamentary papers time passed quitepleasantly, and he got the reputation of a hard worker at littlecost. They had brought up Julia with them, and this young personhad made up her mind to become the second Mrs. Frettlby. She hadnot 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 gave nevera thought to his anxious patients or the many sick-rooms he was inthe habit of visiting. A young English fellow, called Peterson, whoamused himself by travelling; an old colonist, full ofreminiscences of the old days, when, "by gad, sir, wehadn't a gas lamp in the whole of Melbourne," andseveral other people, completed the party. They had all gone off tothe billiard-room, and left Madge in her comfortable chair,half-asleep.
Suddenly she started, as she heard a step behind her, andturning, saw Sal Rawlins, in the neatest of black gowns, with acoquettish white cap and apron, and an open book. Madge had been sodelighted with Sal for saving Brian's life that she had takenher into her service as maid. Mr. Frettlby had offered strongopposition at first that a fallen woman like Sal should be near hisdaughter; but Madge was determined to rescue the unhappy girl fromthe life of sin she was leading, and so at last he reluctantlyconsented. Brian, too, had objected, but ultimately yielded, as hesaw that Madge had set her heart on it. Mother Guttersnipe objectedat first, characterising the whole affair as "cussed'umbug," but she, likewise, gave in, and Sal becamemaid to Miss Frettlby, who immediately set to work to remedySal's defective education by teaching her to read. The bookshe held in her hand was a spelling-book, and this she handed toMadge.
"I think I knows it now, miss," she said,respectfully, as Madge looked up with a smile.
"Do you, indeed?" said Madge, gaily. "You willbe able to read in no time, Sal."
"Read this?" said Sal, touching "Tristan: ARomance, by Zoe."
"Hardly!" said Madge, picking it up, with a look ofcontempt.
"I want you to learn English, and not a confusion oftongues like this thing. But it's too hot for lessons,Sal," she went on, leaning back in her seat, "so get achair and talk to me."
Sal complied, and Madge looked out at the brilliant flower-beds,and at the black shadow of the tall witch elm which grew on oneside of the lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, anddid not know how to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brianhad troubled her very much of late, and, with the quick instinct ofher sex, she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died inthe back slum. Anxious to share his troubles and lighten hisburden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, andfind out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian whichaffected him so deeply.
"Sal," she said, after a short pause, turning herclear grey eyes on the woman, "I want to ask yousomething."
The other shivered and turned pale.
"About—about that?"
Madge nodded.
Sal hesitated for a moment, and then flung herself at the feetof her mistress.
"I will tell you," she cried. "You have beenkind to me, an' have a right to know. I will tell you all Iknow."
"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' inLittle Bourke Street," answered Sal, "just near thetheatre. She was quite drunk, an' we took her home withus."
"How kind of you," said Madge.
"Oh, it wasn't that," replied the other,dryly. "Gran' wanted her clothes; she was awful swelldressed."
"And she took the clothes—how wicked!"
"Anyone would have done it down our way," answeredSal, indifferently; "but Gran' changed her mind whenshe got her home. I went out to get some gin for Gran', andwhen I came back she was huggin' and kissin' thewoman."
"She recognised her."
"Yes, I s'pose so," replied Sal,"an' next mornin', when the lady got square, shemade a grab at Gran', an' hollered out, 'I wascomin' to see you.'"
"And then?"
"Gran' chucked me out of the room, an' theyhad a long jaw; and then, when I come back, Gran' tells methe lady is a-goin' to stay with us 'cause she was ill,and sent me for Mr. Whyte."
"And he came?"
"Oh, yes—often," said Sal. "He kicked upa row when he first turned up, but when he found she was ill, hesent a doctor; but it warn't no good. She was two weeks withus, and then died the mornin' she saw Mr.Fitzgerald."
"I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to thiswoman?"
"Lots," returned Sal; "but he always turnedGran' an' me out of the room afore hestarted."
"And"—hesitating—"did you everoverhear 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 getsome gin, I sat down at the door and listened. He wanted her togive up some papers, an' she wouldn't. She saidshe'd die first; but at last he got 'em, and took'em away with him."
"Did you see them?" asked Madge, as the assertion ofGorby that Whyte had been murdered for certain papers flashedacross her mind.
"Rather," said Sal, "I was looking through ahole in the door, an' she takes 'em from under herpiller, an' 'e takes 'em to the table, where thecandle was, an' looks at 'em—they were in a largeblue envelop, with writing on it in red ink—then he put'em in his pocket, and she sings out: 'You'lllose 'em,' an' 'e says: 'No,I'll always 'ave 'em with me, an' if'e wants 'em 'e'll have to kill me fustafore 'e gits 'em.'"
"And you did not know who the man was to whom the paperswere 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 henever turned up again. She kept watchin' for him nightan' day, an' 'cause he didn't come, got madat him. I hear her sayin', 'You think you've donewith me, my gentleman, an' leaves me here to die, butI'll spoil your little game,' an' then she wrotethat letter to Mr. Fitzgerald, an' I brought him to her, asyou know."
"Yes, yes," said Madge, rather impatiently. "Iheard all that at the trial, but what conversation passed betweenMr. Fitzgerald and this woman? Did you hear it?"
"Bits of it," replied the other. "Ididn't split in Court, 'cause I thought the lawyerwould be down on me for listening. The first thing I heard Mr.Fitzgerald sayin' was, 'You're mad—itain't true,' an' she ses, 'S'elp meit is, Whyte's got the proof,' an' then he singsout, 'My poor girl,' and she ses, 'Will you marryher now?' and ses he, 'I will, I love her more thanever;' and then she makes a grab at him, and says,'Spile his game if you can,' and says 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, turninground quickly, Madge found Brian standing beside her, pale asdeath, with his eyes fixed on the woman, who had risen to herfeet.
"Go on!" he said sharply.
"That's all I know," she replied, in a sullentone. Brian gave a sigh of relief.
"You can go," he said slowly; "I wish to speakwith Miss Frettlby alone."
Sal looked at him for a moment, and then glanced at hermistress, who nodded to her as a sign that she might withdraw. Shepicked up her book, and with another sharp enquiring look at Brian,turned and walked slowly into the house.
After Sal had gone, Brian sank into a chair beside Madge with aweary sigh. He was in riding dress, which became his stalwartfigure well, and he looked remarkably handsome but ill andworried.
"What on earth were you questioning that girlabout?" he said abruptly, taking his hat off, and tossing itand his gloves on to the floor.
Madge flushed crimson for a moment, and then takingBrian's two strong hands in her own, looked steadily into hisfrowning face.
"Why don't you trust me?" she asked, in aquiet tone.
"It is not necessary that I should," he answeredmoodily. "The secret that Rosanna Moore told me on herdeath-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, andconcerns me," she said calmly, releasing his hands.
"Well, yes," impatiently striking his boot with hisriding whip. "But it is nothing that can harm you so long asyou 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 slight sneer. "You are trying to put out a fire bypouring oil on it, and what you say only makes me more determinedto learn what it is."
"Madge, I implore you not to persist in this foolishcuriosity," he said, almost fiercely, "it will bringyou only misery."
"If it concerns me I have a right to know it," sheanswered curtly. "When I marry you how can we be happytogether, with the shadow of a secret between us?"
Brian rose, and leaned against the verandah post with a darkfrown on his face.
"Do you remember that verse of Browning's," hesaid, coolly—
'Where the apple reddens
Never pry,
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.'
"Singularly applicable to our present conversation, Ithink."
"Ah," she said, her pale face flushing with anger,"you want me to live in a fool's paradise, which mayend at any moment."
"That depends upon yourself," he answered coldly."I never roused your curiosity by telling you that there wasa secret, but betrayed it inadvertently to Calton'scross-questioning. I tell you candidly that I did learn somethingfrom Rosanna Moore, and it concerns you, though only indirectlythrough a third person. But it would do no good to reveal it, andwould ruin both our lives."
She did not answer, but looked straight before her into theglowing sunshine.
Brian fell on his knees beside her, and stretched out his handswith an entreating gesture.
"Oh, my darling," he cried sadly, "cannot youtrust me? The love which has stood such a test as yours cannot faillike this. Let me bear the misery of knowing it alone, withoutblighting your young life with the knowledge of it. I would tellyou 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 withher cool, white fingers. There was a struggle going on in herbreast between her feminine curiosity and her love for the man ather feet—the latter conquered, and she bowed her head overhis.
"Brian," she whispered softly, "let it be asyou wish. I will never again try to learn this secret, since you donot desire it."
He arose to his feet, and caught her in his strong arms, with aglad smile.
"My dearest," he said, kissing her passionately, andthen for a few moments neither of them spoke. "We will begina new life," he said, at length. "We will put the sadpast away from us, and think of it only as a dream."
"But this secret will still fret you," shemurmured.
"It will wear away with time and with change ofscene," he answered sadly.
"Change of scene!" she repeated in a startled tone."Are you going away?"
"Yes; I have sold my station, and intend leaving Australiafor ever during the next three months."
"And where are you going?" asked the girl, ratherbewildered.
"Anywhere," he said a little bitterly. "I amgoing to follow the example of Cain, and be a wanderer on the faceof the earth!"
"Alone!"
"That is what I have come to see you about," saidBrian, looking steadily at her. "I have come to ask you ifyou will marry me at once, and we will leave Australiatogether."
She hesitated.
"I know it is asking a great deal," he said,hurriedly, "to leave your friends, your position,and"—with hesitation—"your father; butthink of my life without you—think how lonely I shall be,wandering round the world by myself; but you will not desert me nowI have so much need of you—you will come with me and be mygood 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,grey eyes, said—"Yes!"
"Thank God for that," said Brian, reverently, andthere was again a silence.
Then they sat down and talked about their plans, and builtcastles in the air, after the fashion of lovers.
"I wonder what papa will say?" observed Madge, idlytwisting 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 atlength, reluctantly.
"Yes, of course!" she replied, lightly. "It ismerely a formality; still, one that must be observed."
"And where is Mr. Frettlby?" asked Fitzgerald,rising.
"In the billiard-room," she answered, as shefollowed his example. "No!" she continued, as she sawher father step on to the verandah. "Here he is."
Brian had not seen Mark Frettlby for some time, and wasastonished at the change which had taken place in his appearance.Formerly, he had been as straight as an arrow, with a stern,fresh-coloured face; but now he had a slight stoop, and his facelooked old and withered. His thick, black hair was streaked hereand there with white. His eyes alone were unchanged. They were askeen and bright as ever. Brian knew full well how he himself hadaltered. He knew, too, that Madge was not the same, and now hecould not but wonder whether the great change that was apparent inher father was attributable to the same source—to the murderof Oliver Whyte.
Sad and thoughtful as Mr. Frettlby looked, as he came along, asmile broke over his face as he caught sight of his daughter.
"My dear Fitzgerald," he said, holding out his hand,"this is indeed a surprise! When did you comeover?"
"About half-an-hour ago," replied Brian,reluctantly, taking the extended hand of the millionaire. "Icame to see Madge, and have a talk with you."
"Ah! that's right," said the other, puttinghis arm round his daughter's waist. "So that'swhat has brought the roses to your face, young lady?" he wenton, pinching her cheek playfully. "You will stay to dinner,of course, Fitzgerald?"
"Thank you, no!" answered Brian, hastily, "mydress—"
"Nonsense," interrupted Frettlby, hospitably;"we are not in Melbourne, and I am sure Madge will excuseyour dress. You must stay."
"Yes, do," said Madge, in a beseeching tone,touching his hand lightly. "I don't see so much of youthat I can let you off with half-an-hour'sconversation."
Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.
"Very well," he said in a low voice; "I shallstay."
"And now," said Frettlby, in a brisk tone, as he satdown; "the important question of dinner being settled, whatis it you want to see me about?—Your station?"
"No," answered Brian, leaning against the verandahpost, while Madge slipped her hand through his arm. "I havesold it."
"Sold it!" echoed Frettlby, aghast. "Whatfor?"
"I felt restless, and wanted a change."
"Ah! a rolling stone," said the millionaire, shakinghis head, "gathers no moss, you know."
"Stones don't roll of their own accord,"replied Brian, in a gloomy tone. "They are impelled by aforce over which they have no control."
"Oh, indeed!" said the millionaire, in a jokingtone. "And may I ask what is your propellingforce?"
Brian looked at the man's face with such a steady gazethat the latter's eyes dropped after an uneasy attempt toreturn it.
"Well," he said impatiently, looking at the two tallyoung people standing before him, "what do you want to see meabout?"
"Madge has agreed to marry me at once, and I want yourconsent."
"Impossible!" said Frettlby, curtly.
"There is no such a word as impossible," retortedBrian, 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 thinkingabout—I've got enough for both of you; but I cannotlive without Madge."
"Then come with us," said his daughter, kissinghim.
Her lover, however, did not second the invitation, but stoodmoodily twisting his tawny moustache, and staring out into thegarden in an absent sort of manner.
"What do you say, Fitzgerald?" said Frettlby, whowas eyeing him keenly.
"Oh, delighted, of course," answered Brian,confusedly.
"In that case," returned the other, coolly, "Iwill tell you what we will do. I have bought a steam yacht, and shewill be ready for sea about the end of January. You will marry mydaughter at once, and go round New Zealand for your honeymoon. Whenyou return, if I feel inclined, and you two turtle-dovesdon't object, I will join you, and we will make a tour of theworld."
"Oh, how delightful," cried Madge, clasping herhands. "I am so fond of the ocean with a companion, ofcourse," she added, with a saucy glance at her lover.
Brian's face had brightened considerably, for he was aborn sailor, and a pleasant yachting voyage in the blue waters ofthe Pacific, with Madge as his companion, was, to his mind, as nearParadise as any mortal could get.
"And what is the name of the yacht?" he asked, withdeep interest.
"Her name?" repeated Mr. Frettlby, hastily."Oh, a very ugly name, and one which I intend to change. Atpresent she is called the 'Rosanna.'"
"Rosanna!"
Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the formerstared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidencebetween the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in theMelbourne slum.
Mr Frettlby flushed a little when he saw Brian's eye fixedon him with such an enquiring gaze, and rose with an embarrassedlaugh.
"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."
Moore, sweetest of bards, sings—
"Oh,there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream."
But he made this assertion in his callow days, before he hadlearned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth,love's young dream is, no doubt, very charming, lovers, as arule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world,and drunk deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half sosweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. "A hardheart and a good digestion will make any man happy." So saidTalleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man who knew the temper ofhis day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art oflove—Brillat Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, I warrantyou, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is morewidely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who doesnot value as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four the hour when,seated at an artistically-laid table, with delicately-cookedviands, good wines, and pleasant company, all the cares and worriesof 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 communicatesitself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence,as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred rite. Butthere are men—alas! few and far between—who possess therare art of giving good dinners—good in the sense ofsociality as well as in that of cookery.
Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals—he had aninnate genius for getting pleasant people together—people,who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellentcook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite ofhis worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. Thebright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfumeof flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of apink-shaded lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but givehim a pleasurable sensation.
On one side of the dining-room were the French windows openingon to the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of thetrees, and the dazzling colours of the flowers, somewhat temperedby the soft hazy glow of the twilight.
Brian had made himself as respectable as possible under the oddcircumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge,contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatterwhich was going on around him.
Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the more so as MrsRolleston was at the further end of the table, hidden from hisview.
Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him sopersistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumbdevil.
Dr. Chinston and Peterson were seated on the other side of thetable, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post ofhonour, on Mr. Frettlby's right hand.
The conversation had turned on to the subject, ever green andfascinating, of politics, and Mr. Rolleston thought it a goodopportunity to air his views as to the Government of the Colony,and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish, andbecome a power in the political world.
"By Jove, you know," he said, with a wave of hishand, as though he were addressing the House; "the country isgoing to the dogs, and all that sort of thing. What we want is aman like Beaconsfield."
"Ah! but you can't pick up a man like that everyday," said Frettlby, who was listening with an amused smileto 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 hisown views, which modesty forbade him to publish, on the subject ofthe coming colonial Disraeli, "I probably shall form aparty."
"To advocate what?" asked Peterson, curiously.
"Oh, well, you see," hesitated Felix, "Ihaven't drawn up a programme yet, so can't say atpresent."
"Yes, you can hardly give a performance without aprogramme," said the doctor, taking a sip of wine, and theneverybody 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 reportsand Constitutional history, and—and Vivian Grey," saidFelix, who began to feel himself somewhat at sea.
"The last of which is what the author called it, alusus naturae," observed Chinston. "Don'terect your political schemes on such bubble foundations as are inthat novel, for you won't find a Marquis Carabas outhere."
"Unfortunately, no!" observed Felix, mournfully;"but we may find a Vivian Grey."
Every one smothered a smile, the allusion was so patent.
"Well, he didn't succeed in the end," criedPeterson.
"Of course he didn't," retorted Felix,disdainfully; "he made an enemy of a woman, and a man who issuch 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 ofthat gentleman, who was listening complacently to herhusband'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, rousinghimself out of the brown study into which he had fallen."I'm afraid I'm not sufficiently patriotic, andmy business did not permit me."
"And now?"
"Now," echoed Mr. Frettlby, glancing at hisdaughter, "I intend to travel."
"The jolliest thing out," said Peterson, eagerly."One never gets tired of seeing the queer things that are inthe world."
"I've seen queer enough things in Melbourne in theearly days," said the old colonist, with a wicked twinkle inhis eyes.
"Oh!" cried Julia, putting her hands up to her ears,"don't tell me them, for I'm sure they'renaughty."
"We weren't saints then," said old Valpy, witha senile chuckle.
"Ah, then, we haven't changed much in thatrespect," retorted Frettlby, drily.
"You talk of your theatres now," went on Valpy, withthe garrulousness of old age; "why, you haven't got adancer like Rosanna."
Brian started on hearing this name again, and he feltMadge'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 wereall mad about her—such hair and eyes. You remember her,Frettlby?"
"Yes," answered the host, in a curiously dryvoice.
But before Mr. Valpy had the opportunity to wax more eloquent,Madge rose from the table, and the other ladies followed. The everpolite Felix held the door open for them, and received a brightsmile from his wife for, what she considered, his brilliant talk atthe dinner table.
Brian sat still, and wondered why Frettlby changed colour onhearing the name—he supposed that the millionaire had beenmixed up with the actress, and did not care about being reminded ofhis early indiscretions—and, after all, who does?
"She was as light as a fairy," continued Valpy, withwicked chuckle.
"What became of her?" asked Brian, abruptly.
Mark Frettlby looked up suddenly, as Fitzgerald asked thisquestion.
"She went to England in 1858," said the aged one."I'm not quite sure if it was July or August, but itwas in 1858."
"You will excuse me, Valpy, but I hardly think that thesereminiscences of a ballet-dancer are amusing," said Frettlby,curtly, pouring himself out a glass of wine. "Let us changethe subject."
Notwithstanding the plainly-expressed wish of his host Brianfelt strongly inclined to pursue the conversation. Politeness,however, forbade such a thing, and he consoled himself with thereflection that, after dinner, he would ask old Valpy about theballet-dancer whose name caused Mark Frettlby to exhibit suchstrong emotion. But, to his annoyance, when the gentlemen went intothe 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-roomplaying 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 march than anythingelse."
"Gad, so it is," said Felix, who came up at thismoment. "I don't care myself about 'Op. 84'and all that classical humbug. Give me somethinglight—'Belle Helene,' with Emelie Melville, andall that sort of thing."
"Felix!" said his wife, in a stern tone.
"My dear," he answered recklessly, rendered bold bythe champagne he had taken, "you observed—"
"Nothing particular," answered Mrs. Rolleston,glancing at him with a stony eye, "except that I considerOffenbach low."
"I don't," said Felix, sitting down to thepiano, from which Madge had just risen, "and to prove heain't, here goes."
He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and dashed into abrilliant Offenbach galop, which had the effect of waking up thepeople in the drawing-room, who felt sleepy after dinner, and sentthe blood tingling through their veins. When they were thoroughlyroused, Felix, now that he had an appreciative audience, for he wasby no means an individual who believed in wasting his sweetness onthe desert air, prepared to amuse them.
"You haven't heard the last new song by Frosti, haveyou?" he asked, after he had brought his galop to aconclusion.
"Is that the composer of 'Inasmuch' and'How so?'" asked Julia, clasping her hands."I do love his music, and the words are so sweetlypretty."
"Infernally stupid, she means," whispered Petersonto Brian. "They've no more meaning in them than thetitles."
"Sing us the new song, Felix," commanded his wife,and her obedient husband obeyed her.
It was entitled, "Somewhere," words by Vashti, musicby Paola Frosti, and was one of those extraordinary compositionswhich may mean anything—that is, if the meaning can bediscovered. Felix had a pleasant voice, though it was not verystrong, 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 bittercry.
I know not, sweet, where you may stand,
With shining eyes and goldenhair,
Yet I know, I will touch your hand
And kiss your lipssomewhere—
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 Felixfinished a murmur of applause broke from every one of theladies.
"How sweetly pretty," sighed Julia. "Such alot in it."
"But what is its meaning?" asked Brian, ratherbewildered.
"It hasn't got one," replied Felix,complacently. "Surely you don't want every song to havea moral, like a book of Aesop's Fables?"
Brian shrugged his shoulders, and turned away with Madge.
"I must say I agree with Fitzgerald," said thedoctor, quickly. "I like a song with some meaning in it. Thepoetry of the one you sang is as mystical as Browning, without anyof his genius to redeem it."
"Philistine," murmured Felix, under his breath, andthen vacated his seat at the piano in favour of Julia, who wasabout to sing a ballad called, "Going Down the Hill,"which had been the rage in Melbourne musical circles during thelast two months.
Meanwhile Madge and Brian were walking up and down in themoonlight. It was an exquisite night, with a cloudless blue skyglittering with the stars, and a great yellow moon in the west.Madge seated herself on the side of the marble ledge which girdledthe still pool of water in front of the house, and dipped her handinto the cool water. Brian leaned against the trunk of a greatmagnolia tree, whose glossy green leaves and great creamy blossomslooked fantastic in the moonlight. In front of them was the house,with the ruddy lamplight streaming through the wide windows, andthey could see the guests within, excited by the music, waltzing toRolleston's playing, and their dark figures kept passing andre-passing the windows while the charming music of the waltzmingled with their merry laughter.
"Looks like a haunted house," said Brian, thinkingof Poe's weird poem; "but such a thing is impossibleout here."
"I don't know so much about that," said Madge,gravely, lifting up some water in the palm of her hand, and lettingit stream back like diamonds in the moonlight. "I knew ahouse in St. Kilda which was haunted."
"By what?" asked Brian, sceptically.
"Noises!" she answered, solemnly.
Brian burst out laughing and startled a bat, which flew roundand round in the silver moonlight, and whirred away into theshelter of a witch elm.
"Rats and mice are more common here than ghosts," hesaid, lightly. "I'm afraid the inhabitants of yourhaunted 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 death bedswith her howlings; 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, Ibelieve," said Madge; "that is the reason we colonialshave none."
"Ah, but you will have," he answered with a carelesslaugh. "There are, no doubt, democratic as well asaristocratic ghosts; but, pshaw!" he went on, impatiently,"what nonsense I talk. There are no ghosts, except of aman's own raising. The ghosts of a dead youth—theghosts of past follies—the ghosts of what might havebeen—these are the spectres which are more to be feared thanthose of the churchyard."
Madge looked at him in silence, for she understood the meaningof that passionate outburst—the secret which the dead womanhad told him, and which hung like a shadow over his life. She arosequietly and took his arm. The light touch roused him, and a faintwind sent an eerie rustle through the still leaves of the magnolia,as they walked back in silence to the house.
Notwithstanding the hospitable invitation of Mr. Frettlby, Brianrefused to stay at Yabba Yallook that night, but after sayinggood-bye to Madge, mounted his horse and rode slowly away in themoonlight. He felt very happy, and letting the reins lie on hishorse's neck, he gave himself up unreservedly to histhoughts.Atra cura certainly did not sit behind thehorseman on this night; and Brian, to his surprise, found himselfsinging "Kitty of Coleraine," as he rode along in thesilver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the futureseemed so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes! they would live on theocean, and she would find how much pleasanter it was on therestless waters, with their solemn sense of mystery, than on thecrowded land.
"Was not the sea
Made for the free—
Land for courts and slaves alone?"
Moore was perfectly right. She would learn that when with a fairwind, and all sail set, they were flying over the blue Pacificwaters.
And then they would go home to Ireland to the ancestral home ofthe Fitzgeralds, where he would lead her in under the arch, with"Cead mille failthe" on it, and everyone wouldbless the fair young bride. Why should he trouble himself about thecrime of another? No! He had made a resolve and intended to keepit; he would put this secret with which he had been entrustedbehind his back, and would wander about the world with Madgeand—her father. He felt a sudden chill come over him as hemurmured the last words to himself "her father."
"I'm a fool," he said, impatiently, as hegathered up the reins, and spurred his horse into a canter."It can make no difference to me so long as Madge remainsignorant; but to sit beside him, to eat with him, to have himalways present like a skeleton at a feast—God helpme!"
He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he rushed over theturf, with the fresh, cool night wind blowing keenly against hisface, he felt a sense of relief, as though he were leaving somedark spectre behind. On he galloped, with the blood throbbing inhis young veins, over miles of plain, with the dark-blue,star-studded sky above, and the pale moon shining down onhim—past a silent shepherd's hut, which stood near awide creek; splashing through the cool water, which wound throughthe dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight—then,again, the wide, grassy plain, dotted here and there with tallclumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheepskurrying away like fantastic spectres—on—on—everon, until his own homestead appears, and he sees the star-likelight shining brightly in the distance—a long avenue of talltrees, over whose wavering shadows his horse thundered, and thenthe wide grassy space in front of the house, with the clamorousbarking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hoofs up theavenue, comes round the side of the house, and Brian leaps off hishorse, 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 apacket of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa, andopened the window and door, so as to let in the cool breeze; thenmixing for himself a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up thelamp, and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up wasfrom a lady. "Always a she correspondent for me," saysIsaac Disraeli, "provided she does not cross."Brian's correspondence did not cross, but notwithstandingthis, after reading half a page of small talk and scandal, he flungthe letter on the table with an impatient ejaculation. The otherletters were principally business ones, but the last one proved tobe from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a sensation ofpleasure. Calton was a capital letter-writer, and his epistles haddone much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which succeededhis acquittal of Whyte's murder, when he was in danger ofgetting into a morbid state of mind. Brian, therefore, sipped hisbrandy and soda, and, lying back in his chair, prepared to enjoyhimself.
"My dear Fitzgerald," wrote Calton his peculiarlyclear handwriting, which was such an exception to the usual crabbedhieroglyphics of his brethren of the bar, "while you areenjoying the cool breezes and delightful freshness of the country,here am I, with numerous other poor devils, cooped up in this hotand dusty city. How I wish I were with you in the land of Goschen,by the rolling waters of the Murray, where everything is bright andgreen, and unsophisticated—the two latter terms are almostidentical—instead of which my view is bounded by bricks andmortar, and the muddy waters of the Yarra have to do duty for yournoble river. Ah! I too have lived in Arcadia, but I don'tnow: and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, Iam not sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is alotus-eating Paradise of blissful ignorance, and I love the worldwith its pomps, vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, ohCorydon—don't be afraid, I'm not going to quoteVirgil—are studying Nature's book, I am deep in themusty leaves of Themis' volume, but I dare say that the greatmother teaches you much better things than her artificial daughterdoes me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, 'When oneis in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope,' so being inthe legal profession, I must respect its muse. I suppose when yousaw that this letter came from a law office, you wondered what thedeuce a lawyer was writing to you for, and my handwriting, no doubtsuggested a writ—pshaw! I am wrong there, you are past theage of writs—not that I hint that you are old; by nomeans—you are just at that appreciative age when a man enjoyslife most, when the fire of youth is tempered by the experience ofage, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the good things ofthis world,videlicet—love, wine, and friendship. I amafraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer,for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of thelaw. On reading what I have written, I find I have been asdiscursive as Praed's Vicar, and as this letter is supposedto be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of followingout a train of idle ideas, and write sense. I suppose you stillhold the secret which Rosanna Moore entrusted you with—ah!you see I know her name, and why?—simply because, with thenatural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find outwho murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the Argus verycleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom ofthe whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secretof Whyte's murder, and the reason for it, is known to you,but you refuse, even in the interests of justice, to revealit—why, I don't know; but we all have our littlefaults, and from an amiable though mistaken sense of—shall Isay—duty?—you refuse to deliver up the man whosecowardly crime so nearly cost you your life.
"After your departure from Melbourne every one said,'The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer willnever be discovered.' I ventured to disagree with thewiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself, 'Who wasthis woman who died at Mother Guttersnipe's?' Receivingno satisfactory answer from myself, I determined to find out, andtook steps accordingly. In the first place, I learned from RogerMoreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at thetrial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney in theJohn Elder about a year ago as Mr. and Mrs. Whyte. I needhardly say that they did not think it needful to go through theformality of marriage, as such a tie might have been foundinconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing aboutRosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, comingfrom a city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone thatknew her there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to afriend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, 'Findout the name and all about the woman who left England in theJohn Elder on the 21st day of August, 18—as wife ofOliver Whyte.'Mirabile dictu, he found out all abouther, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity Londonis, you must admit my friend was clever. It appears, however, thatthe task I set him was easier than he expected, for the so-calledMrs. Whyte was rather a notorious individual in her own way. Shewas a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and,being a very handsome woman, had been photographed innumerabletimes. Consequently, when she very foolishly went with Whyte tochoose a berth on board the boat, she was recognised by the clerksin the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of theFrivolity. Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot tell you. Withreference to men understanding women, I refer you to Balzac'sremark anent the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St.John's Wood and champagne suppers, and longed for the purerair of her native land. Ah! you open your eyes at this latterstatement—you are surprised—no, on second thoughts youare not, because she told you herself that she was a native ofSydney, and had gone home in 1858, after a triumphant career ofacting in Melbourne. And why did she leave the applauding Melbournepublic and the flesh-pots of Egypt? You know this also. She ranaway with a rich young squatter, with more money than morals, whohappened to be in Melbourne at the time. She seems to have had aweakness for running away. But why she chose Whyte to go with thistime puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly good-looking,had no position, and a bad temper. How do I know all these traitsof Mr. Whyte's character, morally and socially? Easilyenough; my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr. Oliver Whytewas the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off,retired into a private life, and ultimately went the way of allflesh. His son, finding himself with a capital income, and a prettytaste for amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent,found out that his family had come over with theConqueror—Glanville de Whyte helped to sew the Bayeuxtapestry, I suppose—and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre asa masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day, heworshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess,pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, andran off with fortunate Mr. Whyte. So far as this goes there isnothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetratecrimes for the sake of light o' loves like Musette, unless,indeed, some wretched youth embezzles money to buy jewellery forhis divinity. The career of Musette, in London, was simply that ofa clever member of thedemi-monde, and, as far as I canlearn, no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime forher sake. So far so good; the motive of the crime must be found inAustralia. Whyte had spent nearly all his money in England, and,consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney withcomparatively very little cash. However, with an Epicurean-likephilosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, andthen came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate hotel.Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a commonone—drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it.Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne, and finding that a newgeneration had arisen, which knew not Joseph—I meanMusette—she drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and wentout after a quarrel with Mr. Whyte, to view Melbourne bynight—a familiar scene to her, no doubt. What took her toLittle Bourke Street I don't know. Perhaps she gotlost—perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the olddays; at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavourylocality, by Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me soherself. Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan—took her tothe squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore felldangerously ill. Whyte, who had missed her, found out where shewas, and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he wasrather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so he went back tohis lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady'sstory, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore wasdrinking herself to death in a quiet hotel. Still he does not breakoff his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murderedin a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So, fromall appearance, everything is ended; not so, for before dyingRosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to hima secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer of thisletter has a theory—a fanciful one, if you will—thatthe secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of OliverWhyte's death. Now then, have I not found out a good dealwithout you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest? I do notsay you know who killed Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient tolead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much thebetter, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace ofmind; if you do not—well, I shall find out without you. Ihave taken, and still take, a great interest in this strange case,and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make thislast appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I willset to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to herdeparture from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or laterto discover the secret which led to Whyte's murder. If thereis any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps, willcome round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have tofind it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect nomercy at my hands. So think over what I have said; if I do not hearfrom you within the next week, I shall regard your decision asfinal, and pursue the search myself.
"I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this lettertoo long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I willhave pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlbyand to her father. With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yoursvery truly,
"DuncanCalton."
When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-writtensheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back inhis chair, stared blankly into the dawning light outside. He aroseafter a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy,drank it quickly. Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he steppedout of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a softcrimson 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 marvellous breaking of the dawn. He stoodstaring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking ofCalton's letter.
"I can do no more," he said bitterly, leaning hishead against the wall of the house. "There is only one way ofstopping Calton, and that is by telling him all. My poor Madge! Mypoor Madge!"
A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and thereappeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with asudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. Thewarm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man,and, turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, asthough he were a fire-worshipper.
"I accept the omen of the dawn," he cried,"for her life and for mine."
His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under hisfeet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intendeddeparture.
The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there,and, guided by the sound of merry voices, and the laughter ofpretty women, soon found his way to the lawn-tennis ground. Madgeand her guests were there, seated under the shade of a great witchelm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match beingplayed between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capitalplayers. Mr. Frettlby was not present. He was inside writingletters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh ofrelief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as hecame down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him withoutstretched hands, as he took his hat off.
"How good of you to come," she said, in a delightedtone, 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 hersunshade.
"Pardon me if I think the contrary," repliedFitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming groupof 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, ifyou make these gallant remarks."
"Here he comes, then," said her lover, as Rollestonand Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennisground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennisflannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside hisracket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness it's over, and that I havewon," he said, wiping his heated brow; "galley slavescouldn't have worked harder than we have done, while all youidle folks satsub tegmine fagi."
"Which means?" asked his wife, lazily.
"That onlookers see most of the game," answered herhusband, impudently.
"I suppose that's what you call a free and easytranslation," said Peterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rollestonought to give you something for your new and original adaptation ofVirgil."
"Let it be iced then," retorted Rolleston, lyingfull length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky asseen 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-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musicallyagainst the side of it.
"He's not the only one who's got thatway," said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarlysupplied.
"It's a way we've got in thearmy,
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, andholding out his glass to be replenished; "I'll haveanother, please. Whew, it is hot."
"What, the drink?" asked Julia, with a giggle.
"No—the day," answered Felix, making a face ather. "It's the kind of day one feels inclined to adoptSydney 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 Peterson,gravely, "I'm afraid they'd soon be broiledbones."
"Go, giddy one," retorted Felix, throwing his hat athim, "or I'll drag you into the blazing sun, and makeyou play another game."
"Not I," replied Peterson, coolly. "Not beinga salamander, I'm hardly used to your climate yet, and thereis a limit even to lawn tennis;" and turning his back onRolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.
Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolouschatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, andBrian was telling her of his approaching departure, though not ofhis reasons for it.
"I received a letter last night," he said, turninghis face away from her; "and, as it's about someimportant business, I must start at once."
"I don't think it will be long before wefollow," answered Madge, thoughtfully. "Papa leaveshere 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 settledown to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going todo nothing; but wander all over the world."
There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald's mind a linefrom Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr.Frettlby—"A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be inthe 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 sayyesterday," she said. "This is the age of unrest, aselectricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians."
"Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place," said Brian,absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, "but we all loseour way to it late in life."
"At that rate we won't lose our way to it for sometime," she said laughing, as they stepped into thedrawing-room, so cool and shady, after the heat and glareoutside.
As they entered Mr. Frettlby rose from a chair near the window.He appeared to have been reading, for he held a book in hishand.
"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?" repliedBrian, his face flushing as he reluctantly took the proffered hand."But the fact is I have come to say good-bye for a fewdays."
"Ah! going back to town, I suppose," said Mr.Frettlby, lying back in his chair, and playing with his watchchain. "I don't know that you are wise, exchanging theclear air of the country for the dusty atmosphere ofMelbourne."
"Yet Madge tells me you are going back," said Brian,idly toying with a vase of flowers on the table.
"Depends upon circumstances," replied the othercarelessly. "I may and I may not. You go on business, Ipresume?"
"Well, the fact is Calton—" Here Brian stoppedsuddenly, and bit his lip with vexation, for he had not intended tomention the lawyer's name.
"Yes?" said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sittingup quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.
"Wants to see me on business," he finished,awkwardly.
"Connected with the sale of your station, Isuppose," said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the youngman'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 who can't leave wellalone."
"A propôs of what?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Fitzgerald, hastily, andjust then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at oneanother steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time asingle name flashed through their brains—the name of RosannaMoore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes, and break thespell.
"Ah, well," he said, lightly, as he rose from hischair 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 usthere."
Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat,and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hotsunshine.
"He knows," he muttered involuntarily.
"Knows what, sir?" said Madge, who came silentlybehind him, and slipped her arm through his. "That you arehungry, and want something to eat before you leave us?"
"I don't feel hungry," said Brian, as theywalked towards the door.
"Nonsense," answered Madge, merrily, who, like Eve,was on hospitable thoughts intent. "I'm not going tohave you appear in Melbourne a pale, fond lover, as though I weretreating 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-roomlaughing.
Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn-tennis ground, thinkingof the look he had seen in Brian's eyes. He shivered for amoment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenlychill.
"Someone stepping across my grave," he murmured tohimself, with a cynical smile. "Bah! how superstitious I am,and yet—he knows, he knows!"
"Come on, sir," cried Felix, who had just caughtsight of him, "a racket awaits you."
Frettlby awoke with a start, and found himself near thelawn-tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking acigarette.
He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young manlightly on the shoulder.
"What?" he said with a forced laugh, "do youreally expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day? You aremad."
"I am hot, you mean," retorted the imperturbableRolleston, 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 justcaught the last remark.
"What is?" asked Peterson, rather puzzled.
"Howell's book, 'A Foregone Conclusion,'"said Julia, also looking puzzled. "Weren't youtalking about it?"
"I'm afraid this talk is getting slightlyincoherent," said Felix, with a sigh. "We all seemmadder 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 toknow that every man and woman in the world is more or lessmad."
"Where are your facts?" asked Chinston, smiling.
"My facts are all visible ones," said Felix, gravelypointing to the company. "They're all crooked on somepoint or another."
There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then everyone burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr.Rolleston was arguing.
"If you go on like that in the House," saidFrettlby, amused, "you will, at all events, have anentertaining Parliament."
"Ah! they'll never have an entertaining Parliamenttill they admit ladies," observed Peterson, with a quizzicalglance at Julia.
"It will be a Parliament of love then," retorted thedoctor, dryly, "and not mediaeval either."
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 examineme."
"Why, don't you feel well?" said Chinston, asthey entered the house.
"Not lately," replied Frettlby. "I'mafraid I've got heart disease."
The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.
"Nonsense," he said, cheerfully, "it's acommon delusion with people that they have heart disease, and innine cases, out of ten it's all imagination; unless,indeed," he added waggishly, "the patient happens to bea young man."
"Ah! I suppose you think I'm safe as far as thatgoes," said Frettlby, as they entered the study; "andwhat did you think of Rolleston's argument about people beingmad?"
"It was amusing," replied Chinston, taking a seat,Frettlby doing the same. "That's all I can say aboutit, though, mind you, I think there are more mad people at largethan the world is aware of."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; do you remember that horrible story ofDickens', in the 'Pickwick Papers,' about the manwho 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 yetwho eat, drink, talk, and walk with the rest of their fellow-men,apparently as gay and light-hearted as they are."
"How extraordinary."
"Half the murders and suicides are done in temporary fitsof insanity," went on Chinston, "and if a person broodsover anything, his incipient madness is sure to break out sooner orlater; but, of course, there are cases where a perfectly saneperson may commit a murder on the impulse of the moment, but Iregard such persons as mad for the time being; but, again, a murdermay be planned and executed in the most cold-bloodedmanner."
"And in the latter case," said Frettlby, withoutlooking at the doctor, and playing with a paper knife, "doyou regard the murderer as mad?"
"Yes, I do," answered the doctor, bluntly. "Heis as mad as a person who kills another because he supposes he hasbeen told by God to do so—only there is method in hismadness. For instance, I believe that hansom cab murder, in whichyou were mixed up—"
"I wasn't mixed up in it," interruptedFrettlby, pale with anger.
"Beg pardon," said Chinston, coolly, "a slipof the tongue; I was thinking of Fitzgerald. Well, I believe thatcrime to have been premeditated, and that the man who committed itwas mad. He is, no doubt, at large now, walking about andconducting himself as sanely as you or I, yet the germ of insanityis there, and sooner or later he will commit anothercrime."
"How do you know it was premeditated?" askedFrettlby, abruptly.
"Any one can see that," answered the other."Whyte was watched on that night, and when Fitzgerald wentaway the other was ready to take his place, dressed thesame."
"That's nothing," retorted Frettlby, lookingat his companion sharply. "There are dozens of men inMelbourne who wear evening dress, light coats, and softhats—in fact, I generally wear them myself."
"Well, that might have been a coincidence," said thedoctor, rather disconcerted; "but the use of chloroform putsthe question beyond a doubt; people don't usually carrychloroform about with them."
"I suppose not," answered the other, and then thematter dropped. Chinston made an examination of Mark Frettlby, andwhen he had finished, his face was very grave, though he laughed atthe millionaire's fears.
"You are all right," he said, gaily. "Actionof the heart a little weak, that's all—only,"impressively, "avoid excitement—avoidexcitement."
Just as Frettlby was putting on his coat, a knock came to thedoor, and Madge entered.
"Brian is gone," she began. "Oh, I beg yourpardon, doctor—but is papa ill?" she asked with suddenfear.
"No, child, no," said Frettlby, hastily,"I'm all right; I thought my heart was affected, but itisn't."
"Not a bit of it," answered Chinston, reassuringly."All right—only avoid excitement."
But when Frettlby turned to go to the door, Madge, who had hereyes fixed on the doctor's face, saw how grave it was.
"There is danger?" she said, touching his arm asthey paused for a moment at the door.
"No! No!" he answered, hastily.
"Yes, there is," she persisted. "Tell me theworst, it is best for me to know."
The doctor looked at her in some doubt for a few moments, andthen placed his hand on her shoulder.
"My dear young lady," he said gravely, "I willtell you what I have not dared to tell your father."
"What?" she asked in a low voice, her face growingpale.
"His heart is affected."
"And there is great danger?"
"Yes, great danger. In the event of any suddenshock—" he hesitated.
"Yes—"
"He would probably drop down dead."
"My God!"
Mr. Calton sat in his office reading a letter he had justreceived from Fitzgerald, and judging from the complacent smileupon his face it seemed to give him the greatest satisfaction.
"I know," wrote Brian, "that now you havetaken up the affair, you will not stop until you find outeverything, so, as I want the matter to rest as at present, I willanticipate you, and reveal all. You were right in your conjecturethat I knew something likely to lead to the detection ofWhyte's murderer; but when I tell you my reasons for keepingsuch a thing secret, I am sure you will not blame me. Mind you, Ido not say that I know who committed the murder; but I havesuspicions—very strong suspicions—and I wish to GodRosanna Moore had died before she told me what she did. However, Iwill tell you all, and leave you to judge as to whether I wasjustified in concealing what I was told. I will call at your officesome time next week, and then you will learn everything thatRosanna Moore told me; but once that you are possessed of theknowledge you will pity me."
"Most extraordinary," mused Calton, leaning back inhis chair, as he laid down the letter. "I wonder ifhe's about to tell me that he killed Whyte after all, andthat Sal Rawlins perjured herself to save him! No, that'snonsense, or she'd have turned up in better time, andwouldn't have risked his neck up to the last moment. Though Imake it a rule never to be surprised at anything, I expect whatBrian Fitzgerald has to tell me will startle me considerably.I've never met with such an extraordinary case, and from allappearances the end isn't reached yet. After all," saidMr. Calton, thoughtfully, "truth is stranger thanfiction."
Here a knock came to the door, and in answer to an invitation toenter, it opened, and Kilsip glided into the room.
"You're not engaged, sir?" he said, in hissoft, low voice.
"Oh, dear, no," answered Calton, carelessly;"come in—come in!"
Kilsip closed the door softly, and gliding along in his usualvelvet-footed manner, sat down in a chair near Calton's, andplacing his hat on the ground, looked keenly at the barrister.
"Well, Kilsip," said Calton, with a yawn, playingwith his, watch chain, "any good news to tell me?"
"Well, nothing particularly new," purred thedetective, rubbing his hands together.
"Nothing new, and nothing true, and no matter," saidCalton, quoting Emerson. "And what have you come to see meabout?"
"The Hansom Cab Murder," replied the otherquietly.
"The deuce!" cried Calton, startled out of hisprofessional dignity. "And have you found out who didit?"
"No!" answered Kilsip, rather dismally; "but Ihave, an idea."
"So had Gorby," retorted Calton, dryly, "anidea that ended in smoke. Have you any practical proofs?"
"Not yet."
"That means you are going to get some?"
"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?"
"Aha!" said Mr. Kilsip, cautiously.
"Don't know him," answered the other, coolly;"family name Humbug, I presume. Bosh! Whom do yoususpect?"
Kilsip looked round cautiously, as if to make sure they werealone, and then said, in a stage whisper—
"Roger Moreland!"
"That was the young man that gave evidence as to how Whytegot drunk?"
Kilsip nodded.
"Well, and how do you connect him with themurder?"
"Do you remember in the evidence given by the cabmen,Royston and Rankin, they both swore that the man who was with Whyteon that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the righthand?"
"What of that? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wearsa 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," saidCalton, rising, and pacing the room. "He met Whyte; they gotdrunk together. Whyte went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwardsMoreland followed with the coat, which was left behind by Whyte,and then someone 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 hewould make out, and that after following Whyte outside, he put onhis 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 hadhe?"
"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 Whytereally had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tellhim.
"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 aboutit?"
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 theKangaroo Hotel."
"A barman!" echoed Calton; "and he came outhere as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, thatin itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murderWhyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could haveinduced him to kill his golden goose, and become abarman—pshaw! the idea is absurd."
"Well, you may be right about the matter," saidKilsip, rather angrily; "and if Gorby makes mistakes Idon't pretend to be infallible. But, at all events, when Isaw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger ofhis right hand."
"Silver isn't a diamond."
"No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed towear 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 nomore committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on thatnight to do anything."
"Humph—so he says."
"Well, men don't calumniate themselves fornothing."
"It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one,"replied Kilsip, coolly. "I am sure that Moreland was notdrunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions asto his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he letsout."
"Well, and how do you intend to set about thematter?"
"I shall start looking for the coat first."
"Ah! you think he has hidden it?"
"I am sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got outof the cab at Powlett Street—"
"But he didn't," interrupted Calton,angrily.
"Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that hedid," said Kilsip, quietly. "I say when he left the cabhe walked up Powlett Street, turned to the left down George Street,and walked back to town through the Fitzroy Gardens, then, knowingthat the coat was noticeable, he threw it away, or rather, hid it,and walked out of the Gardens through the town—"
"In evening dress—more noticeable than thecoat."
"He wasn't in evening dress," said Kilsip,quietly.
"No, neither was he," observed Calton, eagerly,recalling the evidence at the trial. "Another blow to yourtheory. The murderer was in evening dress—the cabman saidso."
"Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dressa few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who gotinto 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 themistake, 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 seeyou."
"Why? What's up?"
"She's dying, and wants to tell you somesecret."
"Rosanna Moore, by Jove!" said Calton."She'll tell me something about her. I'll get tothe bottom of this yet. All right, I'll be here at eighto'clock."
"Very well, sir!" and the detective glided out.
"I wonder if that old woman knows anything?" saidCalton to himself, as he resumed his seat. "She may haveoverheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, andintends to divulge it. Well, I'm afraid when Fitzgerald doesconfess, I shall know all about it beforehand."
Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton'soffice at eight o'clock, in order to guide him through thesqualid labyrinths of the slums. He found the barrister waitingimpatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his headthat Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, andevery new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm thisbelief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessedsomething to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name ofthe murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag hadreceived hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times beforeCalton had been on the point of going to her and trying to get thesecret out of her—that is, if she knew it; but now fateappeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confessionwas much more likely to be true than one dragged piecemeal fromunwilling lips.
By the time Kilsip made his appearance Calton was in a highstate of excitement.
"I suppose we'd better go at once," he said toKilsip, as he lit a cigar. "That old hag may go off at anymoment."
"She might," assented Kilsip, doubtfully; "butI wouldn't be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some ofthese old women have nine lives like a cat."
"Not improbable," retorted Calton, as they passedinto the brilliantly-lighted street; "her nature seemed to meto 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 herdissipated habits have pretty well settled her."
"It isn't anything catching, I hope," criedthe barrister, with a shudder, as they passed into the crowd ofBourke 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 dozens of times, andI'm all right."
"I dare say," retorted the barrister; "but Imay go there once and catch it, whatever it is."
"Take my word, sir, it's nothing worse than old ageand drink."
"Has she a doctor?"
"Won't let one come near her—prescribes forherself."
"Gin, I suppose? Humph! Much more unpleasant than theusual run of medicines."
In a short time they found themselves in Little Bourke Street,and after traversing a few dark and narrow lanes—by this timethey were more or less familiar to Calton—they foundthemselves before Mother Guttersnipe's den.
They climbed the rickety stairs, which groaned and creakedbeneath their weight, and found Mother Guttersnipe lying on the bedin the corner. The elfish black-haired child was playing cards witha slatternly-looking girl at a deal table by the faint light of atallow candle.
They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and theelfish child pushed a broken chair in a sullen manner towards Mr.Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of theroom, and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entryawoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen.Sitting up in bed, she huddled the clothes round her. She presentedsuch a gruesome spectacle that involuntarily Calton recoiled. Herwhite hair was unbound, and hung in tangled masses over hershoulders in snowy profusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, withthe hooked nose, and beady black eyes, like those of a mouse, waspoked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, werewaving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with herclaw-like hands. The square bottle and the broken cup lay besideher, and filling herself a dram, she lapped it up greedily.
The irritant brought on a paroxysm of coughing which lasteduntil the elfish child shook her well, and took the cup fromher.
"Greedy old beast," muttered this amiable infant,peering into the cup, "ye'd drink the Yarrer dry, Ib'lieve."
"Yah!" muttered the old woman feebly."Who's they, Lizer?" she said, shading her eyeswith one trembling hand, while she looked at Calton and thedetective.
"The perlice cove an' the swell," said Lizer,suddenly. "Come to see yer turn up your toes."
"I ain't dead yet, ye whelp," snarled the hagwith sudden energy; "an' if I gits up I'll turnup yer toes, cuss ye."
Lizer gave a shrill laugh of disdain, and Kilsip steppedforward.
"None of this," he said, sharply, taking Lizer byone thin shoulder, and pushing her over to where the other girl wascrouching; "stop there till I tell you to move."
Lizer tossed back her tangled black hair, and was about to makesome 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 woman in thecorner.
"You wanted to see me?" he said gently, for,notwithstanding his repugnance to her, she was, after all, a woman,and dying.
"Yes, cuss ye," croaked Mother Guttersnipe, lyingdown, and pulling the greasy bedclothes up to her neck. "Youain't a parson?" with sudden suspicion.
"No, I am a lawyer."
"I ain't a-goin' to have the cussed parsonsa-prowlin' round 'ere," growled the old woman,viciously. "I ain't a-goin' to die yet, cuss ye;I'm goin' to get well an' strong, an''ave a good time of it."
"I'm afraid you won't recover," saidCalton, gently. "You had better let me send for adoctor."
"No, I shan't," retorted the hag, aiming ablow at him with all her feeble strength. "I ain'ta-goin' to have my inside spil'd with salts and senner.I don't want neither parsons nor doctors, I don't. Iwouldn't 'ave a lawyer, only I'm a-thinkin'of makin' my will, I am."
"Mind I gits the watch," yelled Lizer, from thecorner. "If you gives it to Sal I'll tear her eyesout."
"Silence!" said Kilsip, sharply, and, with amuttered 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 thehag, with a scowl, "or I'm blamed if I tell youanything, s'elp me."
She was evidently growing very weak, so Calton turned to Kilsipand told him in a whisper to get a doctor. The detective scribbleda note on some paper, and, giving it to Lizer, ordered her to takeit. At this, the other girl arose, and, putting her arm in that ofthe child's, they left together.
"Them two young 'usseys gone?" said MotherGuttersnipe. "Right you are, for I don't want whatI've got to tell to git into the noospaper, Idon't."
"And what is it?" asked Calton, bending forward.
The old woman took another drink of gin, and it seemed to putlife into her, for she sat up in the bed, and commenced to talkrapidly, as though she were afraid of dying before her secret wastold.
"You've been 'ere afore?" she said,pointing one skinny finger at Calton, "and you wanted to findout all about 'er; but you didn't. She wouldn'tlet 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 placein the same way. You weren't about town in the old days, oryou'd a-bin after her, cuss ye."
"After Rosanna?"
"The werry girl," answered Mother Guttersnipe."She were on the stage, she were, an' my eye, what aswell she were, with all the coves a-dyin' for 'er,an' she dancin' over their black 'earts, cuss'em; but she was allays good to me till 'ecame."
"Who came?"
"'E!" yelled the old woman, raising herselfon her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury."'E, a-comin' round with di'monds and gold, anda-ruinin' my pore girl; an' how 'e's'eld 'is bloomin' 'ead up all these yearsas if he were a saint, cuss 'im—cuss'im."
"Whom does she mean?" whispered Calton toKilsip.
"Mean!" screamed Mother Guttersnipe, whose sharpears had caught the muttered question. "Why, MarkFrettlby!"
"Good God!" Calton rose up in his astonishment, andeven Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed somesurprise.
"Aye, 'e were a swell in them days," pursuedMother Guttersnipe, "and 'e comes a-philanderin'round my gal, cuss 'im, an' ruins 'er, and leaves'er an' the child to starve, like a black-'eartedvillain as 'e were."
"The child! Her name?"
"Bah," retorted the hag, with scorn, "as ifyou didn't know my gran'daughter 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 'ersilks 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 backin her bed, while Calton sat dazed, thinking over the astoundingrevelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turnout to be Mark Frettlby's mistress he hardly wondered at;after all, the millionaire was but a man, and in his young days hadbeen no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. RosannaMoore was pretty, and was evidently one of those womenwho—rakes at heart—prefer the untrammelled freedom ofbeing a mistress, to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions ofmorality, so many people live in glass houses, that there are fewnowadays who can afford to throw stones. Calton did not think anythe worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what didsurprise him was that Frettlby should be so heartless, as to leavehis child to the tender mercies of an old hag like MotherGuttersnipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of theman, that he was inclined to think that the old woman was playinghim a trick.
"Did Mr. Frettlby know Sal was his child?" heasked.
"Not 'e," snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in anexultant tone. "'E thought she was dead, 'e did,arter Rosanner gave him the go-by."
"And why did you not tell him?"
"'Cause I wanted to break 'is 'eart, if'e 'ad any," said the old beldame, vindictively."Sal was a-goin' wrong as fast as she could till shewas tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I'd'ave gone to 'im, and said, 'Look at yer darter!'Ow I've ruined her as you did mine.'"
"You wicked woman," said Calton, revolted at themalignity of the scheme. "You sacrificed an innocent girl forthis."
"None of yer preachin'," retorted the hagsullenly; "I ain't bin brought up for a saint, Iain't—an' I wanted to pay 'imout—'e paid me well to 'old my tongue about mydarter, an' I've got it 'ere," laying herhand on the pillow, "all gold, good gold—an'mine, cuss me."
Calton rose, he felt quite sick at this exhibition of humandepravity, and longed to be away. As he was putting on his hat,however, the two girls entered with the doctor, who nodded toKilsip, cast a sharp scrutinising glance at Calton, and then walkedover to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, andwaited in silence for the end. Mother Guttersnipe had fallen backin the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if toprotect her beloved gold, and over her face a deadly paleness wasspreading, which told the practised eye of the doctor that the endwas near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding thecandle to the dying woman's face. She opened her eyes, andmuttered drowsily—
"Who's you? get out," but then she seemed tograsp 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 herskinny arms. "It's all mine, ye shan't haveit—cuss 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, andburst into tears.
"Dead! dead! my poor Rosanna, with 'er golden'air, always lovin' 'er pore mother till 'etook 'er away, an' she came back todie—die—ooh!"
Her voice died away in a long melancholy wail, that made the twogirls in the corner shiver, and put their fingers in theirears.
"My good woman," said the doctor, bending over thebed, "would you not like to see a minister?"
She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhatdimmed with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, lowwhisper—
"Why?"
"Because you have only a short time to live," saidthe doctor, gently. "You are dying."
Mother Guttersnipe sprang up, and seized his arm with a screamof 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 withwonderful tenacity.
"It is impossible," he said briefly.
The hag fell back in her bed.
"I'll give you money to save me," sheshrieked; "good money—all mine—all mine.See—see—'ere—suverains," and tearingher pillow open, she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured agleaming stream of gold. Gold—gold—it rolled all overthe bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no onetouched it, so enchained were they by the horrible spectacle of thedying woman clinging to life. She clutched some of the shiningpieces, and held them up to the three men as they stood silentlybeside the bed, but her hands trembled so that sovereigns keptfalling from them on the floor with metallic clinks.
"All mine—all mine," she shrieked, loudly."Give me my life—gold—money—cuss ye—Isold my soul for it—save me—give me my life,"and, with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them.They said no word, but stood silently looking at her, while the twogirls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.
"Don't look at me—don't," criedthe hag, falling down again amid the shining gold. "Ye wantme to die,—I shan't—I shan't—give memy gold," clawing at the scattered sovereigns."I'll take it with me—I shan'tdie—G—G—" whimpering. "I ain'tdone nothin'—let me live—give me aBible—save me, G—cuss it—G—G—."She fell back on the bed, a corpse.
The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, andon the dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the threemen, sick at heart, turned away in silence to seek assistance, withthat wild cry still ringing in their ears—"G—saveme, G—!"
According to the copy books of our youth, "Procrastinationis the thief of time." Now, Brian found the truth of this. Hehad been in town almost a week, but he had not yet been to seeCalton. Each morning—or something very near it—he setout, determined to go direct to Chancery Lane, but he never arrivedthere. He had returned to his lodgings in East Melbourne, and hadpassed his time either in the house or in the garden. When perhapsbusiness connected with the sale of his station compelled hispresence in town, he drove straight there and back. Curiouslyenough he shrank from meeting any of his friends. He felt keenlyhis recent position in the prisoner's dock. And even whenwalking by the Yarra, as he frequently did, he was conscious of anuneasy feeling—a feeling that he was an object of curiosity,and that people turned to look at him out of a morbid desire to seeone who had been so nearly hanged for murder.
As soon as his station should be sold and he married to Madge hedetermined to leave Australia, and never set foot on it again. Butuntil he could leave the place he would see no one, nor would hemix with his former friends, so great was his dread of being staredat. Mrs. Sampson, who had welcomed him back with shrillexclamations of delight, was loud in her expressions of disapprovalas to the way he was shutting himself up.
"Your eyes bein' 'ollow," said thesympathising cricket, "it is nat'ral as it's wantof air, which my 'usband's uncle, being a druggist,an' well-to-do, in Collingwood, ses as 'ow a want ofox-eye-gent, being a French name, as 'e called theatmispeare, were fearful for pullin' people down, an'makin' 'em go off their food, which you hardly eatsanythin', an' not bein' a butterfly it'sexpected as your appetite would be larger."
"Oh, I'm all right," said Brian, absently,lighting a cigarette, and only half listening to hislandlady's garrulous chatter, "but if anyone calls tellthem I'm not in. I don't want to be bothered byvisitors."
"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 ofSheber, as is necessary when anyone calls, and not feelin'disposed to speak, which I'm often that way myself onoccasions, my sperits bein' low, as I've 'eardtell soder water 'ave that effect on 'em, which youtakes it with a dash of brandy, tho' to be sure that might bethe cause of your want of life, and—drat that bell,"she finished, hurrying out of the room as the front-door bellsounded, "which my legs is a-givin' way under methro' bein' overworked."
Meanwhile, Brian sat and smoked contentedly, much relieved bythe departure of Mrs. Sampson, with her constant chatter, but hesoon heard her mount the stairs again, and she entered the roomwith a telegram, which she handed to her lodger.
"'Opin' it don't contain badnoose," she said as she retreated to the door again,"which I don't like 'em 'avin' had ashock in early life thro' one 'avin' comeunexpected, as my uncle's grandfather were dead,'avin' perished of consumption, our family all beingdisposed to the disease—and now, if you'll excuse me,sir, I'll get to my dinner, bein' in the 'abit oftakin' my meals reg'lar, and I studies my insidecarefully, bein' easily upset, thro' which I nevercould be a sailor."
Mrs. Sampson, having at last exhausted herself, went out of theroom, and crackled loudly down the stairs, leaving Brian to readhis telegram. He tore open the envelope and found the message wasfrom Madge, to say that they had returned, and to ask him to dinewith them that evening. Fitzgerald folded up the telegram, thenrising from his seat, he walked moodily up and down the room withhis 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'dleave this place at once, but after the way she stood by me in mytrouble, I should be a coward if I did so."
It was as Madge had predicted—her father was unable tostay long in one place, and had come back to Melbourne a week afterBrian had arrived. The pleasant party at the station was broken up,and, like the graves of a household, the guests were scattered farand wide. Peterson had left for New Zealanden route for thewonders of the Hot Lakes, and the old colonist was about to startfor England in order to refresh his boyish memories. Mr. and Mrs.Rolleston had come back to Melbourne, where the wretched Felix wascompelled once more to plunge into politics; and Dr. Chinston hadresumed his usual routine of fees and patients.
Madge was glad to be back in Melbourne again, as now that herhealth was restored she craved for the excitement of town life. Itwas now more than three months since the murder, and the ninedays' wonder was a thing of the past. The possibility of awar with Russia was the one absorbing topic of the hour, and thecolonists were busy preparing for the attack of a possible enemy.As the Spanish Kings had drawn their treasures from Mexico andPeru, so might the White Czar lay violent hands on the goldenstores of Australia; but here there were no uncultured savages toface, but the sons and grandsons of men who had dimmed the gloriesof the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the midst ofstormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was quiteforgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detectiveoffice, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to thelist of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance,nothing new had been discovered, and it seemed likely that theassassin of Oliver Whyte would remain a free man. There were onlytwo people in Melbourne who still held the contrary opinion, andthey were Calton and Kilsip. Both these men had sworn to discoverthis unknown murderer, who struck his cowardly blow in the dark,and though there seemed no possible chance of success, yet theyworked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion ofthe dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, andthere seemed little hope of verifying them. The barrister did notas yet suspect any particular person, though the death-bedconfession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on thesubject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secretwhich Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murdererwould soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be foundthat would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at thetime of Mark Frettlby's return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton waswaiting for Fitzgerald's confession before making a move,while Kilsip worked stealthily in the dark, searching for evidenceagainst Moreland.
On receiving Madge's telegram, Brian determined to go downin the evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge tothat effect. He did not want to meet Mark Frettlby, but did not ofcourse, tell this to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself, asher father had gone to his club, and the time of his return wasuncertain. After dinner, she wrapped a light cloak round her, andrepaired to the verandah to wait for her lover. The garden lookedcharming in the moonlight, with the black, dense cypress treesstanding up against the sky, and the great fountain splashing cooland silvery. There was a heavily-foliaged oak by the gate, and shestrolled down the path, and stood under it in the shadow, listeningto the whisper and rustle of its multitudinous leaves. It iscurious the unearthly glamour which moonlight seems to throw overeverything, and though Madge knew every flower, tree, and shrub inthe garden, yet they all looked weird and fantastical in the cold,white light. She went up to the fountain, and seating herself onthe edge, amused herself by dipping her hand into the chilly water,and letting it fall, like silver rain, back into the basin. Thenshe heard the iron gate open and shut with a clash, and springingto her feet, saw someone coming up the path in a light coat andsoft wide-awake hat.
"Oh, it's you at last, Brian?" she cried, asshe ran down the path to meet him. "Why did you not comebefore?"
"Not being Brian, I can't say," answered herfather's voice. Madge burst out laughing.
"What an absurd mistake," she cried. "Why, Ithought you were Brian."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; in that hat and coat I couldn't tell thedifference in the moonlight."
"Oh," said her father, with a laugh, pushing his hatback, "moonlight is necessary to complete the spell, Isuppose?"
"Of course," answered his daughter. "If therewere no moonlight, alas, for lovers!"
"Alas, indeed!" echoed her father. "They wouldbecome as extinct as the moa; but where are your eyes, Puss, whenyou take an old man like me for your gay youngLochinvar?"
"Well, really, papa," answered Madge, deprecatingly,"you do look so like him in that coat and hat that I couldnot tell the difference, till you spoke."
"Nonsense, child," said Frettlby, roughly,"you are fanciful;" and turning on his heel, he walkedrapidly towards the house, leaving Madge staring after him inastonishment, as well she might, for her father had never spoken toher so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of his sudden anger,she stood spell-bound, until there came a step behind her, and asoft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian smilingat her.
"Oh, it's you," she said, with a pout, as hecaught her in his arms and kissed her.
"Only me," said Brian, ungrammatically;"disappointing, isn't it?"
"Oh, fearfully," answered the girl, with a gaylaugh, as arm-in-arm they walked towards the house. "But doyou know I made such a curious mistake just now; I thought papa wasyou."
"How strange," said Brian, absently, for indeed hewas admiring her charming face, which looked so pure and sweet inthe moonlight.
"Yes, wasn't it?" she replied. "He hadon a light coat and a soft hat, just like you wear sometimes, andas you are both the same height, I took you for oneanother."
Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heartas he saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed,for just at that moment there came into his mind the curiouscoincidence of the man who got into the hansom cab being dressedsimilarly to himself. What if—"Nonsense," hesaid, aloud, rousing himself out of the train of thought theresemblance had suggested.
"I'm sure it isn't," said Madge, who hadbeen 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 allanimals—Exactly."
"I don't understand—" began Brian,rather puzzled.
"Of course you don't," interrupted Madge,petulantly; "considering I've been wasting my eloquenceon a deaf man for the last ten minutes; and very likely lame aswell as deaf."
And to prove the truth of the remark, she ran up the path withBrian after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimbleand better acquainted with the garden than he was but at last hecaught her just as she was running up the steps into the house, andthen—history repeats itself.
They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Frettlby hadgone up to his study, and did not want to be disturbed. Madge satdown to the piano, but before she struck a note, Brian took bothher hands prisoners.
"Madge," he said, gravely, as she turned round,"what did your father say when you made thatmistake?"
"He was very angry," she answered. "Quitecross; I'm sure I don't know why."
Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to replywhen the visitor's bell sounded, they heard the servantanswer it, and then someone was taken upstairs to Mr.Frettlby's study.
When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who itwas that had come to the door.
"I don't know, miss," he answered; "hesaid he wanted to see Mr. Frettlby particularly, so I took him upto the study."
"But I thought that papa said he was not to bedisturbed?"
"Yes, miss, but the gentleman had an appointment withhim."
"Poor papa," sighed Madge, turning again to thepiano. "He has always got such a lot to do."
Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldteufel's lastnew valse, a dreamy, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness init, and Brian, lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang agay little French song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mockingrefrain, which made Brian laugh.
"A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and comingover to the piano. "We certainly can't approach theFrench in writing these airy trifles."
"They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge,running her fingers over the keys; "they meannothing."
"Of course not," he replied, "but don'tyou remember that De Quincy says there is no moral either big orlittle in the Iliad."
"Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allanthan all those frothy things," said Madge, with fine scorn."Come and sing it."
"A five-act funeral, it is," groaned Brian, as herose to obey; "let's have Garry Oweninstead."
Nothing else however would suit the capricious young person atthe piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint oldditty of cruel Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with suchdisdain.
"Sir John Graham was an ass," said Brian, when hehad finished; "or, instead of dying in such a silly manner,he'd have married her right off, without asking herpermission."
"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 healthnot being drunk."
"Depend upon it, she was a plain woman," remarkedBrian, gravely, "and was angry because she wasn'ttoasted among the rest of the country belles. I think the young manhad a narrow escape—she'd always have reminded himabout that unfortunate oversight."
"You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well,"said Madge, a little dryly; "however, we'll leave thefailings of Barbara Allan alone, and sing this."
This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, "Would that myLove," which was a great favourite of Brian's. Theywere in the middle of it when suddenly Madge stopped, as she hearda 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 unceremoniousdeparture, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attachmuch 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, frominside.
"Only me, papa," she answered. "I thought youwere—"
"No! No—I'm all right," replied herfather, quickly. "Go down stairs, I'll join youshortly."
Madge went back to the drawing-room only half satisfied with theexplanation. She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather ananxious face.
"What's the matter?" he asked, as she paused amoment at the foot of the stairs.
"Papa says nothing," she replied, "but I amsure he must have been startled, or he would not have cried outlike that."
She told him what Dr. Chinston had said about the state of herfather's heart, a recital which shocked Brian greatly. Theydid not return to the drawing-room, but went out on the verandah,where, after wrapping a cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit acigarette. They sat down at the far end of the verandah somewhat inthe shadow, and could see the hall door wide open, and a warm floodof mellow light pouring therefrom, and beyond the cold, whitemoonshine. After about a quarter of an hour, Madge's alarmabout her father having somewhat subsided, they were chatting onindifferent subjects, when a man came out of the hall door, andpaused for a moment on the steps of the verandah. He was dressed inrather a fashionable suit of clothes, but, in spite of the heat ofthe night, he 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 wonderwhat—Good God!" he cried, rising to his feet as thestranger turned round to look at the house, and took off his hatfor a moment—"Roger Moreland."
The man started, and looked quickly round into the dark shadowof the verandah where they were seated, then, putting on his hat,he ran quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang afterhim.
Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian'sface, as revealed by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it.
"Who is Roger Moreland?" she asked, touching hisarm—"Ah! I remember," with sudden horror,"Oliver Whyte's friend."
"Yes," in a hoarse whisper, "and one of thewitnesses at the trial."
There was not much sleep for Brian that night. He left Madgealmost immediately, and went home, but he did not go to bed. Hefelt too anxious and ill at ease to sleep, and passed the greaterpart of the night walking up and down his room, occupied with hisown sad thoughts. He was wondering in his own mind what could bethe meaning of Roger Moreland's visit to Mark Frettlby. Allthe evidence that he had given at the trial was that he had metWhyte, and had been drinking with him during the evening. Whytethen went out, and that was the last Moreland had seen of him. Now,the question was, "What did he go to see Mark Frettlbyfor?" He had no acquaintance with him, and yet he called byappointment. It is true he might have been in poverty, and themillionaire being well-known as an extremely generous man, Morelandmight have called on him for money. But then the cry which Frettlbyhad given after the interview had lasted a short time proved thathe had been startled. Madge had gone upstairs and found the doorlocked, her father refusing her admission. Now, why was he soanxious Moreland should not be seen by any one? That he had madesome startling revelation was certain, and Fitzgerald felt surethat it was in connection with the hansom cab murder case. Hewearied himself with conjectures about the matter, and towardsdaybreak threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed, and sleptheavily till twelve o'clock the next day. When he arose andlooked at himself in the glass, he was startled at the haggard andworn appearance of his face. The moment he was awake his mind wentback to Mark Frettlby and the visit of Roger Moreland.
"The net is closing round him," he murmured tohimself. "I don't see how he can escape. Oh! Madge!Madge! if only I could spare you the bitterness of knowing what youmust know, sooner or later, and that other unhappy girl—thesins of the fathers will be visited on the children—God helpthem."
He took his bath, and, after dressing himself, went into hissitting-room, where he had a cup of tea, which refreshed himconsiderably. Mrs. Sampson came crackling merrily upstairs with aletter, and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, on seeing hisaltered appearance.
"Lor, sir!" she exclaimed, "what 'aveyou bin a-doin'—me knowin' your 'abitsknow'd as you'd gone to bed, not to say as it'svery temptin' in this 'ot weather, but with excuses,sir, you looks as if you 'adn't slept a blessedwink."
"No, more I have," said Brian, listlessly holdingout his hand for the letter. "I was walking up and down myroom all last night—I must have walked miles."
"Ah! 'ow that puts me in mind of my pore'usband," chirped the cricket; "bein' aprinter, and accustomed like a howl to the darkness, when 'ewas '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, an' the only way I could stop'im was by givin' 'im something soothin',which you, sir, ought to try—whisky 'ot, with lemon andsugar—but I've 'eard tell aschloroform—"
"No, d—it," said Brian, hastily, startled outof 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 waymyself, decayed teeth runnin' in the family, tho', tobe sure, mine are stronger than former, a lodger of mine'avin' bin a dentist, an' doin' thembeautiful, instead of payin' rent, not avin' readycash, his boxes bein' filled with bricks on 'isdeparture from the 'ouse."
As Brian did not appear particularly interested in thesedomestic reminiscences, and seemed as if he wanted to be leftalone, Mrs. Sampson, with a final crackle, went down stairs andtalked with a neighbour in the kitchen, as to the desirability ofdrawing her money out of the Savings Bank, in case the Russiansshould surprise and capture Melbourne. Brian, left alone, staredout of the window at the dusty road and the black shadows cast bythe 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, andI'm not anxious to have it constantly by my side like theskeleton at the feast."
Suddenly he recollected the letter which he held in his hand,and which he now looked at for the first time. It proved to be fromMadge, and tearing it open hastily, he read it.
"I cannot understand what is the matter with papa,"she wrote.
"Ever since that man Moreland left last night, he has shuthimself up in his study, and is writing there hour after hour. Iwent up this morning, but he would not let me in. He did not comedown to breakfast, and I am getting seriously alarmed. Come downto-morrow and see me, for I am anxious about his state of health,and I am sure that Moreland told him something which has upsethim."
"Writing," said Brian, as he put the letter in hispocket, "what about, I wonder? Perhaps he is thinking ofcommitting suicide! if so, I for one will not stop him. It is ahorrible thing to do, but it would be acting for the best under thecircumstances."
In spite of his determination to see Calton and tell all,Fitzgerald did not go near him that day. He felt ill and weary, thewant of sleep, and mental worry, telling on him terribly, and helooked ten years older than he did before the murder of Whyte. Itis trouble which draws lines on the smooth forehead and furrowsround the mouth. If a man has any mental worry, his life becomes apositive agony to him. Mental tortures are quite as bad as physicalones, if not worse. The last thing before dropping off to sleep isthe thought of trouble, and with the first faint light of dawn, itreturns and hammers all day at the weary brain. But while a man cansleep, life is rendered at least endurable; and of all theblessings which Providence has bestowed, there is none so preciousas that same sleep, which, as wise Sancho Panza says, "Wrapsevery man like a cloak." Brian felt the need of rest, sosending a telegram to Calton to call on him in the morning, andanother to Madge, that he would be down to luncheon next day, hestayed indoors all day, and amused himself with smoking andreading. He went to bed early, and succeeded in having a soundsleep, so when he awoke next morning, he felt considerablyrefreshed and invigorated.
He was having his breakfast at half-past eight, when he heardthe sound of wheels, and immediately afterwards a ring at the bell.He went to the window, and saw Calton's trap was at the door.The owner was shortly afterwards shown into the room.
"Well, you are a nice fellow," cried Calton, aftergreetings were over. "Here I've been waiting for youwith all the patience of Job, thinking you were still upcountry."
"Will you have some breakfast?" asked Brian,laughing at his indignation.
"What have you got?" said Calton, looking over thetable. "Ham and eggs. Humph! Your landlady's culinaryideas are very limited."
"Most landladies' ideas are," retortedFitzgerald, resuming his breakfast. "Unless Heaven inventssome 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 musn't speak ill of thePope," answered Calton, with a grimace. "Do you thinkyour landlady could supply me with brandy and soda?"
"I think so," answered Fitzgerald, rising, andringing the bell; "but isn't it rather early for thatsort of thing?"
"There's a proverb about glass houses," saidCalton, severely, "which applies to you in this particularinstance."
Whereupon Fitzgerald laughed, and Calton having been suppliedwith what he required, prepared to talk business.
"I need hardly tell you how anxious I am to hear whatyou've got to say," he said, leaning back in his chair,"but I may as well tell you that I am satisfied that I knowhalf your secret already."
"Indeed!" Fitzgerald looked astonished. "Inthat case, I need not—"
"Yes, you need," retorted Calton. "I told youI only know half."
"Which half?"
"Hum—rather difficult to answer—however,I'll tell you what I know, and you can supply alldeficiencies. I am quite ready—goon—stop—"
He arose and closed the door carefully.
"Well," resuming his seat, "Mother Guttersnipedied the other night."
"Is she dead?"
"As a door nail," answered Calton calmly. "Anda horrible death-bed it was—her screams ring in my earsyet—but before she died she sent for me, andsaid—"
"What?"
"That she was the mother of Rosanna Moore."
"Yes!"
"And that Sal Rawlins was Rosanna'schild."
"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, "thenthis is what Rosanna Moore told you when she died?"
"Yes!"
"Then why have you made such a mystery aboutit?"
"You ask that?" said Fitzgerald, looking up, insurprise. "If I had told it, don't you see whatdifference it would have made to Madge?"
"I'm sure I don't," retorted thebarrister, completely mystified. "I suppose you meanFrettlby's connection with Rosanna Moore; well, of course, itwas not a very creditable thing for her to have beenFrettlby's mistress, but still—"
"His mistress?" said Fitzgerald, looking up sharply"then you don't know all."
"What do you mean—was she not hismistress?"
"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—shethought Rosanna was his mistress."
"He kept his marriage secret," answered Brian,"and as his wife ran away with someone else shortlyafterwards, he never revealed it."
"I understand now," said the barrister, slowly."For if Mark Frettlby was lawfully married to RosannaMoore—Madge is illegitimate."
"Yes, and she now occupies the place which SalRawlins—or rather Sal Frettlby ought to."
"Poor girl," said Calton, a little sadly. "Butall this does not explain the mystery of Whyte'smurder."
"I will tell you that," said Fitzgerald, quickly."When Rosanna left her husband, she ran away to England withsome young fellow, and when he got tired of her she returned to thestage, and became famous as a burlesque actress, under the name ofMusette. There she met Whyte, as your friend found out, and theycame out here for the purpose of extorting money from Frettlby.When they arrived in Melbourne, Rosanna let Whyte do all thebusiness, and kept herself quiet. She gave her marriage certificateto Whyte, and he had it on him the night he wasmurdered."
"Then Gorby was right," interposed Calton, eagerly."The man to whom those papers were valuable did murderWhyte!"
"Can you doubt it? And that man was—"
"Not Mark Frettlby?" burst out Calton. "Surelynot Mark Frettlby?"
Brian nodded, "Yes, Mark Frettlby."
There was a silence for a few moments, Calton being too muchstartled by the revelation to say anything.
"When did you discover this?" he asked, after apause.
"At the time you first came to see me in prison,"said Brian. "I had no suspicion till then; but when you saidthat Whyte was murdered for the sake of certain papers, I, knowingfull well what they were and to whom they were ofvalue—guessed immediately that Mark Frettlby had killed Whytein order to obtain them and to keep his secret."
"There can be no doubt of it," said the barrister,with a sigh. "So this is the reason Frettlby wanted Madge tomarry Whyte—her hand was to be the price of his silence. Whenhe withdrew his consent, Whyte threatened him with exposure. Iremember he left the house in a very excited state on the night hewas murdered. Frettlby must have followed him up to town, got intothe cab with him, and after killing him with chloroform, must havetaken the marriage certificate from his secret pocket, andescaped."
Brian rose to his feet, and walked rapidly up and down theroom.
"Now you can understand what a hell my life has been forthe last few months," he said, "knowing that he hadcommitted 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, andMadge—Madge, his daughter!"
Just then a knock came to his door, and Mrs. Sampson enteredwith a telegram, which she handed to Brian. He tore it open as shewithdrew, and glancing over it, gave a cry of horror, and let itflutter to his feet.
Calton turned rapidly on hearing his cry, and seeing him fallinto a chair with a white face, snatched up the telegram and readit. When he did so, his face grew as pale and startled asFitzgerald's, and lifting his hand, he saidsolemnly—
"It is the judgment of God!"
Men, according to the old Greek, "are the sport of thegods," who, enthroned on high Olympus, put evil desires intothe hearts of mortals; and when evil actions were the outcome ofevil thoughts, amused themselves by watching the ineffectualefforts made by their victims to escape a relentless deity calledNemesis, who exacted a penalty for their evil deeds. It was nodoubt very amusing—to the gods—but it is questionableif the men found it so. They had their revenge, however, for wearyof plaguing puny mortals, who whimpered and cried when they sawthey could not escape, the inevitable Nemesis turned her attentionfrom actors to spectators, and made a clean sweep of the wholeOlympian hierarchy. She smashed their altars, pulled down theirstatues, and after she had completed her malicious work, found thatshe had, vulgarly speaking, been cutting off her nose to spite herface, for she, too, became an object of derision and of disbelief,and was forced to retire to the same obscurity to which she hadrelegated the other deities. But men found out that she had notbeen altogether useless as a scapegoat upon which to lay the blameof their own shortcomings, so they created a new deity called Fate,and laid any misfortune which happened to them to her charge. Herworship is still very popular, especially among lazy and unluckypeople, who never bestir themselves: on the ground that whetherthey do so or not their lives are already settled by Fate. Afterall, the true religion of Fate has been preached by George Eliot,when she says that our lives are the outcome of our actions. Set upany idol you please upon which to lay the blame of unhappy livesand baffled ambitions, but the true cause is to be found in menthemselves. Every action, good or bad, which we do has itscorresponding reward, and Mark Frettlby found it so, for the sinsof his youth were now being punished in his old age. No doubt hehad sinned gaily enough in that far-off time when life's cupwas still brimming with wine, and no asp hid among the roses; butNemesis had been an unseen spectator of all his thoughtlessactions, and now she came to demand her just dues. He felt somewhatas Faust must have felt when Mephistopheles suggested a visit toHades, in repayment of those years of magic youth and magic power.So long ago it seemed since he had married Rosanna Moore, that healmost persuaded himself that it had been only a dream—apleasant dream, with a disagreeable awakening. When she had lefthim he had tried to forget her, recognising how unworthy she was ofa good man's love. He heard that she had died in a Londonhospital, and with a passionate sigh for a perished love, he haddismissed her from his thoughts for ever. His second marriage hadturned out a happy one, and he regretted the death of his wifedeeply. Afterwards, all his love centred in his daughter, and hethought he would be able to spend his declining years in peace.This, however, was not to be, and he was thunderstruck when Whytearrived from England with the information that his first wife stilllived, and that the daughter of his second was illegitimate. Soonerthan risk exposure, Frettlby agreed to anything; but Whyte'sdemands became too exorbitant, and he refused to comply with them.On Whyte's death he again breathed freely, when suddenly asecond possessor of his fatal secret started up in the person ofRoger Moreland. As the murder of Duncan had to be followed by thatof Banquo, in order to render Macbeth safe, so he foresaw thatwhile Roger Moreland lived his life would be one long misery. Heknew that the friend of the murdered man would be his master, andwould never leave him during his life, while after his death hewould probably publish the whole ghastly story, and defame thememory of the widely-respected Mark Frettlby. What is it thatShakespeare 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 ofhis wealth, was he to be dragged down to the depths of infamy anddegradation by a man like Moreland? Already, in fancy, he heard thejeering cries of his fellow-men, and saw the finger of scorn pointat him—he, the great Mark Frettlby, famous throughoutAustralia for his honesty, integrity, and generosity. No, it couldnot be, and yet this would surely happen unless he took means toprevent it.
The day after he had seen Moreland, and knew that his secret wasno longer safe, since it was in the power of a man who might revealit 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, andtaking up a portrait of his dead wife which stood just in front ofhim, he stared at it long and earnestly. As he did so, his mindwent back to the time when he had first met and loved her. Even asFaust had entered into the purity and serenity of Gretchen'schamber, out of the coarseness and profligacy of Auerbach'scellar, so he, leaving behind him the wild life of his youth, hadentered into the peace and quiet of a domestic home. The oldfeverish life with Rosanna Moore, seemed to be as unsubstantial andchimerical, as, no doubt, his union with Lillith after he met Eve,seemed to Adam in the old Rabbinical legend. There seemed to beonly one way open to him, by which he could escape the relentlessfate which dogged his steps. He would write a confession ofeverything from the time he had first met Rosanna, andthen—death. He would cut the Gordian knot of all hisdifficulties, and then his secret would be safe; safe? no, it couldnot be while Moreland lived. When he was dead Moreland would seeMadge and embitter her life with the story of her father'ssins—yes—he must live to protect her, and drag hisweary chain of bitter remembrance through life, always with thatterrible sword of Damocles hanging over him. But still, he wouldwrite out his confession, and after his death, whenever it mayhappen, it might help if not altogether to exculpate, at least tosecure some pity for a man who had been hardly dealt with by Fate.His resolution taken, he put it into force at once, and sat all dayat his desk filling page after page with the history of his pastlife, 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 peculiarpleasure in putting down every minute circumstance which made thecase stronger against himself. He dealt with it, not as a criminal,but as a prosecutor, and painted his conduct as much blacker thanit really had been. Towards the end of the day, however, afterreading over the earlier sheets, he experienced a revulsion offeeling, seeing how severe he had been on himself, so he wrote adefence of his conduct, showing that fate had been too strong forhim. It was a weak argument to bring forward, but still he felt itwas the only one that he could make. It was quite dark when he hadfinished, and while sitting in the twilight, looking dreamily atthe sheets scattered all over his desk, he heard a knock at thedoor, and his daughter's voice asking if he was coming todinner. All day long he had closed his door against everyone, butnow his task being ended, he collected all the closely-writtensheets together, placed them in a drawer of his escritoire, whichhe 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 doinghere all day by yourself?"
"Writing," returned her father laconically, as hegently removed her arms.
"Why, I thought you were ill," she answered, lookingat him apprehensively.
"No, dear," he replied, quietly. "Not ill, butworried."
"I knew that dreadful man who came last night had told yousomething to worry you. Who is he?"
"Oh! a friend of mine," answered Frettlby, withhesitation.
"What—Roger Moreland?"
Her father started.
"How do you know it was Roger Moreland?"
"Oh! Brian recognised him as he went out."
Mark Frettlby hesitated for a few moments, and then busiedhimself with the papers on his desk, as he replied in a lowvoice—
"You are right—it was Roger Moreland—he isvery hard up, and as he was a friend of poor Whyte's, heasked 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 truthso long as he could conceal it.
"Just like you," said Madge, kissing him lightlywith filial pride. "The best and kindest of men."
He shivered slightly as he felt her caress, and thought how shewould recoil from him did she know all. "After all,"says some cynical writer, "the illusions of youth are mostlydue to the want of experience." Madge, ignorant in a greatmeasure of the world, cherished her pleasant illusions, though manyof them had been destroyed by the trials of the past year, and herfather longed to keep her in this frame of mind.
"Now go down to dinner, my dear," he said, leadingher to the door. "I will follow soon."
"Don't be long," replied his daughter,"or I shall come up again," and she ran down thestairs, her heart feeling strangely light.
Her father looked after her until she vanished, then heaving aregretful sigh returned to his study, and taking out the scatteredpapers fastened them together, and endorsed them, "MyConfession." He then placed them in an envelope, sealed it,and put it back in the desk. "If all that is in that packetwere known," he said aloud, as he left the room, "whatwould the world say?"
That night he was singularly brilliant at the dinner table.Generally a very reticent and grave man, on this night he laughedand talked so gaily that the very servants noticed the change. Thefact was he felt a sense of relief at having unburdened his mind,and felt as though by writing out that confession he had laid thespectre which had haunted him for so long. His daughter wasdelighted at the change in his spirits, but the old Scotch nurse,who had been in the house since Madge was a baby, shook herhead—
"He's fey," she said gravely."He's no lang for the warld."
Of course she was laughed at—people who believe inpresentiments generally are—but, nevertheless, she heldfirmly to her opinion.
Mr. Frettlby went to bed early that night, the excitement of thelast few days and the feverish gaiety in which he had latelyindulged proving too strong for him. No sooner had he laid his headon his pillow than he dropped off to sleep at once, and forgot inplacid slumber the troubles and worries of his waking hours.
It was only nine o'clock, so Madge stayed by herself inthe great drawing-room, and read a new novel, which was thencreating a sensation, called "Sweet Violet Eyes." Itbelied its reputation, however, for it was very soon thrown on thetable with a look of disgust, and rising from her seat Madge walkedup and down the room, and wished some good fairy would hint toBrian that he was wanted. If man is a gregarious animal, how muchmore, then, is a woman? This is not a conundrum, but a simpletruth. "A female Robinson Crusoe," says a writer whoprided himself upon being a keen observer of humannature—"a female Robinson Crusoe would have gone madfor want of something to talk to." This remark, thoughsevere, nevertheless contains several grains of truth, for women,as a rule, talk more than men. They are more sociable, and a MissMisanthrope, in spite of Justin McCarthy's, isunknown—at least in civilised communities. Miss Frettlby,being neither misanthropic nor dumb, began to long for some one totalk to, and, ringing the bell, ordered Sal to be sent in. The twogirls had become great friends, and Madge, though by two years theyounger, assumed the role of mentor, and under her guidance Sal wasrapidly improving. It was a strange irony of fate which broughttogether these two children of the same father, each with suchdifferent histories—the one reared in luxury and affluence,never having known want; the other dragged up in the gutter, allunsexed and besmirched by the life she had led. "Thewhirligig of time brings in its revenges," and it was thelast thing in the world Mark Frettlby would have thought of seeing:Rosanna Moore's child, whom he fancied dead, under the sameroof as his daughter Madge.
On receiving Madge's message Sal came to the drawing room,and the two were soon chatting amicably together. The room wasalmost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted, Mr. Frettlby verysensibly detested gas, with its glaring light, and had nothing butlamps in his drawing-room. At the end of the apartment, where Saland Madge were seated, there was a small table. On it stood a largelamp, with an opaque globe, which, having a shade over it, threw asoft and subdued circle of light round the table, leaving the restof the room in a kind of semi-darkness. Near this sat Madge andSal, talking gaily, and away on the left-hand side they could seethe door open, and a warm flood of light pouring in from thehall.
They had been talking together for some time, when Sal'squick ear caught a footfall on the soft carpet, and, turningrapidly, she saw a tall figure advancing down the room. Madge sawit too, and started up in surprise on recognising her father. Hewas clothed in his dressing-gown, and carried some papers in hishand.
"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 excitedbrain, the weary body had risen from the bed and wandered about thehouse. The two girls, drawing back into the shadow, watched himwith bated breath as he came slowly down the room. In a few momentshe was within the circle of light, and, moving noiselessly along,he laid the papers he carried on the table. They were in a largeblue envelope much worn, with writing in red ink on it. Salrecognised it, at once as the one she had seen in the possession ofthe dead woman, and with an instinctive feeling that there wassomething wrong, she tried to draw Madge back, as she watched herfather's action with an intensity of feeling which held herspell-bound. Frettlby opened the envelope, and took therefrom ayellow, frayed piece of paper, which he spread out on the table.Madge bent forward to see it, but Sal, with a sudden terror drewher back.
"For God's sake no," she cried.
But it was too late; Madge had caught sight of the names on thepaper—"Marriage—Rosanna Moore—MarkFrettlby"—and the whole awful truth flashed upon her.These were the papers Rosanna Moore had handed to Whyte. Whyte hadbeen murdered by the man to whom the papers were ofvalue—
"Oh! My father!"
She staggered blindly forward, and then, with one piercingshriek, fell to the ground. In doing so, she struck against herfather, who was still standing beside the table. Awakened suddenly,with that wild cry in his ears, he opened his eyes wide, put outfeeble hands, as if to keep something back, and with a strangledcry fell dead on the floor beside his daughter. Sal, horror-struck,did not lose her presence of mind, but, snatching the papers offthe table, she thrust them into her pocket, and then called aloudfor the servants. But they, already attracted by Madge's wildcry, came hurrying in, to find Mark Frettlby, the millionaire,lying dead, and his daughter in a faint beside her father'scorpse.
As soon as Brian received the telegram which announced the deathof Mark Frettlby, he put on his hat, stepped into Calton'strap, and drove along to the St. Kilda station in Flinders Streetwith that gentleman. There Calton dismissed his trap, sending anote to his clerk with the groom, and went down to St. Kilda withFitzgerald. On arrival they found the whole house perfectly quietand orderly, owing to the excellent management of Sal Rawlins. Shehad taken the command in everything, and although the servants,knowing her antecedents, were disposed to resent her doing so, yetsuch were her administrative powers and strong will, that theyobeyed her implicitly. Mark Frettlby's body had been taken upto his bedroom, Madge had been put to bed, and Dr. Chinston andBrian sent for. When they arrived they could not help expressingtheir admiration at the capital way in which Sal Rawlins hadmanaged things.
"She's a clever girl that," whispered Caltonto Fitzgerald. "Curious thing she should have taken up herproper position in her father's house. Fate is a dealcleverer than we mortals think her."
Brian was about to reply when Dr. Chinston entered the room. Hisface was very grave, and Fitzgerald looked at him in alarm.
"Madge—Miss Frettlby," he faltered.
"Is very ill," replied the doctor; "has anattack of brain fever. I can't answer for the consequencesyet."
Brian sat down on the sofa, and stared at the doctor in a dazedsort of way. Madge dangerously ill—perhaps dying. What if shewere to die, and he to lose the true-hearted woman who stood sonobly by him in his trouble?
"Cheer up," said Chinston, patting him on theshoulder; "while there's life there's hope, andwhatever human aid can do to save her will be done."
Brian grasped the doctor's hand in silence, his heartbeing too full to speak.
"How did Frettlby die?" asked Calton.
"Heart disease," said Chinston. "His heart wasvery much affected, as I discovered a week or so ago. It appears hewas walking in his sleep, and entering the drawing-room, he alarmedMiss Frettlby, who screamed, and must have touched him. He awokesuddenly, and the natural consequences followed—he droppeddown dead."
"What alarmed Miss Frettlby?" asked Brian, in a lowvoice, covering his face with his hand.
"The sight of her father walking in his sleep, Isuppose," said Chinston, buttoning his glove; "and theshock of his death which took place indirectly through her,accounts for the brain fever."
"Madge Frettlby is not the woman to scream and waken asomnambulist," said Calton, decidedly, "knowing as shedid the danger. There must be some other reason."
"This young woman will tell you all about it," saidChinston, nodding towards Sal, who entered the room at this moment."She was present, and since then has managed thingsadmirably; and now I must go," he said, shaking hands withCalton and Fitzgerald. "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 whatstartled Miss Frettlby?"
"I can, sir," she answered quietly. "I was inthe drawing-room when Mr. Frettlby died—but—we hadbetter go up to the study."
"Why?" asked Calton, in surprise, as he andFitzgerald followed her up stairs.
"Because, sir," she said, when they had entered thestudy and she had locked the door, "I don't want anyone but yourselves to know what I tell you."
"More mystery," muttered Calton, as he glanced atBrian, and took his seat at the escritoire.
"Mr. Frettlby went to bed early last night," saidSal, calmly, "and Miss Madge and I were talking together inthe drawing-room, when he entered, walking in his sleep, andcarrying some papers—"
Both Calton and Fitzgerald started, and the latter grewpale.
"He came down the room, and spread out a paper on thetable where the lamp was. Miss Madge bent forward to see what itwas. 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 herfather. He awoke, and fell down dead."
"And the papers?" asked Calton, uneasily.
Sal did not answer, but producing them from her pocket, laidthem in his hands.
Brian bent forward, as Calton opened the envelope in silence,but both gave vent to an exclamation of horror at seeing thecertificate of marriage which they knew Rosanna Moore had given toWhyte. Their worst suspicions were confirmed, and Brian turned awayhis head, afraid to meet the barrister's eye. The latterfolded up the papers thoughtfully, and put them in his pocket.
"You know what these are?" he asked Sal, eyeing herkeenly.
"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, lookingup.
"And they were the papers she gave Mr. Whyte."
"Well!"
Sal was silent for a moment, and then looked up with aflush.
"You needn't think I'm going to split,"she said, indignantly, recurring to her Bourke Street slang in theexcitement of the moment. "I know what you know, butI'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 terriblesecret."
"I would be a nice 'un, I would," said Sal,with a scorn, "after her lifting me out of the gutter, toround on her—a poor girl like me, without a friend or arelative, now Gran's dead."
Calton looked up quickly. It was plain Sal was quite ignorantthat Rosanna Moore was her mother. So much the better; they wouldkeep her in ignorance, perhaps not altogether, but it would befolly 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 light-headed, and might let it out; butI'll not let any one in but myself," and so saying, sheleft the room.
"Cast thy bread upon the waters," said Calton,oracularly. "The kindness of Miss Frettlby to that poor waifis already bearing fruit—gratitude is the rarest ofqualities, rarer even than modesty."
Fitzgerald made no answer, but stared out of the window, andthought of his darling lying sick unto death, and he able to donothing to save her.
"Well," said Calton, sharply.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Fitzgerald, turning inconfusion. "I suppose the will must be read, and all thatsort of thing."
"Yes," answered the barrister, "I am one ofthe executors."
"And the others?"
"Yourself and Chinston," answered Calton; "soI suppose," turning to the desk, "we can look at hispapers, 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 inhis hand, which he had taken out of the drawer.
"Look here, Fitzgerald," he said, greatly excited,"here is Frettlby's confession—look!" andhe held it up.
Brian sprang forward in astonishment. So at last the hansom cabmystery was to be cleared up. These sheets, no doubt, contained thewhole 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 executorsmust 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 inthe matter, so it would be best to avoid the scandal of publicity.But why tell Chinston?"
"We must," said Calton, decidedly. "He will besure to gather the truth from Madge's ravings, and he may aswell 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 doso!"
"I must," replied the barrister, quietly."Kilsip is firmly persuaded that Moreland committed thecrime, and I have the same dread of his pertinacity as you had ofmine. He may find out all."
"What must be, must be," said Fitzgerald, clenchinghis hands. "But I hope no one else will find out thismiserable story. There's Moreland, for instance."
"Ah, true!" said Calton, thoughtfully. "Hecalled 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 heleft the hotel, and wanted hush-money."
"I wonder if he got it?" observed Fitzgerald.
"Oh, I'll soon find that out," answeredCalton, opening the drawer again, and taking out the deadman's cheque-book. "Let me see what cheques have beendrawn lately."
Most of the blocks were filled up for small amounts, and one ortwo for a hundred or so. Calton could find no large sum such asMoreland would have demanded, when, at the very end of the book, hefound a cheque torn off, leaving the block-slip quite blank.
"There you are," he said, triumphantly holding outthe book to Fitzgerald. "He wasn't such a fool as towrite in the amount on the block, but tore the cheque out, andwrote 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 securehis silence."
"I expect he cashed it yesterday, and is off by thistime," said Brian, after a moment's pause.
"So much the better for us," said Calton, grimly."But I don't think he's off, or Kilsip would havelet me know. We must tell him, or he'll get everything out ofMoreland, and the consequences will be that all Melbourne will knowthe story; whereas, by showing him the confession, we get him toleave Moreland alone, and thus secure silence in bothcases."
"I suppose we must see Chinston?"
"Yes, of course. I will telegraph to him and Kilsip tocome up to my office this afternoon at three o'clock, andthen we will settle the whole matter."
"And Sal Rawlins?"
"Oh! I quite forgot about her," said Calton, in aperplexed voice. "She knows nothing about her parents, and,of course, Mark Frettlby died in the belief that she wasdead."
"We must tell Madge," said Brian, gloomily."There is no help for it. Sal is by rights the heiress to themoney of her dead father."
"That depends upon the will," replied Calton, dryly."If it specifies that the money is left to 'mydaughter, Margaret Frettlby,' Sal Rawlins can have no claim;and if such is the case, it will be no good telling her who sheis."
"And what's to be done?"
"Sal Rawlins," went on the barrister, withoutnoticing the interruption, "has evidently never given athought to her father or mother, as the old hag, no doubt, sworethey were dead. So I think it will be best to keepsilent—that is, if no money is left to her, and, as herfather thought her dead, I don't think there will be any. Inthat case, it would be best to settle an income on her. You caneasily find a pretext, and let the matter rest."
"But suppose, in accordance with the wording of the will,she is entitled to all the money?"
"In that case," said Calton, gravely, "thereis only one course open—she must be told everything, and thedividing of the money left to her generosity. But I don'tthink you need be alarmed, I'm pretty sure Madge is theheiress."
"It's not the money I think about," saidBrian, hastily. "I'd take Madge without apenny."
"My boy," said the barrister, placing his handkindly on Brian's shoulder, "when you marry MadgeFrettlby, you will get what is better than money—a heart ofgold."
"Nothing is certain but the unforeseen;" so says aFrench proverb, and judging from the unexpected things which dailyhappen to us, it is without doubt a very true one. If anyone hadtold Madge Frettlby one day that she would be stretched on a bed ofsickness the next, and would be quite oblivious of the world andits doings, she would have laughed the prophet to scorn. Yet it wasso, and she was tossing and turning on a bed of pain to which thecouch of Procustes was one of roses. Sal sat beside her, everwatchful of her wants, and listened through the bright hours of theday, or the still ones of the night, to the wild and incoherentwords which issued from her lips. She incessantly called on herfather to save himself, and then would talk about Brian, and singsnatches of song, or would sob broken sentences about her deadmother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear her. No onewas allowed into the room except Sal, and when Dr. Chinston heardthe things she was saying, although used to such cases, herecoiled.
"There is blood on your hands," cried Madge, sittingup in bed, with her hair all tangled and falling over hershoulders; "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 weepingbitterly.
Dr. Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards tookhis leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see thepatient.
"'Tain't likely," said Sal, in adisgusted tone, as she closed the door after him. "I'mnot a viper to sting the bosom as fed me," from which it maybe gathered she was advancing rapidly in her education.
Meanwhile Dr. Chinston had received Calton's telegram, andwas considerably astonished thereat. He was still more so when, onarriving at the office at the time appointed, he found Calton andFitzgerald were not alone, but a third man whom he had never seenwas with them. The latter Calton introduced to him as Mr. Kilsip,of the detective office, a fact which made the worthy doctoruneasy, as he could in no wise divine the meaning of it. However,he made no remark, but took the seat handed to him by Mr. Caltonand prepared to listen. Calton locked the door of the office, andthen went back to his desk, having the other three seated beforehim 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 underthe will of the late Mr. Frettlby, and that is why I asked you tocome here to-day. The other executors are Mr. Fitzgerald andmyself."
"Oh, indeed," murmured the doctor, politely.
"And now," said Calton, looking at him, "doyou remember the hansom cab murder, which caused such a sensationsome 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 theaffair."
Dr. Chinston glanced enquiringly at Brian, but that gentlemanshook his head.
"It has nothing to do with my arrest," he said,sadly.
Madge's words, uttered in her delirium, flashed across thedoctor's memory.
"What do you mean?" he gasped, pushing back hischair. "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, "yourhunt after Moreland is a wild-goose chase, for the murderer ofOliver Whyte is discovered."
"Discovered!" cried Kilsip and the doctor in onebreath.
"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 hischair furiously, and arose to his feet.
"This is monstrous," he cried, in a rage. "Iwon't sit still and hear this accusation against my deadfriend."
"Unfortunately, it is too true," said Brian,sadly.
"How dare you say so?" said Chinston, turningangrily on him. "And you going to marry hisdaughter!"
"There is only one way to settle the question," saidCalton, coldly. "We must read his confession."
"But why the detective?" asked the doctor,ungraciously, as he took his seat.
"Because I want him to hear for himself that Mr. Frettlbycommitted the crime, that he may keep silence."
"Not till I've arrested him," said Kilsip,determinedly.
"But he's dead," said Brian.
"I'm speaking of Roger Moreland," retortedKilsip. "For he and no other murdered OliverWhyte."
"That's a much more likely story," Chinstonsaid.
"I tell you no," said Calton, vehemently. "Godknows I would like to preserve Mark Frettlby's good name, andit is with this object I have brought you all together. I will readthe confession, and when you know the truth, I want you all to keepsilent about it, as Mark Frettlby is dead, and the publication ofhis 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 areright and I am wrong, but what if I tell you that Mark Frettlbydied holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime wascommitted?"
Kilsip's face lengthened considerably.
"What were the papers?"
"The marriage certificate of Mark Frettlby and RosannaMoore, the woman who died in the back slum."
Kilsip was not often astonished; but he was so now. And Dr.Chinston fell back in his chair, staring at the barrister in blankamazement.
"And what's more," went on Calton,triumphantly, "do you know that Moreland went to Frettlby twonights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush-money?"
"What!" cried Kilsip.
"Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently sawFrettlby, and threatened to expose him unless he paid for hissilence."
"Very strange," murmured Kilsip, to himself, with adisappointed look on his face. "But why did Moreland keepstill so long?"
"I cannot tell you," replied Calton, "but, nodoubt, the confession will explain all."
"Then for Heaven's sake read it," broke in Dr.Chinston, impatiently. "I'm quite in the dark, and allyour talk is Greek to me."
"One moment," said Kilsip, dragging a bundle fromunder his chair, and untying it. "If you are right, whatabout this?" and he held up a light coat, very much soiledand weather-worn.
"Whose is that?" asked Calton, startled. "NotWhyte's?"
"Yes, Whyte's," repeated Kilsip, with greatsatisfaction. "I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near thegate that opens to George Street, East Melbourne. It was up in afir-tree."
"Then Mr. Frettlby must have got out at Powlett Street,and walked down George Street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardensinto town," said Calton.
Kilsip took no heed of the remark, but took a small bottle outof the pocket of the coat and held it up.
"I also found this," he said.
"Chloroform," cried everyone, guessing at once thatit was the missing bottle.
"Exactly," said Kilsip, replacing it. "Thiswas the bottle which contained the poison usedby—by—well, call him the murderer. The name of thechemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who boughtit. Now, who do you think?" with a look of triumph.
"Frettlby," said Calton, decidedly.
"No, Moreland," burst out Chinston, greatlyexcited.
"Neither," retorted the detective, calmly."The man who purchased this was Oliver Whytehimself."
"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 asto carry chloroform about in his pocket for any length of time, Imentioned the day of the murder as the probable date it was bought.The chemist turned up in his book, and found that Whyte was thepurchaser."
"And what did he buy it for?" asked Chinston.
"That's more than I can tell you," saidKilsip, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's down inthe book as being bought for medicinal uses, which may meananything."
"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 slightlysarcastic tone, "that is another of your proofs againstMoreland. He knew that Whyte had chloroform on him, therefore hefollowed him that night and murdered him?"
"Well, I—"
"It's a lot of nonsense," said the barrister,impatiently. "There's nothing against Moreland toimplicate him. If he killed Whyte, what made him go and seeFrettlby?"
"But," said Kilsip, sagely nodding his head,"if, as Moreland says, he had Whyte's coat in hispossession before the murder how is it that I should discover itafterwards up a fir-tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, with an emptychloroform bottle in the pocket."
"He may have been an accomplice," suggestedCalton.
"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, hebegan to read what the dead man had written.
"What I am now about to write is set forth by me so thatthe true circumstances connected with the 'Hansom CabTragedy,' which took place in Melbourne in 18—may beknown. I owe a confession, particularly to Brian Fitzgerald, seeingthat he was accused of the crime. Although I know he was rightfullyacquitted of the charge, yet I wish him to know all about the case,though I am convinced, from his altered demeanour towards me, thathe is better acquainted with it than he chooses to confess. Inorder to account for the murder of Oliver Whyte, I must go back tothe beginning of my life in this colony, and show how the series ofevents began which culminated in the committal of the crime.
"Should it be necessary to make this confession public, inthe interests of justice, I can say nothing against such a coursebeing 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 ofthese pages, I ask her to deal leniently with the memory of one whowas sorely tried and tempted.
"I came to the colony of Victoria, or, rather, as it wascalled then, New South Wales, in the year 18—. I had been ina merchant's office in London, but not finding muchopportunity for advancement, I looked about to see if I couldbetter myself. I heard of this new land across the ocean, andthough it was not then the El Dorado which it afterwards turnedout, and, truth to tell, had rather a shady name, owing to thetransportation of convicts, yet I longed to go there and start anew life. Unhappily, however, I had not the means, and saw nothingbetter before me than the dreary life of a London clerk, as it wasimpossible that I could save out of the small salary I got. Just atthis time, an old maiden aunt of my mother's died and left afew hundred pounds to me. With this, I came out to Australia,determined to become a rich man. I stayed some time in Sydney, andthen came over to Port Phillip, now so widely known as MarvellousMelbourne, where I intended to pitch my tent. I saw that it was ayoung and rising colony, though, of course, coming as I did, beforethe days of the gold diggings, I never dreamt it would spring up,as it has done since, into a nation. I was careful and saving inthose days, and, indeed, I think it was the happiest time of mylife.
"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 theeyes of all the nations were turned to Australia, with herglittering treasures, men poured in from all parts of the world,and the 'Golden Age' commenced. I began to grow richrapidly, and was soon pointed out as the wealthiest man in theColonies. I bought a station, and, leaving the riotous, feverishMelbourne life, went to live on it. I enjoyed myself there, for thewild, open-air life had great charms for me, and there was a senseof freedom to which I had hitherto been a stranger. But man is agregarious animal, and I, growing weary of solitude and communingswith Mother Nature, came down on a visit to Melbourne, where, withcompanions as gay as myself, I spent my money freely, and, as thephrase goes, saw life. After confessing that I loved the pure lifeof the country, it sounds strange to say I enjoyed the wild life ofthe town, but I did. I was neither a Joseph nor a St. Anthony, andI was delighted with Bohemia, with its good fellowship and charmingsuppers, which took place in the small hours of the morning, whenwit and humour reigned supreme. It was at one of these suppers thatI first met Rosanna Moore, the woman who was destined to curse myexistence. She was a burlesque actress, and all the young fellowsin those days were madly in love with her. She was not exactly whatwas called beautiful, but there was a brilliancy and fascinationabout her which few could resist. On first seeing her I did notadmire her much, but laughed at my companions as they raved abouther. On becoming personally acquainted with her, however, I foundthat her powers of fascination had not been over-rated, and I endedby falling desperately in love with her. I made enquiries about herprivate life, and found that it was irreproachable, as she wasguarded by a veritable dragon of a mother, who would let no oneapproach her daughter. I need not tell about my courtship, as thesephases of a man's life are generally the same, but it will besufficient to prove the depth of my passion for her when I say thatI determined to make her my wife. It was on condition, however,that the marriage should be kept secret until such time as I shouldchoose to reveal it. My reason for such a course was this, myfather was still alive, and he, being a rigid Presbyterian, wouldnever 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 haddone so, fearing that the shock would be too much for him in histhen state of health. I told Rosanna I would marry her, but wantedher to leave her mother, who was a perfect fury, and not anagreeable person to live with. As I was rich, young, and not badlooking, Rosanna consented, and, during an engagement she had inSydney, I went over there and married her. She never told hermother she had married me, why, I do not know, as I laid norestriction on her doing so. The mother made a great noise over thematter, but I gave Rosanna a large sum of money for her, and thisthe old harridan accepted, and left for New Zealand. Rosanna wentwith me to my station, where we lived as man and wife, though, inMelbourne, she was supposed to be my mistress. At last, feelingdegraded in my own eyes at the way in which I was supposed to beliving, I wanted to reveal our secret, but this Rosanna would notconsent to. I was astonished at this, and could never discover thereason, but in many ways Rosanna was an enigma to me. She then grewweary of the quiet country life, and longed to return to theglitter 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 thenew plaything, and again pressed me to allow her to return to thestage. I again refused, and we became estranged from one another. Igrew gloomy and irritable, and was accustomed to take long rides bymyself, frequently being away for days. There was a great friend ofmine who owned the next station, a fine, handsome young fellow,called Frank Kelly, with a gay, sunny disposition, and a wonderfulflow of humour. When he found I was so much away, thinking Rosannawas only my mistress, he began to console her, and succeeded sowell that one day, on my return from a ride, I found she had fledwith him, and had taken the child with her. She left a lettersaying that she had never really cared for me, but had married mefor my money—she would keep our marriage secret, and wasgoing to return to the stage. I followed my false friend and falsewife down to Melbourne, but arrived too late, as they had just leftfor England. Disgusted with the manner in which I had been treated,I plunged into a whirl of dissipation, trying to drown the memoryof my married life. My friends, of course, thought that my lossamounted to no more than that of a mistress, and I soon beganmyself to doubt that I had ever been married, so far away andvisionary did my life of the previous year seem. I continued myfast life for about six months, when suddenly I was arrested uponthe brink of destruction by—an angel. I say this advisedly,for if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was she whoafterwards became my wife. She was the daughter of a doctor, and itwas her influence which drew me back from the dreary path ofprofligacy and dissipation which I was then leading. I paid hergreat attention, and we were, in fact, looked upon as good asengaged; 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 mylife Fate again intervened, for I received a letter from England,which informed me that Rosanna Moore had been run over in thestreets of London, and had died in an hospital. The writer was ayoung doctor who had attended her, and I wrote home to him, begginghim to send out a certificate of her death, so that I might be sureshe was no more. He did so, and also enclosed an account of theaccident, which had appeared in a newspaper. Then, indeed, I feltthat I was free, and closing, as I thought, for ever the darkestpage of my life's history, I began to look forward to thefuture. I married again, and my domestic life was a singularlyhappy one. As the colony grew greater, with every year I becameeven more wealthy than I had been, and was looked up to andrespected by my fellow-citizens. When my dear daughter Margaret wasborn, I felt that my cup of happiness was full, but suddenly Ireceived a disagreeable reminder of the past. Rosanna'smother made her appearance one day—a disreputable-lookingcreature, smelling of gin, in whom I could not recognise therespectably-dressed woman who used to accompany Rosanna to thetheatre. She had spent long ago all the money I had given her, andhad sank lower and lower, until she now lived in a slum off LittleBourke Street. I made enquiries after the child, and she told me itwas dead. Rosanna had not taken it to England with her, but hadleft it in her mother's charge, and, no doubt, neglect andwant of proper nourishment was the cause of its death. There nowseemed to be no link to bind me to the past with the exception ofthe old hag, who knew nothing about the marriage. I did not attemptto undeceive her, but agreed to allow her enough to live on if shepromised never to trouble me again, and to keep quiet abouteverything which had reference to my connection with her daughter.She promised readily enough, and went back to her squalid dwellingin the slums, where, for all I know, she still lives, as money hasbeen paid to her regularly every month by my solicitors. I heardnothing more about the matter, and now felt quite satisfied that Ihad heard the last of Rosanna. As years rolled on, things prosperedwith me, and so fortunate was I in all speculations that my luckbecame proverbial. Then, alas! when all things seemed to smile uponme, my wife died, and the world has never seemed the same to mesince. But I had my dear daughter to console me, and in her loveand affection I became reconciled to the loss of my wife. A youngIrish gentleman, called Brian Fitzgerald, came out to Australia,and I soon saw that my daughter was in love with him, and that hereciprocated that affection, whereat I was glad, as I have alwaysesteemed him highly. I looked forward to their marriage, whensuddenly a series of events occurred, which must be fresh in thememory of those who read these pages. Mr. Oliver Whyte, a gentlemanfrom London, called on me and startled me with the news that myfirst wife, Rosanna Moore, was still living, and that the story ofher death had been an ingenious fabrication in order to deceive me.She had met with an accident, as stated in the newspaper, and hadbeen taken to an hospital, where she recovered. The young doctor,who had sent me the certificate of her death, had fallen in lovewith her, and wanted to marry her, and had told me that she wasdead in order that her past life might be obliterated. The doctor,however, died before the marriage, and Rosanna did not troubleherself about undeceiving me. She was then acting on the burlesquestage under the name of 'Musette,' and seemed to havegained an unenviable notoriety by her extravagance and infamy.Whyte met her in London, and she became his mistress. He seemed tohave had a wonderful influence over her, for she told him all herpast life, and about her marriage with me. Her popularity being onthe wane in London, as she was now growing old, and had to make wayfor younger actresses, Whyte proposed that they should proceed tothe colonies and extort money from me, and he had come to me forthat purpose. The villain told me all this in the coolest manner,and I, knowing he held the secret of my life, was unable to resentit. I refused to see Rosanna, but told Whyte I would agree to histerms, which were, first, a large sum of money was to be paid toRosanna, and, secondly, that he should marry my daughter. I, atfirst, absolutely declined to sanction the latter proposal, but ashe threatened to publish the story, and that meant the proclamationto the world of my daughter's illegitimacy, I atlast—agreed, and he began to pay his addresses to Madge. She,however, refused to marry him, and told me she was engaged toFitzgerald, so, after a severe struggle with myself, I told Whytethat I would not allow him to marry Madge, but would give himwhatever sum he liked to name. On the night he was murdered he cameto see me, and showed me the certificate of marriage between myselfand Rosanna Moore. He refused to take a sum of money, and said thatunless I consented to his marriage with Madge he would publish thewhole affair. I implored him to give me time to think, so he saidhe would give me two days, but no more, and left the house, takingthe marriage certificate with him. I was in despair, and saw thatthe only way to save myself was to obtain possession of themarriage certificate and deny everything. With this idea in my mindI followed him up to town and saw him meet Moreland, and drink withhim. They went into the hotel in Russell Street, and when Whytecame out, at half-past twelve, he was quite intoxicated. I saw himgo along to the Scotch Church, near the Bourke and Wills'monument, and cling to the lamp-post at the corner. I thought Iwould then be able to get the certificate from him, as he was sodrunk, when I saw a gentleman in a light coat—I did not knowit was Fitzgerald—come up to him and hail a cab for him. Isaw 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 carryout his determination. Nothing, however, turned up, and I wasbeginning to think that Whyte had abandoned his purpose, when Iheard that he had been murdered in the hansom cab. I was in greatfear lest the marriage certificate should be found on him, butnothing was said about it. This I could not understand at all. Iknew he had it on him, and I could only conclude that the murderer,whoever he was, had taken it from the body, and would sooner orlater come to me to extort money, knowing that I dare not denouncehim. Fitzgerald was arrested, and afterwards acquitted, so I beganto think that the certificate had been lost, and my troubles wereat an end. However, I was always haunted by a dread that the swordwas hanging over my head, and would fall sooner or later. I wasright, for two nights ago Roger Moreland, who was an intimatefriend of Whyte's, called on me, and produced the marriagecertificate, which he offered to sell to me for five thousandpounds. In horror, I accused him of murdering Whyte, which hedenied at first, but afterwards acknowledged, stating that I darenot betray him for my own sake. I was nearly mad with the horror Iwas placed in, either to denounce my daughter as illegitimate orlet a murderer escape the penalty of his crime. At last I agreed tokeep silent, and handed him a cheque for five thousand pounds,receiving in return the marriage certificate. I then made Morelandswear to leave the colony, which he readily agreed to do, sayingMelbourne was dangerous. When he left I reflected upon theawfulness of my position, and I had almost determined to commitsuicide, but, thank God, I was saved from that crime. I write thisconfession in order that after my death the true story of themurder of Whyte may be known, and that any one who may hereafter beaccused of the murder may not be wrongfully punished. I have nohopes of Moreland ever receiving the penalty of his crime, as whenthis is opened all trace of him will, no doubt, be lost. I will notdestroy the marriage certificate, but place it with these papers,so that the truth of my story can be seen. In conclusion, I wouldask forgiveness of my daughter Margaret for my sins, which havebeen visited on her, but she can see for herself that circumstanceswere too strong for me. May she forgive me, as I hope God in Hisinfinite mercy will, and may she come sometimes and pray over mygrave, nor think too hardly upon her dead father."
Calton's voice faltered a little when he read those lastsad words, and he laid the manuscript down on the table, amid adead silence, which was first broken by Brian.
"Thank God," he said, reverently, "thank Godthat he was innocent of the crime!"
"No," said Calton, a little cynically, "theriddle which has perplexed us so long is read, and the Sphinx issilent for evermore."
"I knew he was incapable of such a thing," criedChinston, whom emotion had hitherto kept silent.
Meanwhile Kilsip listened to these eulogistic remarks on thedead man, and purred to himself, in a satisfied sort of way, like acat who has caught a mouse.
"You see, sir," he said, addressing the barrister,"I was right after all."
"Yes," answered Calton, frankly, "Iacknowledge my defeat, but now—"
"I'm going to arrest Moreland right off," saidKilsip.
There was a silence for a few moments, and then Calton spokeagain.
"I suppose it must be so—poor girl—poorgirl."
"I'm very sorry for the young lady myself,"said the detective in his soft, low voice; "but you see Icannot let a dangerous criminal escape for a mere matter ofsentiment."
"Of course not," said Fitzgerald, sharply."Moreland must be arrested right off."
"But he will confess everything," said Calton,angrily, "and then everyone will know about this firstmarriage."
"Let them," retorted Brian, bitterly. "As soonas she is well enough we will marry at once, and leave Australiafor ever."
"But—"
"I know her better than you do," said the young man,doggedly; "and I know she would like an end made of thiswhole miserable business at once. Arrest the murderer, and let himsuffer for his crime."
"Well, I suppose it must be so," said Chinston, witha sigh, "but it seems very hard that this slur should be castupon Miss Frettlby."
Brian turned a little pale.
"The sins of the father are generally visited upon thechildren by the world," he said bitterly. "But afterthe first pain is over, in new lands among new faces, she willforget the bitter past."
"Now that it is settled Moreland is to be arrested,"said Calton, "how is it to be done? Is he still inMelbourne?"
"Rather," said Kilsip in a satisfied tone;"I've had my eye on him for the last two months, andsomeone is watching him for me now—trust me, he can'tmove two steps without my knowing it."
"Ah, indeed!" said Calton, quickly. "Then doyou know if he has been to the bank and cashed that cheque for fivethousand, which Frettlby gave him?"
"Well, now," observed Kilsip, after a pause,"do you know you rather startled me when you told me he hadreceived a cheque for that amount."
"Why?"
"It's such a large one," replied thedetective, "and had I known what sum he had paid into hisaccount I should have been suspicious."
"Then he has been to the bank?"
"To his own bank, yes. He went there yesterday afternoonat two o'clock—that is the day after he got it—soit would be sent round to Mr. Frettlby's bank, and would notbe returned till next day, and as he died in the meanwhile I expectit hasn't been honoured, so Mr. Moreland won't have hismoney yet."
"I wonder what he'll do," said Chinston.
"Go to the manager and kick up a row," said Kilsip,coolly, "and the manager will no doubt tell him he'dbetter see the executors."
"But, my good friend, the manager doesn't know whothe executors are," broke in Calton, impatiently. "Youforget 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 theyare," retorted Kilsip.
"Thinton and Tarbit," said Calton, musingly;"but it's questionable if Moreland would go tothem."
"Why shouldn't he, sir?" said Kilsip, quickly."He does not know anything about this," laying his handon the confession, "and as the cheque is genuine enough hewon't let five thousand pounds go without astruggle."
"I'll tell you what," observed Calton, after afew moments of reflection, "I'll go across the way andtelephone to Thinton and Tarbit, and when he calls on them they cansend 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 roseand put on his hat.
"Is here," said the detective, producing it.
"By Jove, you must have been pretty certain of hisguilt," remarked Chinston, dryly.
"Of course I was," retorted Kilsip, in a satisfiedtone of voice. "When I told the magistrate where I found thecoat, and reminded him of Moreland's acknowledgment at thetrial, that he had it in his possession before the murder, I soongot him to see the necessity of having Morelandarrested."
"Half-past four," said Calton, pausing for a momentat the door and looking at his watch. "I'm afraidit's rather late to catch Moreland to-day; however,I'll see what Thinton and Tarbit know," and he wentout.
The rest sat waiting his return, and chatted about the curiousend of the hansom cab mystery, when, in about ten minutes, Caltonrushed in hurriedly and closed the door after him quickly.
"Fate is playing into our hands," he said, as soonas he recovered his breath. "Moreland called on Thinton andTarbit, as Kilsip surmised, and as neither of them was in, he saidhe would call again before five o'clock. I told the clerk tobring him up to me at once, so he may be here at anymoment."
"That is, if he's fool enough to come,"observed Chinston.
"Oh, he'll come," said the detective,confidently, rattling a pair of handcuffs together. "He is sosatisfied that he has made things safe that he'll walk rightinto the trap."
It was getting a little dusk, and the four men were greatlyexcited, though they concealed it under an assumed nonchalance.
"What a situation for a drama," said Brian.
"Only," said Chinston, quietly, "it is asrealistic as in the old days of the Coliseum, where the actor whoplayed Orpheus was torn to pieces by bears at the end of theplay."
"His last appearance on any stage, I suppose," saidCalton, a little cruelly, it must be confessed.
Meanwhile, Kilsip remained seated in his chair, humming anoperatic air and chinking the handcuffs together, by way ofaccompaniment. 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 atall his ideas as foolish, and who had been quite wrong from thefirst. If only—"
"Hush!" said Calton, holding up his finger, as stepswere heard echoing on the flags outside. "Here he is, Ibelieve."
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 hedid so, there was a knock at the door, and, in response toCalton's invitation to enter, Thinton and Tarbit'sclerk came in with Roger Moreland. The latter faltered a little onthe threshold, when he saw Calton was not alone, and seemed halfinclined to retreat. But, evidently, thinking there was no dangerof his secret being discovered, he pulled himself together, andadvanced into the room in an easy and confident manner.
"This is the gentleman who wants to know about the cheque,sir," said Thinton and Tarbit's clerk to Calton.
"Oh, indeed," answered Calton, quietly. "I amglad 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 hisback to the door. Kilsip, seeing this, strolled across the room ina nonchalant manner, while Calton engaged Moreland in conversation,and quietly turned the key.
"You want to see me, sir?" said Calton, resuming hisseat.
"Yes; that is alone," replied Moreland,uneasily.
"Oh, these gentlemen are my friends," said Calton,quietly; "anything you may say is quite safe."
"That they are your friends, and are quite safe, isnothing to me," said Moreland, insolently, "I wish tospeak to you in private."
"Don't you think you would like to know myfriends?" said Calton, coolly taking no notice of hisremark.
"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 hesaw Whyte's coat, all weather-stained, lying on a chair nearhim, and which he immediately recognised.
"That is the rope that's going to hang you,"said Kilsip, quietly, coming behind him, "for the murder ofOliver Whyte."
"Trapped by G—!" shouted the wretched man,wheeling round, so as to face Kilsip. He sprang at thedetective's throat, and they both rolled together on thefloor, but the latter was too strong for him, and, after a sharpstruggle, he succeeded in getting the handcuffs on Moreland'swrists. The others stood around perfectly quiet, knowing thatKilsip required no assistance. Now that there was no possibility ofescape, Moreland seemed to become resigned, and rose sullenly offthe floor.
"I'll make you pay for this," he hissedbetween hie teeth, with a white despairing face. "Youcan't prove anything."
"Can't we?" said Calton, touching theconfession. "You are wrong. This is the confession of MarkFrettlby made before he died."
"It's a lie."
"A jury will decide that," said the barrister,dryly. "Meanwhile you will pass the night in the MelbourneGaol."
"Ah! perhaps they'll give me the same cell as youoccupied," said Moreland, with a hard laugh, turning toFitzgerald. "I should like it for its oldassociations."
Brian did not answer him, but picking up his hat and gloves,prepared to go.
"Stop!" cried Moreland, fiercely. "I see thatit's all up with me, so I'm not going to lie like acoward. I've played for a big stake and lost, but if Ihadn't been such a fool I'd have cashed that cheque thenext morning, and been far away by this time."
"It certainly would have been wiser," saidCalton.
"After all," said Moreland, nonchalantly, taking nonotice of his remark, "I don't know that I'msorry about it. I've had a hell upon earth since I killedWhyte."
"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. WhenI met him that night he told me how Frettlby wouldn't let himmarry his daughter, but said he'd make him, and showed me themarriage certificate. I thought if I could only get it I'dmake a nice little pile out of Frettlby over it; so when Whyte wenton drinking I did not. After he had gone out of the hotel, I put onhis coat, which he left behind. I saw him standing near thelamp-post, and Fitzgerald come up and then leave him. When you camedown the street," he went on, turning to Fitzgerald, "Ishrank back into the shadow, and when you passed I ran up to Whyteas 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 ofmurdering 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 Ithought of the chloroform in the pocket of his coat, which I waswearing. I pulled it out, and found that the cork was loose. Then Itook out Whyte's handkerchief, which was also in the coat,and emptied the bottle on it, and put it back in my pocket. I againtried to get the papers, without using the chloroform, butcouldn't, so I clapped the handkerchief over his mouth, andhe went off after a few minutes, and I got the papers. I thought hewas only insensible, and it was only when I saw the newspapers thatI knew he was dead. I stopped the cab in St. Kilda Road, got outand caught another cab, which was going to town. Then I got out atPowlett Street, took off the coat, and carried it over my arm. Iwent down George Street, towards the Fitzroy Gardens, and havinghid the coat up a tree, where I suppose you found it," toKilsip, "I walked home—so I've done you allnicely, 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 chessboard, after all, and we are the puppets of Fate."
He refused to utter another word; so leaving Calton and Kilsipwith him, Brian and the doctor went out and hailed a cab. It droveup to the entrance of the court, where Calton's office was,and then Moreland, walking as if in a dream, left the room, and gotinto the cab, followed by Kilsip.
"Do you know," said Chinston, thoughtfully, as theystood and watched the cab drive off, "do you know what theend of that man will be?"
"It requires no prophet to foretell that," saidCalton, dryly. "He will be hanged."
"No, he won't," retorted the doctor. "Hewill commit suicide."
There are certain periods in the life of man when Fate seems tohave done her worst, and any further misfortunes which may befallare accepted with a philosophical resignation, begotten by the veryseverity of previous trials. Fitzgerald was in this state ofmind—he was calm, but it was the calmness ofdespair—the misfortunes of the past year seemed to have cometo a climax, and he looked forward to the publication of the wholebitter story with an indifference that surprised himself. His ownname, and that of Madge and her dead father, would be on everytongue, yet he felt perfectly callous to whatever might be said onthe subject. So long as Madge recovered, and they could go away toanother part of the world, leaving Australia, with its bittermemories behind—he did not care. Moreland would suffer thebitter penalty of his crime, and then nothing more would ever beheard of the matter. It would be better for the whole story to betold, and transitory pain endured, than to go on striving to hidethe infamy and shame which might be discovered at any moment.Already the news was all over Melbourne that the murderer of OliverWhyte had been captured, and that his confession would bring tolight certain startling facts concerning the late Mark Frettlby.Brian well knew that the world winked at secret vices so long asthere was an attempt at concealment, though it was cruelly severeon those which were brought to light, and that many whose livesmight be secretly far more culpable than poor MarkFrettlby's, would be the first to slander the dead man. Thepublic curiosity, however, was destined never to be gratified, forthe next day it was known that Roger Moreland had hanged himself inhis cell during the night, and had left no confession behindhim.
When Brian heard this, he breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanksfor his deliverance, and went to see Calton, whom he found at hischambers, in deep conversation with Chinston and Kilsip. They allcame to the conclusion that as Moreland was now dead, nothing couldbe gained by publishing the confession of Mark Frettlby, so agreedto burn it, and when Fitzgerald saw in the heap of blackened paperin the fireplace all that remained of the bitter story, he felt aweight lifted off his heart. The barrister, Chinston, and Kilsip,all promised to keep silent, and they kept the promise nobly, fornothing was ever known of the circumstances which led to the deathof Oliver Whyte, and it was generally supposed that it must havebeen caused by some quarrel between the dead man and his friendRoger Moreland.
Fitzgerald, however, did not forget the good service that Kilsiphad done him, and gave him a sum of money which made himindependent for life, though he still followed his old professionof a detective from sheer love of excitement, and was always lookedupon with admiration as the man who had solved the mystery of thefamous hansom cab murder. Brian, after several consultations withCalton, at last came to the conclusion that it would be useless toreveal to Sal Rawlins the fact that she was Mark Frettlby'sdaughter, as by the will the money was clearly left to Madge, andsuch a revelation could bring her no pecuniary benefit, while herbringing up unfitted her for the position; so a yearly income, morethan sufficient for her wants, was settled upon her, and she wasallowed to remain in ignorance of her parentage. The influence ofSal Rawlins' old life, however, was very strong on her, andshe devoted herself to the task of saving her fallen sisters.Knowing as she did, all the intricacies of the slums, she wasenabled to do an immense amount of good, and many an unhappy womanwas saved from the squalor and hardship of a gutter life by thekind hand of Sal Rawlins.
Felix Rolleston became a member of Parliament, where hisspeeches, if not very deep, were at least amusing; and while in theHouse he always behaved like a gentleman, which could not be saidof all his Parliamentary colleagues.
Madge slowly recovered from her illness, and as she had beenexplicitly named in the will as heiress to Mark Frettlby'sgreat wealth, she placed the management of her estates in the handsof Mr. Calton, who, with Thinton and Tarbit, acted as her agents inAustralia. On her recovery she learned the story of herfather's early marriage, but both Calton and Fitzgerald weresilent about the fact of Sal Rawlins being her half-sister, as sucha relation could do no good, and would only create a scandal, as noexplanation could be given except the true one. Shortly afterwardsMadge married Fitzgerald, and both of them only too gladly leftAustralia, with all its sorrows and bitter memories.
Standing with her husband on the deck of one of the P. and O.steamers, as it ploughed the blue waters of Hobson's Bay intofoam, they both watched Melbourne gradually fade from their view,under the glow of the sunset. They could see the two great domes ofthe Exhibition, and the Law Courts, and also Government House, withits tall tower rising from the midst of the green trees. In thebackground was a bright crimson sky, barred with masses of blackclouds, and over all the great city hung a cloud of smoke like apall. The flaring red light of the sinking sun glared angrily onthe heavy waters, and the steamer seemed to be making its waythrough a sea of blood. Madge, clinging to her husband's arm,felt her eyes fill with tears, as she saw the land of her birthreceding slowly.
"Good-bye," she murmured, softly. "Good-byefor ever."
"You do not regret?" he said, bending his head.
"Regret, no," she answered, looking at him withloving eyes. "With you by my side, I fear nothing. Surely ourhearts have been tried in the furnace of affliction, and our lovehas been chastened and purified."
"We are sure of nothing in this world," repliedBrian, with a sigh. "But after all the sorrow and grief ofthe past, let us hope that the future will be peace."
"Peace!"
A white-winged sea-gull rose suddenly from the crimson waters,and circled rapidly in the air above them.
"A happy omen," she said, looking up fondly to thegrave face of her husband, "for your life and formine."
He bent down and kissed her.
The great steamer moved slowly out to sea, and as they stood onthe deck, hand clasped in hand, with the fresh salt breeze blowingkeenly in their faces, it bore them away into the placid beauty ofthe coming night, towards the old world and the new life.
This site is full of FREE ebooks -Project Gutenberg Australia