Brian Fitzgerald was arrested at a few minutes past three o'clock, and by five all Melbourne was ringing with the news that the perpetrator of the now famous hansom cab murder had been caught. The evening papers were full of the affair, and the HERALD went through several editions, the demand being far in the excess of the supply. Such a crime had not been committed in Melbourne since the Greer shooting case in the Opera House, and the mystery by which it was surrounded, made it even more sensational. The committal of the crime in such an extraordinary place as a hansom cab had been startling enough, but the discovery that the assassin was one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne was still more so. Brian Fitzgerald being well known in society as a wealthy squatter, and the future husband of one of the richest and prettiest girls in Victoria, it was no wonder that his arrest caused some sensation. The HERALD, which was fortunate enough to obtain the earliest information about the arrest, made the best use of it, and published a flaming article in its most sensational type, somewhat after this fashion:—
HANSOM CAB TRAGEDY. ARREST OF THE SUPPOSED MURDERER. STARTLING REVELATIONS IN HIGH LIFE.
It is needless to say that some of the reporters had painted the lily pretty freely, but the public were ready to believe everything that came out in the papers.
Mr. Frettlby, the day after Brian's arrest, had a long conversation with his daughter, and wanted her to go up to Yabba Yallook Station until the public excitement had somewhat subsided. But this Madge flatly refused to do.
"I'm not going to desert him when he most needs me," she said, resolutely; "everybody has turned against him, even before they have heard the facts of the case. He says he is not guilty, and I believe him."
"Then let him prove his innocence," said her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room; "if he did not get into the cab with Whyte he must have been somewhere else; so he ought to set up the defence of an ALIBI."
"He can easily do that," said Madge, with a ray of hope lighting up her sad face, "he was here till eleven o'clock on Thursday night."
"Very probably," returned her father, dryly; "but where was he at one o'clock on Friday morning?"
"Besides, Mr. Whyte left the house long before Brian did," she went on rapidly. "You must remember—it was when you quarrelled with Mr. Whyte."
"My dear Madge," said Frettlby, stopping in front of her with a displeased look, "you are incorrect—Whyte and myself did not quarrel. He asked me if it were true that Fitzgerald was engaged to you, and I answered 'Yes.' That was all, and then he left the house."
"Yes, and Brian didn't go until two hours after," said Madge, triumphantly. "He never saw Mr. Whyte the whole night."
"So he says," replied Mr. Frettlby, significantly. "I believe Brian before any one else in the world," said his daughter, hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
"Ah! but will a jury?" queried her father.
"You have turned against him, too," answered Madge, her eyes filling with tears. "You believe him guilty."
"I am not prepared either to deny or confirm his guilt," said Mr. Frettlby, coldly. "I have done what I could to help him—I have engaged Calton to defend him, and, if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind at rest."
"My dear father," said Madge, throwing her arms round his neck, "I knew you would not desert him altogether, for my sake."
"My darling," replied her father, in a faltering voice, as he kissed her, "there is nothing in the world I would not do for your sake."
Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Jail, thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escape except one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.
"It would kill her; it would kill her," he said, feverishly, as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones. "Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like a common thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If I engage a lawyer to defend me," he went on, "the first question he will ask me will be where was I on that night, and if I tell him all will be discovered, and then—no—no—I cannot do it; it would kill her, my darling," and throwing himself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.
He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and on looking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a great friend of Fitzgerald's, and Brian was deeply touched by his kindness in coming to see him.
Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian, but there was also a touch of self interest in the matter. He had received a note from Mr. Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald, which he agreed to do with avidity, as he foresaw in this case an opportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australian colonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, but his reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw that Fitzgerald's trial for murder would cause a great sensation throughout Australia and New Zealand, he determined to take advantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame, wealth, and position. So this tall, keen-eyed man, with the clean shaven face and expressive mouth, advanced into the cell, and took Brian by the hand.
"It is very kind of you to come and see me," said Fitzgerald; "it is at a time like this that one appreciates friendship."
"Yes, of course," answered the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on the other's haggard face, as if he would read his innermost thoughts. "I came partly on my own account, and partly because Frettlby asked me to see you as to your defence."
"Mr. Frettlby?" said Brian, in a mechanical way. "He is very kind; I thought he believed me guilty."
"No man is considered guilty until he has been proved so," answered Calton, evasively.
Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved an impatient sigh.
"And Miss Frettlby?" he asked, in a hesitating manner. This time he got a decided answer.
"She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear a word said against you."
"God bless her," said Brian, fervently; "she is a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed?" he added, bitterly.
"Nothing else talked about," answered Calton, calmly. "Your arrest has for the present suspended all interest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are at the present moment being discussed threadbare in Clubs and drawing-rooms."
Fitzgerald writhed. He was a singularly proud man, and there was something inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.
"But this is all idle chatter," said Calton, taking a seat.
"We must get to business. Of course, you will accept me as your counsel."
"It's no good my doing so," replied Brian, gloomily. "The rope is already round my neck."
"Nonsense," replied the lawyer, cheerfully, "the rope is round no man's neck until he is on the scaffold. Now, you need not say a word," he went on, holding up his hand as Brian was about to speak; "I intend to defend you, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts, except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate so much that one can place no reliance on them. At all events, I believe from my heart that you are innocent, and you must walk out of the prisoner's dock a free man, if only for the sake of that noble girl who loves you."
Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the other grasped warmly.
"I will not deny," went on Calton, "that there is a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case is such an extraordinary one, that I feel as if I were unable to let slip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don't care for your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort of thing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting. When you are safe we will look together for the real criminal, and the pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitement when we find him out."
"I agree with everything you say," said Fitzgerald, calmly, "but I have no defence to make."
"No defence? You are not going to confess you killed him?"
"No," with an angry flush, "but there are certain circumstances which prevent me from defending myself."
"What nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply, "as if any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life. But never mind, I like these objections; they make the nut harder to crack—but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now, I want you to answer certain questions."
"I won't promise."
"Well, we shall see," said the lawyer, cheerfully, taking out his note-book, and resting it on his knee. "First, where were you on the Thursday night preceding the murder?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St. Kilda, and came up to town by the eleven o'clock train."
"Eleven-twenty," corrected Brian.
Calton smiled in a gratified manner as he noted this down. "A little diplomacy is all that's required," he said mentally.
"And where did you go then?" he added, aloud.
"I met Rolleston in the train, and we took a cab from the Flinders Street station up to the Club."
"What Club?"
"The Melbourne Club."
"Yes?" interrogatively.
"Rolleston went home, and I went into the Club and played cards for a time."
"When did you leave the Club?"
"A few minutes to one o'clock in the morning."
"And then, I suppose, you went home?"
"No; I did not."
"Then where did you go?"
"Down the street."
"Rather vague. I presume you mean Collins Street?"
"Yes."
"You were going to meet some one, I suppose?"
"I never said so."
"Probably not; but young men don't wander about the streets at night without some object."
"I was restless and wanted a walk."
"Indeed! How curious you should prefer going into the heart of the dusty town for a walk to strolling through the Fitzroy Gardens, which were on your way home! It won't do; you had an appointment to meet some one."
"Well—er—yes."
"I thought as much. Man or woman?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Then I must find out for myself."
"You can't."
"Indeed! Why not?"
"You don't know where to look for her."
"Her," cried Calton, delighted at the success of his craftily-put question. "I knew it was a woman."
Brian did not answer, but sat biting his lips with vexation.
"Now, who is this woman?"
No answer.
"Come now, Fitzgerald, I know that young men will be young men, and, of course, you don't like these things talked about; but in this case your character must be sacrificed to save your neck. What is her name?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh! you know it, then?"
"Well, yes."
"And you won't tell me?"
"No!"
Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him; first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second that it had been with a woman. He pursued another line.
"When did you last see Whyte!"
Brian answered with great reluctance, "I saw him drunk by the Scotch Church."
"What! you were the man who hailed the hansom?"
"Yes," assented the other, hesitating slightly, "I was!"
The thought flashed through Calton's brain as to whether the young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged to confess that things looked very black against him.
"Then what the newspapers said was correct?"
"Partly."
"Ah!" Calton drew a long breath—here was a ray of hope.
"You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lying drunk near the Scotch Church?"
"No, I did not. Had I known it was he I would not have picked him up."
"Of course, you recognised him afterwards?"
"Yes I did. And, as the paper stated, I dropped him and walked away."
"Why did you leave him so abruptly?"
Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.
"Because I detested him," he said, shortly.
"Why did you detest him?"
No answer. "Was it because he admired Miss Frettlby, and from all appearances, was going to marry her?"
"Well, yes," sullenly.
"And now," said Calton, impressively, "this is the whole point upon which the case turns. Why did you get into the cab with him?"
"I did not get into the cab."
"The cabman declares that you did."
"He is wrong. I never came back after I recognised Whyte."
"Then who was the man who got into the cab with Whyte?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"Not the least."
"You are certain?"
"Yes, perfectly certain."
"He seems to have been dressed exactly like you."
"Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of my acquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, and soft hats."
"Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?"
"No, I don't; I know nothing about him, beyond that he came from England a short time ago with a letter of introduction to Mr. Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marry him."
"Where did Whyte live?"
"Down in St. Kilda, at the end of Grey Street."
"How do you know?"
"It was in the papers, and—and—" hesitatingly, "I called on him."
"Why?"
"To see if he would cease his attentions to Madge, and to tell him that she was engaged to me."
"And what did he say?"
"Laughed at me. Curse him."
"You had high words, evidently?"
Brian laughed bitterly.
"Yes, we had."
"Did anyone hear you?"
"The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house."
"The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness."
"Very likely," indifferently.
"Did you say anything likely to incriminate yourself?" Fitzgerald turned away his head.
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "I spoke very wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what I said."
"Did you threaten him?"
"Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge."
"Ah! if the landlady can swear that she heard you say so, it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. So far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one—you must prove an ALIBI."
No answer.
"You say you did not come back and get into the cab?" said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.
"No, it was some one else dressed like me."
"And you have no idea who it was?"
"No, I have not."
"Then, after you left Whyte, and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?"
"I can't tell you."
"Were you intoxicated?"
"No!" indignantly
"Then you remember?"
"Yes."
"And where were you?"
"I can't tell you."
"You refuse."
"Yes, I do."
"Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal."
"If necessary, I will pay it."
"And you won't tell me where you were?"
"No, I won't."
Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.
"You're very foolish," he said, "sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an ALIBI."
No answer.
"At what hour did you get home?"
"About two o'clock in the morning."
"Did you walk home?"
"Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Did you see anyone on your way home?"
"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention."
"Did anyone see you?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o'clock on Friday morning?"
"Absolutely!"
Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.
"Did you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?"
Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.
"No! I did not know," he said, reluctantly.
The lawyer made a master stroke.
"Then why did you take them from him?"
"What! Had he it with him?"
Calton saw his advantage, and seized it at once.
"Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?"
"I did not take it. I didn't even know he had it with him."
"Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what 'it' is." Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen.
"No! I will not," he answered steadily.
"Was it a jewel?"
"No!"
"Was it an important paper?"
"I don't know."
"Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face. And was that paper of importance to you?"
"Why do you ask?"
Calton fixed his keen grey eyes steadily on Brian's face.
"Because," he answered slowly, "the man to whom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte."
Brian started up, ghastly pale.
"My God!" he almost shrieked, stretching out his hands, "it is true after all," and he fell down on the stone pavement in a dead faint.
Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and between them they placed him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. He recovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he was unfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside he stopped for a moment and looked back on the grim, grey walls.
"Brian Fitzgerald," he said to himself "you did not commit the murder yourself, but you know who did."
Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been looked upon merely as a common murder, and one of which society need take no cognisance beyond the bare fact of its committal. But now that one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne had been arrested as the assassin, it bade fair to assume gigantic proportions. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished in her bosom a viper which had unexpectedly turned and stung her.
Morn, noon, and night, in Toorak drawing-rooms and Melbourne Clubs, the case formed the principal subject of conversation. And Mrs. Grundy was horrified. Here was a young man, well born—"the Fitzgeralds, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins"—well-bred—"most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking" and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne—"pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog;" and this young man, who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder—it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to, and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for if men of young Fitzgerald's calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing people? And then, of course, everybody asked everybody else who Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met Mr. Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of the insane questions which some people will ask. It was talked about everywhere—in fashionable drawing-rooms at five o'clock tea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, over brandies and sodas and cigarettes; by working men over their mid-day pint, and by their wives in the congenial atmosphere of the back yard over the wash-tub. The papers were full of paragraphs about the famous murder, and the society papers gave an interview with the prisoner by their special reporters, which had been composed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumours which they heard around, and their own fertile imaginations.
As to the prisoner's guilt, everyone was certain of it. The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the church caught the contagion, and ministers—Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immorality was their own particular church. "Gad," as Calton remarked, after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own church as the one special vessel of safety, "there seems to be a whole fleet of arks!"
For Mr. Felix Rolleston, acquainted as he was with all concerned, the time was one of great and exceeding joy. He was ever to the fore in retailing to his friends, plus certain garnishments of his own, any fresh evidence that chanced to come to light. His endeavour was to render it the more piquant, if not dramatic. If you asked him for his definite opinion as to the innocence or guilt of the accused, Mr. Felix shook his head sagaciously, and gave you to understand that neither he, nor his dear friend Calton—he knew Calton to nod to—had yet been able to make up their minds about the matter.
"Fact is, don't you know," observed Mr. Rolleston, wisely, "there's more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing—think 'tective fellers wrong myself—don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly well sure he didn't."
This would be followed invariably by a query in chorus of "who killed him then?"
"Aha," Felix would retort, putting his head on one side, like a meditative sparrow; "'tective fellers can't find out; that's the difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove."
"But do you know anything of the detective business?" some one would ask.
"Oh, dear yes," with an airy wave of his hand; "I've read Gaboreau, you know; awfully jolly life, 'tectives."
Despite this evasion, Rolleston, in his heart of hearts, believed Fitzgerald guilty. But he was one of those persons, who having either tender hearts or obstinate natures—the latter is perhaps the more general—deem it incumbent upon them to come forward in championship of those in trouble. There are, doubtless, those who think that Nero was a pleasant young man, whose cruelties were but the resultant of an overflow of high spirits; and who regard Henry VIII. in the light of a henpecked husband unfortunate in the possession of six wives. These people delight in expressing their sympathy with great scoundrels of the Ned Kelly order. They view them as the embodiment of heroism, unsympathetically and disgracefully treated by the narrow understanding of the law. If one half the world does kick a man when he is down, the other half invariably consoles the prostrate individual with halfpence.
And therefore, even while the weight of public opinion was dead against Fitzgerald he had his share of avowed sympathy. There was a comfort in this for Madge. Not that if the whole countryside had unanimously condemned her lover she would have believed him guilty. The element of logic does not enter into the championship of woman. Her love for a man is sufficient to exalt him to the rank of a demi-god. She absolutely refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When all others forsake she clings to him, when all others frown she smiles on him, and when he dies she reveres his memory as that of a saint and a martyr. Young men of the present day are prone to disparage their womenkind; but a poor thing is the man, who in time of trouble has no woman to stand by him with cheering words and loving comfort. And so Madge Frettlby, true woman that she was, had nailed her colours to the mast. She refused surrender to anyone, or before any argument. He was innocent, and his innocence would be proved, for she had an intuitive feeling that he would be saved at the eleventh hour. How, she knew not; but she was certain that it would be so. She would have gone to see Brian in prison, but that her father absolutely forbade her doing so. Therefore she was dependent upon Calton for all the news respecting him, and any message which she wished conveyed.
Brian's persistent refusal to set up the defence of an ALIBI, annoyed Calton, the more so as he could conceive no reason sufficiently worthy of the risk to which it subjected his client.
"If it's for the sake of a woman," he said to Brian, "I don't care who she is, it's absurdly Quixotic. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if my neck was in danger I'd spare neither man, woman, nor child to save it."
"I dare say," answered Brian; "but if you had my reasons you might think differently."
Yet in his own mind the lawyer had a suspicion which he thought might perhaps account for Brian's obstinate concealment of his movements on the fatal night. He had admitted an appointment with a woman. He was a handsome young fellow, and probably his morals were no better than those of his fellows. There was perhaps some intrigue with a married woman. He had perchance been with her on that night, and it was to shield her that he refused to speak.
"Even so," argued Calton, "let him lose his character rather than his life; indeed the woman herself should speak. It would be hard upon her I admit; yet when a man's life is in danger, surely nothing should stop her."
Full of these perplexing thoughts, Calton went down to St. Kilda to have a talk with Madge. He intended to ask her to assist him towards obtaining the information he needed. He had a great respect for Madge, and thought her a really clever woman. It was just possible, he argued, that Brian's great love might cause him to confess everything to her, at her urgent request. He found Madge awaiting his arrival with anxiety.
"Where have you been all this time?" she said as they sat down; "I have been counting every moment since I saw you last. How is he?"
"Just the same," answered Calton, taking off his gloves, "still obstinately refusing to save his own life. Where's your father?" he asked, suddenly.
"Out of town," she answered, impatiently. "He will not be back for a week—but what do you mean that he won't save his own life?"
Calton leaned forward, and took her hand.
"Do you want to save his life?" he asked.
"Save his life," she reiterated, starting up out of her chair with a cry. "God knows, I would die to save him."
"Pish," murmured Calton to himself, as he looked at her glowing face and outstretched hands, "these women are always in extremes. The fact is," he said aloud, "Fitzgerald is able to prove an ALIBI, and he refuses to do so."
"But why?"
Calton shrugged his shoulders.
"That is best known to himself—some Quixotic idea of honour, I fancy. Now, he refuses to tell me where he was on that night; perhaps he won't refuse to tell you—so you must come up and see him with me, and perhaps he will recover his senses, and confess."
"But my father," she faltered.
"Did you not say he was out of town?" asked Calton.
"Yes," hesitated Madge. "But he told me not to go."
"In that case," said Calton, rising and taking up his hat and gloves, "I won't ask you."
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Stop! will it do any good?"
Calton hesitated a moment, for he thought that if the reason of Brian's silence was, as he surmised, an intrigue with a married woman, he might not tell the girl he was engaged to about it—but, on the other hand, there might be some other reason, and Calton trusted to Madge to find it out. With these thoughts in his mind he turned round.
"Yes," he answered, boldly, "it may save his life."
"Then I shall go," she answered, recklessly. "He is more to me than my father, and if I can save him, I will. Wait," and she ran out of the room.
"An uncommonly plucky girl," murmured the lawyer, as he looked out of the window. "If Fitzgerald is not a fool he will certainly tell her all—that is, of course, if he is able to—queer things these women are—I quite agree with Balzac's saying that no wonder man couldn't understand woman, seeing that God who created her failed to do so."
Madge came back dressed to go out, with a heavy veil over her face.
"Shall I order the carriage?" she asked, pulling on her gloves with trembling fingers.
"Hardly," answered Calton, dryly, "unless you want to see a paragraph in the society papers to the effect that Miss Madge Frettlby visited Mr. Fitzgerald in gaol—no—no—we'll get a cab. Come, my dear," and taking her arm he led her away.
They reached the station, and caught a train just as it started, yet notwithstanding this Madge was in a fever of impatience.
"How slowly it goes," she said, fretfully.
"Hush, my dear," said Calton, laying his hand on her arm. "You will betray yourself—we'll arrive soon—and save him."
"Oh, God grant we may," she said with a low cry, clasping her hands tightly together, while Calton could see the tears falling from under her thick veil.
"This is not the way to do so," he said, almost roughly, "you'll be in hysterics soon—control yourself for his sake."
"For his sake," she muttered, and with a powerful effort of will, calmed herself. They soon arrived in Melbourne, and, getting a hansom, drove up quickly to the gaol. After going through the usual formula, they entered the cell where Brian was, and, when the warder who accompanied them opened the door, they found the young man seated on his bed. He looked up, and, on seeing Madge, rose and held out his hands with a cry of delight. She ran forward, and threw herself on his breast with a stifled sob. For a short time no one spoke—Calton being at the other end of the cell, busy with some notes which he had taken from his pocket, and the warder having retired.
"My poor darling," said Madge, stroking back the soft, fair hair from his flushed forehead, "how ill you look."
"Yes!" answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh. "Prison does not improve a man—does it?"
"Don't speak in that tone, Brian," she said; "it is not like you—let us sit down and talk calmly over the matter."
"I don't see what good that will do," he answered, wearily, as they sat down hand-in-hand. "I have talked about it to Calton till my head aches, and it is no good."
"Of course not," retorted the lawyer, sharply, as he also sat down. "Nor will it be any good until you come to your senses, and tell us where you were on that night."
"I tell you I cannot."
"Brian, dear," said Madge, softly, taking his hand, "you must tell all—for my sake."
Fitzgerald sighed—this was the hardest temptation he had yet been subjected to. He felt half inclined to yield, and chance the result—but one look at Madge's pure face steeled him against doing so. What could his confession bring but sorrow and regret to one whom he loved better than his life.
"Madge!" he answered, gravely, taking her hand again, "you do not know what you ask."
"Yes, I do!" she replied, quickly. "I ask you to save yourself—to prove that you are not guilty of this terrible crime, and not to sacrifice your life for the sake of—of—"
Here she stopped, and looked helplessly at Calton, for she had no idea of the reason of Fitzgerald's refusal to speak.
"For the sake of a woman," finished Calton, bluntly.
"A woman!" she faltered, still holding her lover's hand.
"Is—is—is that the reason?"
Brian averted his face.
"Yes!" he said, in a low, rough voice.
A sharp expression of anguish crossed her pale face, and, sinking her head on her hands, she wept bitterly. Brian looked at her in a dogged kind of way, and Calton stared grimly at them both.
"Look here," he said, at length, to Brian, in an angry voice; "if you want my opinion of your conduct I think it's infamous—begging your pardon, Miss Frettlby, for the expression. Here is this noble girl, who loves you with her whole heart, and is ready to sacrifice everything for your sake, comes to implore you to save your life, and you coolly turn round and acknowledge another woman."
Brian lifted his head haughtily, and his face flushed.
"You are wrong," he said, turning round sharply; "there is the woman for whose sake I keep silence;" and, rising up from the bed, he pointed to Madge, as she sobbed bitterly on it. She lifted up her haggard face with an air of surprise.
"For my sake!" she cried in a startled voice.
"Oh, he's mad," said Calton, shrugging his shoulders; "I shall put in a defence of insanity."
"No, I am not mad," cried Fitzgerald, wildly, as he caught Madge in his arms. "My darling! My darling! It is for your sake that I keep silence, and I shall do so though my life pays the penalty. I could tell you where I was on that night and save myself: but if I did, you would learn a secret which would curse your life, and I dare not speak—I dare not."
Madge looked up into his face with a pitiful smile as her—tears fell fast.
"Dearest!" she said, softly. "Do not think of me, but only of yourself; better that I should endure misery than that you should die. I do not know what the secret can be, but if the telling of it will save your life, do not hesitate. See," she cried, falling on her knees, "I am at your feet—I implore you by all the love you ever had for me, to save yourself, whatever the consequences may be to me."
"Madge," said Fitzgerald, as he raised her in his arms, "at one time I might have done so, but now it is too late. There is another and stronger reason for my silence, which I have only found out since my arrest. I know that I am closing up the one way of escape from this charge of murder, of which I am innocent; but as there is a God in heaven, I swear that I will not speak."
There was a silence in the cell, broken only by Madge's convulsive sobs, and even Calton, cynical man of the world as he was, felt his eyes grow wet. Brian led Madge over to him, and placed her in his arms.
"Take her away," he said, in a broken voice, "or I shall forget that I am a man;" and turning away he threw himself on his bed, and covered his face with his hands. Calton did not answer him, but summoned the warder, and tried to lead Madge away. But just as they reached the door she broke away from him, and, running back, flung herself on her lover's breast.
"My darling! My darling!" she sobbed, kissing him, "you shall not die. I shall save you in spite of yourself;" and, as if afraid to trust herself longer, she ran out of the cell, followed by the barrister.
Madge stepped into the cab, and Calton paused a moment to tell the cabman to drive to the railway station. Suddenly she stopped him.
"Tell him to drive to Brian's lodgings in Powlett Street," she said, laying her hand on Calton's arm.
"What for?" asked the lawyer, in astonishment.
"And also to go past the Melbourne Club, as I want to stop there."
"What the deuce does she mean?" muttered Calton, as he gave the necessary orders, and stepped into the cab.
"And now," he asked, looking at his companion, who had let down her veil, while the cab rattled quickly down the street, "what do you intend to do?"
She threw back her veil, and he was astonished to see the sudden change which had come over her. There were no tears now, and her eyes were hard and glittering, while her mouth was firmly closed. She looked like a woman who had determined to do a certain thing, and would carry out her intention at whatever cost.
"I intend to save Brian in spite of himself," she said, very distinctly.
"But how?"
"Ah, you think that, being a woman, I can do nothing," she said, bitterly. "Well, you shall see."
"I beg your pardon," retorted Calton, with a grim smile, "my opinion of your sex has always been an excellent one—every lawyer's is; stands to reason that it should be so, seeing that a woman is at the bottom of nine cases out of ten."
"The old cry."
"Nevertheless a true one," answered Calton. "Ever since the time of Father Adam it has been acknowledged that women influence the world either for good or evil more than men. But this is not to the point," he went on, rather impatiently.
"What do you propose to do?"
"Simply this," she answered. "In the first place, I may tell you that I do not understand Brian's statement that he keeps silence for my sake, as there are no secrets in my life that can justify his saying so. The facts of the case are simply these: Brian, on the night in question, left our house at St. Kilda, at eleven o'clock. He told me that he would call at the Club to see if there were any letters for him, and then go straight home."
"But he might have said that merely as a blind."
Madge shook her head.
"No, I don't think so. I did not ask him where he was going. He told me quite spontaneously. I know Brian's character, and he would not tell a deliberate lie, especially when there was no necessity for it. I am quite certain that he intended to do as he said, and go straight home. When he got to the Club, he found a letter there, which caused him to alter his mind."
"From whom was the letter?"
"Can't you guess," she said impatiently. "From the person, man or woman, who wanted to see him and reveal this secret about me, whatever it is. He got the letter at his Club, and went down Collins Street to meet the writer. At the corner of the Scotch Church he found Mr. Whyte, and on recognising him, left in disgust, and walked down Russell Street to keep his appointment."
"Then you don't think he came back."
"I am certain he did not, for, as Brian told you, there are plenty of young men who wear the same kind of coat and hat as he does. Who the second man who got into the cab was I do not know, but I will swear that it was not Brian."
"And you are going to look for that letter?"
"Yes, in Brian's lodgings."
"He might have burnt it."
"He might have done a thousand things, but he did not," she answered. "Brian is the most careless man in the world; he would put the letter into his pocket, or throw it into the waste-paper basket, and never think of it again."
"In this case he did, however."
"Yes, he thought of the conversation he had with the writer, but not of the letter itself. Depend upon it, we shall find it in his desk, or in one of the pockets of the clothes he wore that night."
"Then there's another thing," said Calton, thoughtfully. "The letter might, have been delivered to him between the Elizabeth Street Railway Station and the Club."
"We can soon find out about that," answered Madge; "for Mr. Rolleston was with him at the time."
"So he was," answered Calton; "and here is Rolleston coming down the street. We'll ask him now."
The cab was just passing the Burke and Wills' monument, and Calton's quick eye had caught a glimpse of Rolleston walking down the left-hand side. What first attracted Calton's attention was the glittering appearance of Felix. His well-brushed top hat glittered, his varnished boots glittered, and his rings and scarf-pin glittered; in fact, so resplendent was his appearance that he looked like an animated diamond coming along in the blazing sunshine.
The cab drove up to the kerb, and Rolleston stopped short, as Calton sprang out directly in front of him. Madge lay back in the cab and pulled down her veil, not wishing to be recognised by Felix, as she knew that if he did it would soon be all over the town.
"Hallo! old chap," said Rolleston, in considerable astonishment. "Where did you spring from?"
"From the cab, of course," answered Calton, with a laugh.
"A kind of DEUS EX MACHINA," replied Rolleston, attempting a bad pun.
"Exactly," said Calton. "Look here, Rolleston, do you remember the night of Whyte's murder—you met Fitzgerald at the Railway Station."
"In the train," corrected Felix.
"Well, well, no matter, you came up with him to the Club."
"Yes, and left him there."
"Did you notice if he received any message while he was with you?"
"Any message?" repeated Felix. "No, he did not; we were talking together the whole time, and he spoke to no one but me."
"Was he in good spirits?"
"Excellent, made me laugh awfully—but why all this thusness?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Calton, getting back into the cab. "I wanted a little information from you; I'll explain next time I see you— Good-bye!"
"But I say," began Felix, but the cab had already rattled away, so Mr. Rolleston turned angrily away.
"I never saw anything like these lawyers," he said to himself.
"Calton's a perfect whirlwind, by Jove."
Meanwhile Calton was talking to Madge.
"You were right," he said, "there must have been a message for him at the Club, for he got none from the time he left your place."
"And what shall we do now?" asked Madge, who, having heard all the conversation, did not trouble to question the lawyer about it.
"Find out at the Club if any letter was waiting for him on that night," said Calton, as the cab stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. "Here we are," and with a hasty word to Madge, he ran up the steps.
He went to the office of the Club to find out if any letters had been waiting for Fitzgerald, and found there a waiter with whom he was pretty well acquainted.
"Look here, Brown," said the lawyer, "do you remember on that Thursday night when the hansom cab murder took place if any letters were waiting here for Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Well, really, sir," hesitated Brown, "it's so long ago that I almost forget."
Calton gave him a sovereign.
"Oh! it's not that, Mr. Calton," said the waiter, pocketing the coin, nevertheless. "But I really do forget."
"Try and remember," said Calton, shortly.
Brown made a tremendous effort of memory, and at last gave a satisfactory answer.
"No, sir, there were none!"
"Are you sure?" said Calton, feeling a thrill of disappointment.
"Quite sure, sir," replied the other, confidently, "I went to the letter rack several times that night, and I am sure there were none for Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Ah! I thought as much," said Calton, heaving a sigh.
"Stop!" said Brown, as though struck with a sudden idea. "Though there was no letter came by post, sir, there was one brought to him on that night."
"Ah!" said Calton, turning sharply. "At what time?"
"Just before twelve o'clock, sir."
"Who brought it?"
"A young woman, sir," said Brown, in a tone of disgust. "A bold thing, beggin' your pardon, sir; and no better than she should be. She bounced in at the door as bold as brass, and sings out, 'Is he in?' 'Get out,' I says, 'or I'll call the perlice.' 'Oh no, you won't,' says she. 'You'll give him that,' and she shoves a letter into my hands. 'Who's him?' I asks. 'I dunno,' she answers. 'It's written there, and I can't read; give it him at once.' And then she clears out before I could stop her."
"And the letter was for Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Yes, sir; and a precious dirty letter it was, too."
"You gave it to him, of course?"
"I did, sir. He was playing cards, and he put it in his pocket, after having looked at the outside of it, and went on with his game."
"Didn't he open it?"
"Not then, sir; but he did later on, about a quarter to one o'clock. I was in the room, and he opens it and reads it. Then he says to himself, 'What d—d impertinence,' and puts it into his pocket."
"Was he disturbed!"
"Well, sir, he looked angry like, and put his coat and hat on, and walked out about five minutes to one."
"Ah! and he met Whyte at one," muttered Calton. "There's no doubt about it. The letter was an appointment, and he was going to keep it. What kind of a letter was it?" he asked.
"Very dirty, sir, in a square envelope; but the paper was good, and so was the writing."
"That will do," said Calton; "I am much obliged to you," and he hurried down to where Madge awaited him in the cab.
"You were right," he said to her, when the cab was once more in motion. "He got a letter on that night, and went to keep his appointment at the time he met Whyte."
"I knew it," cried Madge with delight. "You see, we will find it in his lodgings."
"I hope so," answered Calton; "but we must not be too sanguine; he may have destroyed it."
"No, he has not," she replied. "I am convinced it is there."
"Well," answered Calton, looking at her, "I don't contradict you, for your feminine instincts have done more to discover the truth than my reasonings; but that is often the case with women—they jump in the dark where a man would hesitate, and in nine cases out of ten land safely."
"Alas for the tenth!" said Miss Frettlby. "She has to be the one exception to prove the rule."
She had in a great measure recovered her spirits, and seemed confident that she would save her lover. But Mr. Calton saw that her nerves were strung up to the highest pitch, and that it was only her strong will that kept her from breaking down altogether.
"By Jove," he muttered, in an admiring tone, as he watched her. "She's a plucky girl, and Fitzgerald is a lucky man to have the love of such a woman."
They soon arrived at Brian's lodgings, and the door was opened by Mrs. Sampson, who looked very disconsolate indeed. The poor cricket had been blaming herself severely for the information she had given to the false insurance agent, and the floods of tears which she had wept had apparently had an effect on her physical condition, for she crackled less loudly than usual, though her voice was as shrill as ever.
"That sich a thing should 'ave 'appened to 'im," she wailed, in her thin, high voice. "An' me that proud of 'im, not 'avin' any family of my own, except one as died and went up to 'eaving arter 'is father, which I 'opes as they both are now angels, an' friendly, as 'is nature 'ad not developed in this valley of the shadder to determine 'is feelin's towards is father when 'e died, bein' carried off by a chill, caused by the change from 'ot to cold, the weather bein' that contrary."
They had arrived in Brian's sitting-room by this time, and Madge sank into a chair, while Calton, anxious to begin the search, hinted to Mrs. Sampson that she could go.
"I'm departin', sir," piped the cricket, with a sad shake of her head, as she opened the door; "knowin', as I do, as 'e's as innocent as an unborn babe, an' to think of me 'avin' told that 'orrid pusson who 'ad no regard for the truth all about 'im as is now in a cold cell, not as what the weather ain't warm, an' 'e won't want a fire as long as they allows 'im blankets."
"What did you tell him?" asked Calton, sharply.
"Ah! you may well say that," lamented Mrs. Sampson, rolling her dingy handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes, which presented quite a bacchanalian appearance, due, be it said in justice, to grief, not to liquor. "'Avin' bin beguiled by that serping in light clothes as wanted to know if 'e allays come 'ome afore twelve, which I said 'e was in the 'abit of doin', tho', to be sure, 'e did sometimes use 'is latch-key."
"The night of the murder, for instance."
"Oh! don't say that, sir," said Mrs. Sampson, with a terrified crackle. "Me bein' weak an' ailin', tho' comin' of a strong family, as allays lived to a good age, thro' bein' in the 'abit of wearin' flannels, which my mother's father thought better nor a-spilin' the inside with chemistry."
"Clever man, that detective," murmured Calton to himself. "He got out of her by strategy what he never would have done by force. It's a strong piece of evidence against Fitzgerald, but it does not matter much if he can prove an ALIBI. You'll likely be called as a witness for the prosecution," he said aloud.
"Me, sir!" squeaked Mrs. Sampson, trembling violently, and thereby producing a subdued rustle, as of wind in the trees. "As I've never bin in the court, 'cept the time as father tooked me for a treat, to 'ear a murder, which there's no denyin' is as good as a play, 'e bein' 'ung, 'avin' 'it 'is wife over the 'ead with the poker when she weren't lookin', and a-berryin' 'er corpse in a back garding, without even a stone to mark the place, let alone a line from the Psalms and a remuneration of 'er virtues."
"Well, well," said Calton, rather impatiently, as he opened the door for her, "leave us for a short time, there's a good soul. Miss Frettlby and I want to rest, and we will ring for you when we are going."
"Thank you, sir," said the lachrymose landlady, "an' I 'opes they won't 'ang 'im, which is sich a choky way of dyin'; but in life we are in death," she went on, rather incoherently, "as is well known to them as 'as diseases, an' may be corpsed at any minute, and as—"
Here Calton, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, shut the door, and they heard Mrs. Sampson's shrill voice and subdued cracklings die away in the distance.
"Now then," he said, "now that we have got rid of that woman and her tongue, where are we to begin?"
"The desk," replied Madge, going over to it. "It's the most likely place."
"Don't think so," said Calton, shaking his head. "If, as you say, Fitzgerald is a careless man, he would not have troubled to put it there. However; perhaps we'd better look."
The desk was very untidy ("Just like Brian," as Madge remarked)—full of paid and unpaid bills, old letters, play-bills, ball-programmes, and withered flowers.
"Reminiscences of former flirtations," said Calton, with a laugh, pointing to these.
"I should not wonder," retorted Miss Frettlby, coolly. "Brian always was in love with some one or other; but you know what Lytton says, 'There are many counterfeits, but only one Eros,' so I can afford to forget these things."
The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was it in the sitting-room. They tried the bedroom, but with no better result. Madge was about to give up the search in despair, when suddenly Calton's eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which, by some unaccountable reason, they had over-looked. The basket was half-full, in fact; more than half, and, on looking at it, a sudden thought struck the lawyer. He rang the bell, and presently Mrs. Sampson made her appearance.
"How long has that waste-paper basket been standing like that?" he asked, pointing to it.
"It bein' the only fault I 'ad to find with 'im," said Mrs. Sampson, "'e bein' that untidy that 'e a never let me clean it out until 'e told me pussonly. 'E said as 'ow 'e throwed things into it as 'e might 'ave to look up again; an' I 'aven't touched it for more nor six weeks, 'opin' you won't think me a bad 'ousekeeper, it bein' 'is own wish—bein' fond of litter an' sich like."
"Six weeks," repeated Calton, with a look at Madge. "Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago. Depend upon it, we shall find it there."
Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basket out on the floor, and both she and Calton were soon as busy among the fragments of paper as though they were rag-pickers.
"'Opin they ain't orf their 'eads," murmured Mrs. Sampson, as she went to the door, "but it looks like it, they bein'—"
Suddenly a cry broke from Madge, as she drew out of the mass of paper a half-burnt letter, written on thick and creamy-looking paper.
"At last," she cried, rising off her knees, and smoothing it out; "I knew he had not destroyed it."
"Pretty nearly, however," said Calton, as his eye glanced rapidly over it; "it's almost useless as it is. There's no name to it."