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Rh fact is, Kilsip had believed firmly that Fitzgerald was the right man, but a doubt having been put into his mind by Calton, he thought he would irritate Gorby by these insinuations, though he himself knew nothing that could justify them.

"He's a cat and a snake," said Gorby to himself, when the door was closed on his brother detective; "but it's only brag; there isn't a link missing in the chain of evidence against Fitzgerald, so I defy him to do his worst."

At eight o'clock on that night the soft-footed and soft-voiced detective presented himself at Calton's office, and found the lawyer impatiently waiting for him. Kilsip closed the door softly, and then taking a seat opposite to Calton, waited for him to speak. The lawyer, however, first handed him a cigar, and then producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses from some mysterious recess, he filled one and pushed it toward the detective. Kilsip accepted these little attentions with the utmost gravity, yet they were not without their effect on him, as the keen-eyed lawyer saw. Calton was a great believer in diplomacy, and never lost an opportunity of inculcating it into young men starting in life. "Diplomacy," said Calton to one young aspirant for legal honors, "is the oil we cast on the troubled waters of social, professional and political life; and if you can, by a little tact, manage mankind, you are pretty certain to get on in this world." Of course, he practiced what he preached, and knowing that Kilsip had that feline nature which likes to be stroked and made much of, he paid him these little attentions, which he well knew would make the detective willing to do everything in his power to help him. Calton also knew the dislike that Kilsip entertained for Gorby, and so, by dextrous management, he calculated upon twisting him, clever as he was, round his finger, and, as subsequent events showed, he had not reckoned wrongly. Having thus got into a sympathetic frame of mind, and in a humor to bend his best energies to the work he wanted him to do, Calton started the conversation.

"I suppose," he said, leaning back in his chair, and watching the wreaths of blue smoke curling from his cigar, "I suppose you know all the ins and outs of the hansom cab murder?"


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128 much for the collection, for he needed the rent money to live on.

"If that's the case, you need only pay me my expenses," answered McKinley, and footed them up, a total of less than a dollar. The miserly soldier expressed himself as being very thankful and went away chuckling, no doubt, in his sleeve over the way he had outwitted McKinley.

But the incident was not yet finished. Shortly after that time the young lawyer, in looking up some mortgage records, discovered that the old soldier owned considerable property and also several first-class mortgages. It chagrined him greatly to think how he had been deceived, but he kept the matter to himself.

One day the old soldier got into a legal difficulty over one of the mortgages he held. He wanted McKinley' s aid, but hated to go to the young lawyer about it, thinking his seeming poverty would be exposed as a sham. However, at last he went to the young lawyer and stated the case.

"I know you can win this case," said he. "And I suppose you'll do it very reasonably for me."

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Rh "I will look the case over first and see what it's about," was the brief reply.

The young lawyer did look the case over, and the next day offered his services to the opposite side, should the case be brought to court. At this the miserly old soldier was furious.

"You deceived me!" he cried. "You said you would take the case for me."

"Not at all. I said I would look the case over," answered McKinley.

"I will get another lawyer, who is much smarter than you," roared the unreasonable man.

"You can do as you please about that," was the calm answer, "only be sure and pay the other lawyer a fair fee."

The old soldier did get another lawyer, a man with whom McKinley happened to be well acquainted. Just before the trial the two lawyers met and passed a few words about the case.

"Whether you win or lose, be sure to make your client pay you fairly for your services," cautioned McKinley, and then told of what had before occurred. The other listened attentively to the story, and


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100 "I should rather think so," said Kilsip, with a curious light in his queer eyes. "Why, Gorby does nothing but brag about it, and his smartness in catching the supposed murderer!"

"Aha!" said Calton, leaning forward, and putting his arms on the table. "Supposed murderer. Eh! Does that mean that he hasn't been convicted by a jury, or do you think Fitzgerald is innocent?"

Kilsip stared hard at the lawyer, in a vague kind of way, slowly rubbing his hands together.

"Well," he said at length, in a deliberate manner, "before I got your note, I was convinced Gorby had got hold of the right man, but when I heard that you wanted to see me, and knowing that you are defending the prissonerprisoner [sic], I guessed that you must have found something in his favor which you want me to look after."

"Right!" said Calton, laconically.

"As Mr. Fitzgerald said he met Whyte at the corner and hailed the cab——" went on the detective.

"How do you know that?" interrupted Calton, sharply.

"Gorby told me."

"How the devil did he find out?" cried the lawyer, with genuine surprise.

"Because he is always poking and prying about," said Kilsip, forgetting, in his indignation, that such poking and prying formed part of detective business. "But at any rate," he went on quickly, "if Mr. Fitzgerald did leave Mr. Whyte, the only chance he's got of proving his innocence is that he did not come back, as the cabman alleged."

"Then, I suppose, you think, that Fitzgerald will prove an alibi," said Calton.

"Well, sir," answered Kilsip, modestly, of course you know more about the case than I do, but that is the only defence I can see he can make."

"Well, he's not going to put in such a defence."

"Then he must be guilty," said Kilsip, promptly.

"Not necessarily," returned the barrister, dryly.

"But if he wants to save his neck, he'll have to prove an alibi" persisted the other.

"That's just where the point is," answered Calton. "He doesn't want to save his neck."

Kilsip, looking rather bewildered, took a sip of wine,


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130 thanked his legal rival for the information.

The miserly old soldier had really a poor case, and McKinley won the suit with little trouble, much to the satisfaction of the man who had engaged him. Shortly after that he met the counsel for the losing party.

"I am glad that you told me what manner of man my client was," said the other lawyer. "As soon as I saw how poor his case really was, and heard how he had treated you, I made him pay me a retainer almost equal to my whole bill for services. He was furious when the case was lost, and he wanted me to pay back the money. He called me a swindler, and I couldn't shut him up until I threatened to sue him for blackmail. Then he sneaked off scared to death. I want nothing more to do with such a man."

"Nor do I," answered McKinley.

As the days slipped by, Judge Belden kept his eyes on the young lawyer, and presently placed another case in his hands. Again the rising young advocate did his best, and won the suit.

"You are just the young man I am


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Rh and waited to hear what Mr. Calton had to say on the subject.

"The fact is," said Calton, lighting a fresh cigar, "he's got some extraordinary idea in his head about keeping where he was that night a secret."

"I understand," said Kilsip, gravely nodding his head. "Women!"

"Nothing of the sort," retorted Calton, hastily. "That's what I thought at first, but I was wrong; he went to see a dying woman who wanted to tell him something."

"What about?"

"That's just what I can't tell you," answered Calton, quickly. "It must have been something important, for she sent for him in great haste—and he was by her bedside between the hours of one and two on Friday morning."

"Then he did not return to the cab?"

"No, he did not; he went to keep his appointment, but, for some reason or another, won't tell where this appointment was. I went to his rooms to-day and found this half-burnt letter, asking him to come."

Calton handed the letter to Kilsip, who placed it on the table and examined it carefully.

"This was written on Thursday," said the detective.

"Of course—you can see that from the date; and Whyte was murdered on Friday, the 27th."

"It was written at something Villa, Toorak," pursued Kilsip, still examining the paper. "Oh! I understand, he went down there."

"Hardly," retorted Calton, in a sarcastic tone. "He couldn't very well go down there, have an interview and be back in East Melbourne in one hour—the cabman Royston can prove that he was at Russell Street at one o'clock, and his landlady that he entered his lodging in East Melbourne at two— no, he wasn't at Toorak."

"When was this letter delivered?"

"Shortly before twelve o'clock, at the Melbourne Club, by a girl, who, from what the waiter saw of her, appears to be a disreputable individual—you will see it says bearer will wait him at Bourke Street, and as another street is mentioned, and as Fitzgerald, after leaving Whyte, went down Russell Street to keep his appointment, the most


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Rh for," said the judge. "How would you like to go into partnership with me?"

"I'd like that very well—if I am equal to it," was the quick answer, and shortly after that a partnership was formed which continued until the able judge's death.

The forming of this partnership increased McKinley's income, but it likewise increased his work, until it was said that he was one of the busiest lawyers in Stark County. He was conscientious to the last degree, and had the fullest confidence of all who placed their cases in his hands. Said one merchant of him:—

"During his law career McKinley and his partner took up three cases for our firm. They won two and lost the other. At first we were angry at losing that last case, but looking back, I am satisfied that McKinley did all that any lawyer could do, and more than many would do. A similar case was tried in Philadelphia by the leading lawyers of that city and fell through just as ours did."

As a general thing law cases make rather dry reading, but there was one case which McKinley tried which was full of humor.


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102 logical conclusion is that the bearer of the letter waited for him at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. Now," went on the lawyer, "I want to find out who the girl that brought the letter is?"

"But how!"

"God bless my soul, Kilsip! How stupid you are," cried Calton, his irritation getting the better of diplomacy. "Can't you understand—that paper came from one of the back slums—therefore it must have been stolen."

A sudden light flashed into Kilsip's eyes.

"Talbot Villa, Toorak," he cried quickly, snatching up the letter again, and examining it with great attention, "where that burglary took place."

"Exactly," said Calton, smiling complacently. "Now do you understand what I want—you must take me to the crib in the back slums where the articles stolen from the house in Toorak were hidden. This paper"—pointing to the letter—"is part of the swag left behind, and must have been used by someone there. Brian Fitzgerald obeyed the directions given in the letter, and he was there at the time of the murder."

"I understand," said Kilsip, with a gratified purr. "There were four men engaged in that burglary, and they hid the swag at Mother Guttersnipe's crib, in a lane off Little Bourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr. Fitzgerald, in evening dress, couldn't very well have gone down there unless——"

"He had some one with him well known in the locality," finished Calton, rapidly. "Exactly, that woman who delivered the letter at the Club guided him. Judging from the waiter's description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums."

"Well," said Kilsip, rising and looking at his watch, "it is now nine o'clock, so if you like we will go to the old hag's place at once—dying woman," he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, "there was a woman died there about four weeks ago."

"Who was she?" asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.

"Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe's, I fancy," answered Kilsip, as they left the office. "I don't know exactly what she was—she was called the 'Queen,' and a


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132 A doctor was sued for malpractice, his patient claiming that the physician had set his broken leg in such a fashion that the limb was bow-legged to the point of positive deformity.

The doctor was well known, and when the case came to trial, the court-room was crowded. The plaintiff's lawyer made a long argument, stating that previous to the time when his client had injured his limb the leg had been perfectly straight, and that it would now be straight if it had been properly set, but that the doctor had performed an operation which had done more harm than good, and left the man in such a condition that he was the laughing-stock of the whole community. Heavy damages were demanded, and the jury could not do anything but give the poor, suffering plaintiff his just due.

"I will now have my client show the twisted limb," continued the lawyer, and had the man roll up his trouser leg. "There, did you ever see anything more frightful? It is an outrage, positively an outrage!" he cried loudly. "If my client had been rich, this would never have


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Rh, but as he was poor, he was treated worse than a dog in this matter. Gentlemen of the jury, he asks for justice at your hands, and I know you will not deny it to him."

Judge and jury looked at the twisted limb, and saw that it was certainly in a frightfully bowed shape. Then the jurymen looked at each other. Plainly it was a clear case, and the doctor must suffer for it.

But before coming to the trial McKinley had made several inquiries about the plaintiff, and now when the man was on the stand he looked him over with great care. When it came his turn to speak, he turned to the judge.

"May it please your honor, I would like to have the plaintiff bare his other leg," he said.

"No! no!" cried the opposing lawyer. "I object."

At this the judge looked up in curiosity.

"Upon what grounds?" he asked.

"Upon the grounds that the other leg is not in the case. We are suing for damages on the leg that was twisted out of shape by the doctor."


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Rh precious handsome woman she must have been—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England; died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder."

"Then she must have been the woman who wrote the letter."

"No doubt of it," replied Kilsip; "but if Fitzgerald was there on that night, we can get plenty of witnesses to prove an alibi. I am sure of two at least, Mother Guttersnipe and her granddaughter, Sal."

But Mr. Calton was not listening—as he stepped along beside his companion, he was thinking—

"What on earth could a woman just from England, living in a Melbourne back slum, have to tell Fitzgerald about Madge Frettlby?"

Bourke Street is always more crowded than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres are there, and of course there is invariably a large crowd collected under the electric lights. Fashion does not come out after dark to walk about the streets, but prefers to roll along in her carriage; therefore the block in Bourke Street at night is slightly different from that of Collins Street in the day. The restless crowd which jostles and pushes along the pavements is grimy in the main, but the griminess is lightened in many places by the presence of the ladies of the demi-monde, who flaunt about in gorgeous robes of the brightest colors. These gay-plumaged birds of ill-omen collect at the corners of the streets, and converse loudly with their male acquaintances till desired by some white-helmeted policemen to move on, which they do, after a good deal of unnecessary chatter. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, who lean against the walls criticizing the crowd, and waiting till some of their friends ask them to have a glass—a request they obey with suspicious alacrity. Further on, a crowd' of horsy-looking men are standing under the Opera House verandah, and one hears nothing but


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134 "I cannot allow the objection," said the judge, who perhaps began to see the point. "The plaintiff will show the other limb, as the defendant demands."

The man tried to demur, and wanted to leave the witness chair. But the judge was stern, and in the end the other limb was exposed to view,—and was found to be even more bowed than that which had been set!

A long and loud laugh went up, which the judge found himself unable to suppress; indeed, he himself laughed behind his handkerchief. But he pounded for silence, and when it was restored, McKinley spoke:—

"Your honor, I move this case against my client be dismissed," he said gravely. "And I would suggest," he went on slowly and pointedly, "that the dismissal be accompanied by a recommendation to the plaintiff to have his other leg broken and set by our worthy doctor, who has already done so much to improve on nature."

At this another laugh went up, lasting longer than the other. The case was dismissed, and the bow-legged man left the court-room never to reappear.


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104 sporting talk about the cup, and odds being given and taken on the cracks of the day. Then here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, " ' Erald, third 'dition, one penny!" until the ear wearies of the constant repetition. Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club—there a dingy looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which straggles blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement, a band, consisting of three violins and a harp, is stationed, which is playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators. If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music, their fondness for which is only equalled by their admiration for horse-racing. Any street band which plays at all decently, may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their playing. Some writer has described Melbourne as Glasgow, with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon. In spite of the dismal prognostications of Marcus Clark regarding the future Australian, whom he describes as being "a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship," it is more likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarian principles. Climatic influence should be taken into account with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will be no more like us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands of the Adriatic.

This was the conclusion Mr. Calton arrived at as he followed his guide through the crowded streets, and saw with


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Rh what deep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling melodies of Offeenbach. The brilliantly lit street, with the never-ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles and the fitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character constantly passing before his eyes. But his guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the narrowness of the street, with the high buildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas lamps, and the few ragged-looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene they had just left. Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane, which felt like a furnace, owing to the heat of the night; but on looking up, Calton caught a glimpse of the blue sky far above, glittering with stars, which gave him quite a sensation of coolness.

"Keep close to me," whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the arm; "we may meet some nasty customers about here."

Mr. Calton, however, did not need such a warning, for the neighborhood through which they were passing was so like that of the in London, that he kept as closely to the side of his guide as did Dante to that of Virgil in the Infernal Regions. It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of haze so observable in Australian twilight, and this weird light was just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and the barrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring upon them unawares, and they could see sometimes on the one side, a man cowering back into the black shadow, or, on the other, a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a breath of fresh air. There were also some children playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill young voices came echoing strangely through the gloom, mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song a man was singing, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones. Now and then a mild looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad


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106 in their dull hued blue blouses, either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy on their yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm light through an open door, and within, the Mongolians were gathered round the gambling tables, playing fan-tan, or else leaving the seductions of their favorite pastime and gliding soft-footed to the many cook-shops, where enticing looking fowls and turkeys already cooked were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip, turning to the left, led the barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in them.

"It is like walking in the valley of the shadow of death," he muttered to himself, as they brushed past a woman who was crouching down in a dark corner, and who looked up at them with an evil scowl on her white face. And, indeed, it was not unlike the description in Bunyan's famous allegory; what, with the semi-darkness, the wild lights and shadows, and the vague undefinable forms of men and women flitting to and fro in the dusky twilight.

At last, to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow. Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark, ill smelling passage, at the end of which they saw a faint light. Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along the passage. There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just as they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete darkness.

"Light that," cried the detective in a peremptory tone of voice. "What do you mean by dowsing the glim?"

Thieves' argot was, evidently, well understood here, for there was a shuffle in the dark, a muttered voice, and then some one lit the candle with a match. This time Calton saw the light was held by an elfish-looking child, with a


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Rh scowling white face, and tangled masses of black hair, which hung over her eyes. She was crouching down on the floor, against the damp wall, and looked up at the detective defiantly, yet with a certain fear in her eyes, as though she were a wild animal, cowed against her will.

"Where's Mother Guttersnipe?" asked the detective sharply, touching her with his foot, an indignity she resented with a malignant glance, and arose quickly to her feet.

"Upstairs," she replied, jerking her head in the direction of the right wall, in which Calton, his eyes being more accustomed to the flickering light of the candle, could see a gaping black chasm, which he presumed was the stair alluded to. "You won't get much out of her to-night she's a-goin' to start 'er booze, she is."

"Never mind what she's doing," said Kilsip, sharply, "take me to her at once."

The girl gave him a sullen look, and with reluctant feet led the way into the black chasm and up the stairs, which were so shaky that Calton was in terror lest they should be precipitated into unknown depths. He held on firmly to his companion's arm, as they toiled slowly up the broken steps, and at last stopped at a door, through the cracks of which a faint glimmer of light could be seen. Here the girl gave a shrill whistle, and the door opened as if by magic. Still preceded by their elfish guide, Calton and the detective stepped through the doorway, and a curious scene was presented to their view. It was a small, square room, with a low roof, from which the paper, mildewed and torn, hung in tatters; on the left hand, at the far end, was a kind of low stretcher, upon which a woman, almost naked, was lying, amid a heap of frowsy greasy clothes. She appeared to be ill, for she kept her head tossing from side to side restlessly, and every now and then she sang snatches of old songs in a shrill, cracked voice. In the center of the room was a rough deal-table, upon which stood a guttering tallow candle, which but faintly illuminated the scene, and a half-empty, square bottle of schnapps, with a broken cup beside it. In front of these signs of festivity sat an old woman with a pack of cards spread out before her, and from which she had evidently been telling the fortune of a villainous-looking young man who had


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108 opened the door, and who stood looking at the detective with no very friendly expression of countenance. He was dressed in a greasy brown velvet coat, much patched, and a black wide-awake hat, which was pulled down over his eyes. He looked like one of those Italians who retail icecream on the street, or carry round organs with monkeys on them, and his expression was so scowling and vindictive that the barrister thought it was not very hard to tell his ultimate destiny—Pentridge, or the gallows.

As they entered, the fortune-teller raised her head, and, shading her eye with one skinny hand, looked curiously at the new comers. Calton thought he had never seen such a repulsive looking old crone; and, indeed, she was worthy of the pencil of Dore to depict, such was the grotesque ugliness which she exhibited. Her face was seamed and lined with innumerable wrinkles, clearly defined by the dirt which was in them; bushy gray eyebrows, drawn frowningly over two piercing black eyes, whose light was undimmed by age; a hook nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and a thin-lipped mouth, with two long yellow tusks sticking out like those of a wild boar. Her hair was very luxurious and almost white, and was tied up in a great bunch by a greasy bit of black ribbon. As to her chin, Calton, when he saw it wagging to and fro, involuntarily quoted Macbeth's lines about the witches—

And, indeed, she was no bad representative of the weird sisters.

This lady looked viciously at them when they entered, and demanded sulkily—"What the 'ell they wanted?"

"Want your booze," cried the child, with an elfish laugh, as she shook back her tangled hair.

"Get out, you whelp," croaked the old hag, shaking one skinny fist at her, "or I'll tear your heart out, cuss you."

"Yes, she can go," said Kilsip, nodding to the girl, "and you can clear, too," he added, sharply, turning to the young man, who still stood holding the door open. At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective's order, but ultimately obeyed him, muttering as he went out,


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

The other shivered and turned pale.

"About—about that?"

Madge nodded.

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

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

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

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

"How kind of you," said Madge.

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

"And she took the clothes—how wicked!"

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

"She recognized her?"

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

"And then?"

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

"And he came?"

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

"And when was it Whyte got the papers?"

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

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

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


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Rh something about "the bloomin' cheek of showin' swells cove's cribs." The child followed him out, her exit being accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a rapidity only attained by long practice, seized the shoe off one of her feet, and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.

"Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer," she shrieked, with a volley of curses, "I'll break yer 'ead, blarst ye!"

Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanished through the shaky door, which she closed after her.

When she had disappeared. Mother Guttersnipe took a drink out of the broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in a business-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with a suggestive leer.

"It's the future ye want unveiled, dearie?" she croaked, rapidly shuffling the cards; "an' old mother 'ud tell——"

"No she won't," interrupted the detective, sharply. "I've come on business."

The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her bushy eyebrows.

"What 'av the boys been up to now?" she asked harshly. "There ain't no swag 'ere this time, blarst ye."

Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of Barbara Allen—

"Shut up, cuss you!" yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, "or I'll knock yer bloomin' 'ead orf," and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.

"The woman seems ill," said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the stretcher.

"So she are!" growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily. "She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin' 'ere, an' singin' them beastly things, which makes my blood run cold. Just 'ear 'er," she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more—


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110

"Yah!" said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the cup. "She's allays a-talkin' of dyin' an' gallers, as if they were nice things to jawr about."

"Who was the woman who died here three or four weeks ago?" asked Kilsip, sharply.

"'Ow the 'ell should I know," retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly. "I didn't kill 'er, did I? It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin', cuss 'er."

"Do you remember the night she died?"

"No, I don't," answered the beldame, frankly. "I were drunk—blind, bloomin', blazin' drunk—s'elp me G—."

"You're always drunk," said Kilsip.

"What if I am?" snarled the woman, seizing her bottle. "You don't pay fur it. Yes, I'm drunk. I'm allays drunk, I was drunk last night, an' the night before, an' I'm a-goin' to git drunk to-night"—with an impressive look at the bottle—"an' to-morrow night, an' I'll keep it up till I'm rottin' in the grave, blarst an' cuss ye."

Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed malignity was her voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.

"More fool you," he said, briefly. "Come now, on the night the 'Queen,' as you called her, died, there was a gentleman came to see her?"

"So she said," retorted Mother Guttersnipe; "but lor', I dunno anythin', I were drunk."

"Who said— the 'Queen?'"

"No, my gran'darter, Sal. The 'Queen' sent 'er to fetch the toff to see 'er cut 'er lucky. Wanted 'im to look at 'is work I s'pose, cuss 'im; and Sal prigged some paper from my box," she shrieked, indignantly; "prigged it w'en I were too drunk to stop 'er."

The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with a gratified expression on his face. They were right as to the paper having been stolen from the Villa at Toorak.

"You did not see the gentleman who came?" said Kilsip, turning again to the old hag.


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Rh makes a grab at him and says, 'Spile his game if you can,' and ses he, 'What's yer name?' and she says"

"What?" asked Madge, breathlessly.

"'Rosanna Moore!'"

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

"Go on!" he said sharply.

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

Brian gave a sigh of relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it about me?" she persisted.

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

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

"Well, yes," impatiently striking his boot with his riding whip. "But it is nothing that can harm you as long


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Rh "Not I, cuss you," she retorted, politely. "'E came about 'alf-past one in the morning, an' you don't expects we can stop up all night, blarst ye."

"Half-past one o'clock," repeated Calton, quickly. "The very time. Is this true?"

"Wish I may die if it ain't," said Mother Guttersnipe, graciously. "My gran'darter Sal kin tell ye."

"Where is she?" asked Kilsip, sharply.

At this the woman threw back her head, and howled in a dismal manner.

"She's 'ooked it," she wailed, drumming on the ground with her feet. "Gon' an' left 'er pore old gran' an' joined the army, cuss 'em, a-comin' round an' a-spilin' business."

Here the woman on the bed broke out again—

"Fur G—'s sake 'old yer jawr," yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising and making a dart at the bed. "I'll choke the life out of ye, s'elp me. D'ye want me to murder ye, singin' 'em blarsted funeral things?"

Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.

"The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was here between one and two o'clock," he said, quickly, "is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I'll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for her."

"I hope you'll find her," answered Calton, drawing a long breath. "A man's life hangs on her evidence."

They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some loose silver, which she siezed with an avaricious clutch.

"You'll drink it, I suppose?" said the barrister, shrinking back from her.

"Werry likely," retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose. "I'm a fortin' to the public 'ouse, I am, an' it's the only pleasure I 'ave in my life, cuss it."

The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs as they went down, so that they should not break their heads. As


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154 as you do not know it, but God help you should anyone tell it to you, for it would embitter your life."

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

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

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

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

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

Singularly applicable to our present conversation, I think."

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

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

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

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

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


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112 they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, "The Last Rose of Summer," and then a volley of curses from Mother Guttersnipe.

The street door was open, and after groping their way along the dark passage with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.

"Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!"

"At all events our journey has not been wasted," said the detective as they walked along. "We've found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was the night of the murder, so he will be safe."

"That depends upon Sal Rawlins," answered Calton, gravely; "but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience of low life."

The next day Kilsip called at Calton's office late in the afternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him. The detective's face, however, looked rather dismal, and Calton was not reassured by its expression.

"Well!" he said, impatiently, when Kilsip had closed the door and taken his seat. "Where is she?"

"That's just what I want to know," answered the detective, coolly; "I went to the Salvation Army headquarters and made inquiries about her. It appears that she had been in the Army as a hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in a week, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney. She carried on her old life of dissipation, but, ultimately, her friend got sick of her, and the last thing they heard about her was that she had taken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums. I telegraphed at once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of the name of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said they would make inquiries, and let me know the result."

"Ah! she has, no doubt, changed her name," said Calton, thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I wonder what for?"

"Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect," answered


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alone?"

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

She hesitated.

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

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

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


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Rh Kilsip, dryly. "The straying lamb did not care about being hunted back to the fold."

"And when did she join the Army?"

"The very day after the murder."

"Rather sudden conversion?"

"Yes, but she said the death of the woman on Thursday night had so startled her, that she went straight off to the Army to get her religion properly fixed up."

"The effects of fright, no doubt," said Calton, dryly. "I've met a good many examples of these sudden conversions, but they never last long as a rule—it's a case of the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be, more than anything else. Good looking?"

"So-so, I believe," replied Kilsip, shrugging his shoulders. "Very ignorant—could neither read nor write."

"That accounts for her not asking for Fitzgerald when she called at the Club—she probably did not know whom she had been sent for. It will resolve itself into a question of identification, I expect. However, if the police can't find her, we will put an advertisement in the paper offering a reward, and send out handbills to the same effect. She must be found. Brian Fitzgerald's life hangs on a thread, and that thread is Sal Rawlins."

"Yes!" assented Kilsip, rubbing his hands together. "Even if Mr. Fitzgerald acknowledges that he was at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night in question, she will have to prove that he was there, as no one else saw him."

"Are you sure of that? "

"As sure as any one can be in such a case. It was a late hour when he came, and every one seems to have been asleep except the dying woman and Sal; and as one is dead, the other is the only person that can prove that he was there at the time when the murder was being committed in the hansom."

"And Mother Guttersnipe? "

"Was drunk, as she acknowledged last night. She thought that if a gentleman did call it must have been the other one."

"The other one?" repeated Calton, in a puzzled voice. "What other one?"

"Oliver Whyte."

Calton arose from his seat with a blank air of


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114. "Oliver Whyte!" he said as soon as he could find his voice. "Was he in the habit of going there?"

Kilsip curled himself up in his seat like a sleek cat, and pushing forward his head till his nose looked like the beak of a bird of prey, looked keenly at Calton.

"Look here, sir," he said, in his low, purring voice, "there's a good deal in this case which don't seem plain—in fact, the further we go into it, the more mixed up it seems to get. I went to see Mother Guttersnipe this morning, and she told me that Whyte had visited the 'Queen' several times while she lay ill, and seemed to be pretty well acquainted with her."

"But who the devil is this woman they call the 'Queen?'" said Calton, irritably. "She seems to be at the bottom of the whole affair—every path we take leads to her."

"I know hardly anything about her," replied Kilsip, "except that she was a good-looking woman of about forty-nine—she came out from England to Sydney a few months ago, then onto here—how she got to Mother Guttersnipe's I can't find out, though I've tried to pump that old woman, but she's as close as wax, and it's my belief she knows more about this dead woman than she chooses to tell."

"But what could she have told Fitzgerald to make him act in this silly manner. A stranger who comes from England and dies in a Melbourne slum, can't possibly know anything about Miss Frettlby."

"Not unless Miss Frettlby was secretly married to Whyte," suggested Kilsip, "and the 'Queen' knew it."

"Nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply. "Why, she hated him and loves Fitzgerald; besides, why on earth should she marry secretly, and make a confidant of a woman in one of the lowest parts of Melbourne? At one time her father wanted her to marry Whyte, but she made such strong opposition, that he eventually gave his consent to her engagement with Fitzgerald."

"And Whyte?"

"Oh, he had a row with Mr. Frettlby, and left the house in a rage. He was murdered the same night, for the sake of some papers he carried."

"Oh, that's Gorby's idea," said Kilsip scornfully, with a vicious snarl.

"And it's mine, too," answered Calton, firmly. "Whyte


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Rh had some valuable papers, which he always carried about with him. The woman who died evidently told Fitzgerald that he did, as I gathered as much from an accidental admission he made."

Kilsip looked puzzled.

"I must confess that it is a riddle," he said at length; "but if Mr. Fitzgerald would only speak, it would clear everything up."

"What, about who murdered Whyte? "

"Well, it might not go so far as that, but it might supply the motive for the crime."

"I dare say you are right," answered Calton, thoughtfully, as the detective rose and put on his hat. "But it's no use. Fitzgerald, for some reason or another, has evidently made up his mind not to speak; so our only hope in saving him lies in finding this girl."

"If she's anywhere in Australia you may be sure she'll be found," answered Kilsip, confidently, as he took his departure. "Australia isn't so overcrowded as all that."

If Sal Rawlins was in Australia, she certainly must have been in some remote spot, for in spite of all efforts she could not be found anywhere. Whether she was alive or dead was an open question, for she seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed her up. The last seen of her was in a Sydney den, with a Chinaman, whom she afterwards left, and since then had neither been seen nor heard of. Notices were put in the papers, both in Australia and New Zealand, offering large rewards for her discovery, but nothing came of them. As she was unable to read herself, she would, of course, be ignorant that she was wanted, and if, as Calton had surmised, she had changed her name, no one else would tell her about it, unless she happened to hear it by chance. Altogether, it seemed as if there was no hope except the forlorn one of Sal turning up of her own accord. If she came back to Melbourne she would be certain to go to her grandmother's place, as she had no motive in keeping away from it; so Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, much to Mrs. Rawlins' disgust, for, with true English pride, she objected to this system of espionage.

"Blarst 'im," she croaked over her evening drink, to an old crone, as withered and evil looking as herself, "Why,


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116 in G—'s name, can't 'e stop in 'is own bloomin' 'ouse an' leave mine alone—a-coming round 'ere a-pokin' and pryin' an' a-prewenting people from earnin' their livin' an' agittin' drunk when they ain't well, cuss 'im."

"What do 'e want?" asked her friend, rubbing her weak old knees.

"Wants, cuss 'im—'e wants 'is d——d throat cut," said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously. "An' s'elp me G—, I'll do for 'im some night w'en 'e's a watchin' round 'ere as if it were Pentridge—'e can git what he can out of that whelp as ran away, cuss 'er; but I knows suthin' 'e don't know, blarst 'im." She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having taken advantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the broken cup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by the hair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against the wall.

"I'll have the perlice in at yer," whimpered the assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as her rheumatics would let her. "See if I don't."

"Go to 'ell," retorted Mother Guttersnipe, indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup. "You come a-falutin' round 'ere agin priggin' my drinks, cuss you, an' I'll cut yer throat an' wring yer wicked old 'ead orf, blarst you."

The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasant proposal to end her, and tottered out as quickly as possible, leaving Mother Guttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.

Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used every argument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he maintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered, "It would only break her heart."

He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that he had been to Mother Guttersnipe's on the night of the murder. After he left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, and as the cabman—Royston—had stated, he had gone along Russell Street, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel. She had taken him to Mother Guttersnipe's, where he had seen the dying woman, who had told him something he could not reveal.

"Well," said Mr. Calton, after hearing the admission, "you might have saved us all this trouble by admitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it may be.


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

Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.

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

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

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

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

"I felt restless, and wanted a change."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Impossible!" said Frettlby, curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Rh Had you done so, we might have got hold of Sal Rawlins before she left Melbourne; but now it's only chance whether she turns up or not."

Brian did not answer to this, and, in fact, hardly seemed to be thinking of what the lawyer was saying; but, just as Calton was leaving, he asked—

"How is Madge?"

"How can you expect her to be?" said Calton, turning angrily on him. "She is very ill, owing to the worry she has been in over this affair."

"My darling! my darling!" cried Brian, in agony, clasping his hands over his head. "I only did it to save you."

Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

"My dear fellow," he said, gravely, "the confidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as those between priest and penitent. You must tell me this secret which concerns Miss Frettlby so deeply."

"No," said Brian, firmly, "I will never reveal what that cursed woman told me. When I would not tell you before, in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now, when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling it."

"I will never ask you again," said Calton, rather annoyed, as he walked to the door. "And to this accusation of murder, if I can find this girl, you are safe."

When the lawyer left the gaol, he went to the Detective Office to see Kilsip, and ascertain if there was any news of Sal Rawlins; but, as usual, there was none.

"It is fighting against fate," he said, sadly, as he went away; "his life hangs on a mere chance."

The trial was fixed to come off in September, and, of course, there was great excitement in Melbourne over the matter. Great, therefore, was the disappointment when it was discovered that the prisoner's counsel had applied for an adjournment of the trial till October, on the ground that an important witness for the defence could not be found.


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

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

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

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

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

"Rosanna!"

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

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

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

Moore, sweetest of bards, sings—

But he evidently made this assertion to his callow days, and before he had learned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth, love's young dream is, no


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118

In spite of the utmost vigilance on the part of the police, and the offer of a large reward, both by Calton, on behalf of the accused, and by Mr. Frettlby, the much desired Sal Rawlins still remained hidden. The millionaire had maintained a most friendly attitude toward Brian throughout the whole affair. He refused to believe him guilty, and when Calton told him of the defence of proving an alibi by means of Sal Rawlins, he immediately offered a large reward, which was enough in itself to set every person with any time on their hands hunting for the missing witness. All Australia and New Zealand rang with the extremely plebeian name of Sal Rawlins, the papers being full of notices offering rewards; and handbills of staring red letters were posted up in all railway stations, in conjunction with Lewis's Egg Powder and someone else's Pale Ale. She had become famous without knowing it, unless, indeed, she had kept herself concealed on purpose; but this was hardly probable, as there was no apparent motive for her doing so. If she was above ground she must certainly have seen the handbills, if not the papers; and, though not being able to read, could hardly help hearing something about the one topic of conversation throughout Australia. Notwithstanding all this, Sal Rawlins was still undiscovered, and Calton, in despair, began to think that she must be dead. But Madge, though at times her courage gave way, was still hopeful.

"God will not permit such a judicial crime to be committed as the murder of an innocent man," she declared.

Mr. Calton, to whom she said this, shook his head doubtfully. "God has permitted it to take place before," he answered, softly; "and we can only judge the future by the past."

At last the day of the long expected trial came, and as Calton sat in his office looking over his brief, a clerk entered and told him Mr. Frettlby and his daughter wished to see him. When they came in, the barrister saw the


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Rh doubt, very charming, lovers, as a rule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world, and drank deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. "A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy." This remark was made by Talleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art of love—Brillat-Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, ten to one, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value that hour as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four when, seated at an artistically laid table, with delicately cooked viands, good wines, and pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a delightful sense of absolute enjoyment? Dinner with the English people is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred rite. But there are men—alas! few and far between—who possess the rare art of giving good dinners—good in the sense of sociality as well as of cookery. Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals; he had an innate genius for getting pleasant people together, who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of a pink-globed lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation.

On one side of the dining-room there were French windows opening on the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the dazzling colors of the flowers, somewhat tempered by the soft hazy glow of the twilight. Brian had made himself as respectable as possible, under the odd circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge, contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter that was going on around him. Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the


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Rh millionaire looked haggard and ill, and there was a look of worry on his face.

"There is my daughter, Calton," he said, after hurried greetings had been exchanged. "She wants to be present in Court during Fitzgerald's trial, and nothing I can say will dissuade her."

Calton turned, and looked at the girl in some surprise.

"Yes!" she answered, meeting his look steadily, though her face was very pale; "I must be there. I shall go mad with anxiety unless I know how the trial goes on."

"But think of the disagreeable amount of attention you will attract," urged the lawyer.

"No one will recognize me," she said, calmly; "I am very plainly dressed, and I will wear this veil;" and, drawing one from her pocket, she went over to a small looking glass that was hanging on the wall and tied it on her face.

Calton looked in a perplexed manner at Mr. Frettlby.

"I'm afraid you must consent," he said.

"Very well," replied the other, almost sternly, while a look of annoyance passed over his face. "I will leave her in your charge."

"And you?"

"I'm not coming," answered Frettlby, quickly, putting on his hat. "I don't care about seeing a man whom I have had at my dinner-table in the prisoner's dock, much as I sympathize with him. Good-day;" and with a curt nod he took his leave.

When the door closed on her father, Madge placed her hand on Calton's arm.

"Any hope?" she whispered, looking at him through the black veil.

"The merest chance," answered Calton, putting his brief into his bag. "We have done everything in our power to discover this girl, but without effect. If she does not come at the eleventh hour I'm afraid Brian Fitzgerald is a doomed man."

Madge fell on her knees with a stifled cry.

"Oh, God of mercy," she cried, raising her hands as if in prayer, "save him. Save my darling, and let him not die for the crime of another. God——"

She dropped her face in her hands and wept convulsively, as the lawyer touched her lightly on the shoulder.


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120 "Come!" he said, kindly. "Be the brave girl you were, and we may save him yet. The hour is the darkest before the dawn, you know."

Madge dried her tears, and followed the lawyer to the cab, which was waiting for them at the door. They drove quickly up to the Court, and Calton put her in a quiet place, where she could see the dock, and yet be unobserved by the people in the body of the Court. Just as he was leaving her she touched his arm.

"Tell him," she whispered, in a trembling voice, "tell my darling I am here."

Calton nodded and hurried away to put on his wig and gown, while Madge looked hurriedly around the Court from her point of vantage. It was crowded with fashionable Melbourne of both sexes, and they were all talking together in subdued whispers. The popular character of the prisoner, his good looks, and engagement to Madge Frettlby, together with the extraordinary circumstances of the case, had raised public curiosity to the highest pitch, and, consequently, everybody who could possibly manage to gain admission was there. Felix Rolleston had secured an excellent seat beside the pretty Miss Featherweight, whom he admired so much, and he was chattering to her with the utmost volubility.

"Puts me in mind of the Coliseum and all that sort of thing, you know," he said, putting up his eye-glass and staring round. "Butchered to make a Roman holiday, by Jove."

"Don't say such horrid things, you frivolous creature," simpered Miss Featherweight, using her smelling-bottle. "We are all here out of sympathy for that poor dear Mr. Fitzgerald."

The mercurial Felix, who had more cleverness in him than people gave him credit for, smiled outright at this eminently feminine way of covering an overpowering curiosity.

"Ah, yes," he said lightly; "exactly! I dare say Eve only ate the apple because she didn't like to see such a lot of good fruit go to waste."

Miss Featherweight looked at him doubtfully, as though she was not quite certain if he was in jest or earnest, but just as she was about to reply that she thought it wicked


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Rh to make jokes on the Bible, the judge entered, and all the Court arose to receive him. When the prisoner was brought in, there was a great flutter among the ladies, and some of them even had the bad taste to produce opera-glasses. Brian noticed this, and he flushed to the roots of his fair hair, for he felt his degradation acutely. He was an intensely proud man, and to be placed in the criminal dock with a lot of frivolous people, who had called themselves his friends, looking at him as though he were a new actor or a wild animal, was galling in the extreme. He was dressed in black, and looked pale and wan, but all the ladies declared that he was as good looking as ever, and they were sure he was innocent.

The jury was sworn in, and the Crown Prosecutor arose to deliver his opening address. As all present in the Court only knew the facts of the case through the medium of the newspapers and floating rumors, each of which contradicted the other, they were unaware of the true history of the events which had led to Fitzgerald's arrest, and they therefore prepared to listen to the speech with profound attention. The ladies ceased to talk, the men to stare round, and nothing could be seen but row after row of eager and attentive faces, hanging on the words that issued from the lips of the Crown Prosecutor. He was not a great orator, but he spoke clearly and distinctly, and every word could be heard in the dead silence.

He gave a rapid sketch of the crime, which was merely a repetition of what had been published in the newspapers, and then proceeded to enumerate the witnesses who could prove the prisoner guilty. He would call the landlady of the deceased to show that ill-blood existed between the prisoner and the murdered man, and that the accused had called on the deceased a week prior to the committal of the crime, and threatened his life. (There was great excitement at this, and several ladies decided, on the spur of the moment, that the horrid man was guilty, but the majority of the female spectators still refused to believe in the guilt of such a good-looking young fellow.) He would call a witness who could prove that Whyte was drunk on the night of the murder, and went along Russell street, in the direction of Collins street; the cabman Royston could swear to the fact that the


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160 more so as Mrs. Rolleston was at the further end of the table, hidden from his view by an epergne of fruit and flowers. Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him so persistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumb devil. Dr. Chinston and Paterson were seated on the other side of the table, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post of honor on Mr. Frettlby's right hand. The conversation had turned on to the subject, ever green and fascinating, of politics, and Mr. Rolleston thought it a good opportunity to air his views as to the government of the colony, and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish, and become a power in the politticalpolitical [sic] world.

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

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

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

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

"To advocate what?" asked Paterson, curiously.

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

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

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

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

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


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122 had hailed the cab, and after going away for a short time, returned and entered the cab with the deceased. He would also prove that the prisoner left the cab at the Grammar School, in the St. Kilda Road, and on the arrival of the cab at the junction, he discovered the deceased had been murdered. The cabman Rankin would prove that he drove the prisoner from the St. Kilda Road to Powlett Street in East Melbourne, where he got out, and he would call the prisoner's landlady to prove that the prisoner resided in Powlett Street, and that on the night of the murder he had not reached home till shortly after two o'clock. He would also call the detective, who had charge of the case, to prove the finding of a glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the coat which the prisoner wore on the night of the murder; and the doctor who had examined the body of the deceased would give evidence that the death was caused by inhalation of chloroform. As he had now fully shown the chain of evidence which he proposed to prove, he would call the first witness, Malcolm Royston.

Royston, on being sworn, gave the same evidence as he had given at the inquest, from the time that the cab was hailed up to his arrival at the St. Kilda Police Station with the dead body of Whyte. In the cross-examination, Calton asked him if he was prepared to swear that the man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in with the deceased, were one and the same person.

Witness: I am.

Calton: You are quite certain?

Witness: Yes; quite certain.

Calton: Do you, then, recognize the prisoner as the man who hailed the cab?

Witness (hesitatingly): I cannot swear to that. The gentleman who hailed the cab had his hat pulled down over his eyes, so that I could not see his face; but the height and general appearance of the prisoner are the same."

Calton: Then it is only because the man who got into the cab was dressed like the prisoner on that night that you thought that they were both the same?

Witness: It never struck me for a minute that they were not the same; besides, he spoke as if he had been there


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

Everyone smothered a smile, the illusion was so patent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Rh before. I said, "Oh, you've come back," and he said, "Yes; I'm going to take him home," and got into my cab.

Calton: Did you notice any difference in his voice?

Witness: No; except that the first time I saw him he spoke in a loud voice, and the second time he came back, very low.

Calton: You were sober, I suppose?

Witness (indignantly): Yes; quite sober.

Calton: Ah! You did not have a drink, say at the Oriental Hotel, which, I believe, is near the rank where your cab stands?

Witness (hesitatingly): Well, I might have had a glass.

Calton: So you might; you might have had several.

Witness (sulkily): Well, there's no law against a cove feeling thirsty.

Calton: Certainly not, and I suppose you took advantage of the absence of such a law.

Witness (defiantly): Yes, I did.

Calton: And you were elevated.

Witness: Yes; on my cab. [Laughter.]

Calton (severely): You are here to give evidence, sir, not to make jokes, however clever they may be. Were you, or were you not, slightly the worse for drink?

Witness: I might have been.

Calton: So you were in such a condition that you did not observe very closely the man who hailed you?

Witness: No, I didn't—there was no reason why I should—I didn't know a murder was going to be committed.

Calton: And it never struck you it might be a different man?

Witness: No, I thought it was the same man the whole time.

This closed Royston's evidence, and Calton sat down very dissatisfied at not being able to elicit anything more definite from him. One thing appeared clear, that someone must have dressed himself to resemble Brian, and spoke in a low voice, because he was afraid of betraying himself.

Clement Rankin, the next witness, deposed of having picked up the prisoner on the St. Kilda Road, between one and two on Friday morning, and driven him to Powlett Street, East Melbourne. In the cross-examination Calton elicited one point in the prisoner's favor.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first verse was as follows:—


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

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

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

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

Brian shrugged his shoulders and turned away with Madge.

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

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

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

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

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


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124 Calton: Is the prisoner the same gentleman you drove to Powlett Street?

Witness (confidently): Oh, yes.

Galton: How do you know? Did you see his face?

Witness: No, his hat was pulled down over his eyes, and I could only see the ends of his mustache and his chin,, but he carried himself the same as the prisoner, and his mustache is the same light color.

Calton: When you drove up to him on the St. Kilda Road, where was he, and what was he doing?

Witness: He was near the Grammar School, walking in the direction of Melbourne, and was smoking a cigarette.

Calton: Had he gloves on?

Witness: Yes, one on the left hand, the other was bare.

Calton: Did he wear any rings on the right hand?

Witness: Yes, a large diamond one on the forefinger.

Calton: Are you sure?

Witness: Yes, because I thought it a curious place for a gentleman to wear a ring, and when he was paying me my fare I saw the diamond glitter on his finger in the moonlight.

Calton: That will do.

The counsel for the defence was pleased with this bit of evidence, as Fitzgerald detested rings and never wore any; so he made a note of the matter on his brief.

Mrs. Hableton, the landlady of the deceased, was then called, and deposed that Oliver Whyte had lived with her for nearly two months. He seemed a quiet enough young man, but often came home drunk. The only friend she knew he had was Mr. Moreland, who was often with him. On the 14th July, the prisoner called to see Mr. Whyte, and they had a quarrel. She heard Whyte say, "she is mine, you can't do anything with her," and the prisoner answered, "I can kill you, and if you marry her I will do so in the open street." She had no idea at the time of the name of the lady they were talking about.

There was a great sensation in the court at these words, and half the people present looked upon such evidence as being sufficient in itself to prove the guilt of the prisoner.

In cross-examination, Calton was unable to shake the evidence of the witness, as she merely reiterated the same statements over and over again.


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Rh The next witness was Mrs. Sampson, who crackled into the witness box, dissolved in tears, and gave her answers in a piercingly shrill tone of anguish. She stated that the prisoner was in the habit of coming home early, but on the night of the murder, had come in shortly before two o'clock.

Crown Prosecutor (referring to his brief): You mean after two.

Witness: 'Avin' made a mistake once, by saying five minutes after two to the policeman as called himself a insurance agent, which 'e put the words into my mouth, I ain't a goin' to do so again, it bein' five minutes afore two, as I can swear to.

Crown Prosecutor: You are sure your clock was right?

Witness: It 'adn't been, but my nevvy bein' a watchmaker, called unbeknown to me and made it right on Thursday night, which it was Friday mornin' when Mr. Fitzgerald came 'ome.

Mrs. Sampson bravely stuck to this statement, and ultimately left the witness box in triumph, the rest of her evidence being comparatively unimportant as compared with this point of time. The witness Rankin, who drove the prisoner to Powlett Street (as sworn to by him) was recalled, and gave evidence that it was two o'clock when the prisoner got down from his cab in Powlett street.

Crown Prosecutor: How do you know that?

Witness: Because I heard the post office clock strike.

Crown Prosecutor: Could you hear it at East Melbourne?

Witness: It was a very still night, and I heard the chimes and then the hour strike quite plainly.

This conflicting evidence as to time was a strong point in Brian's favor. If, as the landlady stated, on the authority of the kitchen clock, which had been put right on the day previous to the murder, Fitzgerald had come into the house at five minutes to two, he could not possibly be the man who had alighted from Rankin's cab at two o'clock at Powlett Street.

The next witness was Dr. Chinston, who swore to the death of the deceased by means of chloroform administered in a large quantity, and he was followed by Mr. Gorby, who deposed as to the finding of the glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the prisoner's coat.


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Rh "By what?" asked Brian, skeptically.

"Noises!" she answered, solemnly.

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

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

"So you don't believe in ghosts?"

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

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

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

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

Notwithstanding the hospitable invitation of Mr. Frettlby Brian refused to stay at Yabba Yallook that night, but after saying good-bye to Madge, mounted his horse and rode slowly away in the moonlight. He felt very happy as, letting the reins lie on his horse's neck, he gave himself, up unreservedly to his thoughts. Atra Cura certainly did not sit behind the horseman on this night; and Brian, to his


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166 surprise, found himself singing "Kitty of Coleraine," as he rode along in the silver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the future seemed so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes; they would live on the ocean, and she would find how much pleasanter it was on the restless water, with their solemn sense of mystery, than on the crowded land.

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

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

He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he thundered over the turf, with the fresh, cool night wind blowing keenly against his face, he felt a sense of relief, as though he were leaving some dark spectre behind. On he galloped, with the blood throbbing in his young veins, over miles of plain with the dark-blue, star-studded sky above, and the pale moon shining down on him—past a silent shepherd's hut, which stood near a wide creek, and then splashing through the cool water, which wound away through the dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight—then, again, the wide grassy plain dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheep skurrying away like fantastic spectres—on—on ever on, until his own homestead appears, and he sees the