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 Aesop'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 favour of Julia, who was about 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 the 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 lamplight 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 the waltz mingled with their merry laughter.
"Looks like a haunted house," said Brian, thinking of Poe's weird poem; "but such a thing is impossible out here."
"I don't know so much about that," said Madge, gravely, lifting up some water in the palm of her hand, and letting it stream back like diamonds in the moonlight. "I knew a house in St. Kilda which was haunted."
"By what?" asked Brian, sceptically.
"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 death beds with her howlings; but as I've never seen the lady myself, I'm afraid she's a Mrs. Harris."
"It's aristocratic to have a ghost in a family, 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 which 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, and letting the reins lie on his horse's neck, he gave himself up unreservedly to his thoughts. ATRA CURA certainly did not sit behind the horseman on this night; and Brian, to his surprise, found himself singing "Kitty of Coleraine," as he rode along in the silver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the future seemed so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes! they would live on the ocean, and she would find how much pleasanter it was on the restless waters, with their solemn sense of mystery, than on the crowded land.
"Was not the seaMade for the free—Land for courts and slaves alone?"
Moore was perfectly right. She would learn that when with a fair wind, and all sail set, they were flying over the blue Pacific waters.
And then they 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 would bless 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 so 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 rushed 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; splashing through the cool water, which wound through the dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight—then, again, the wide, grassy plain, dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheep skurrying away like fantastic spectres—on—on—ever on, until his own homestead appears, and he sees the star-like light shining brightly in the distance—a long avenue of tall trees, over whose wavering shadows his horse thundered, and then the wide grassy space in front of the house, with the clamorous barking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hoofs up the avenue, comes round the side of the house, and Brian leaps off his horse, and flinging the reins to the man, walks into his own room. There he finds a lighted lamp, brandy and soda on the table, and a packet of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa, and opened the window and door, so as to let in the cool breeze; then mixing for himself a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up the lamp, and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up was from a lady. "Always a she correspondent for me," says Isaac Disraeli, "provided she does not cross." Brian's correspondence did not cross, but notwithstanding this, after reading half a page of small talk and scandal, he flung the letter on the table with an impatient ejaculation. The other letters were principally business ones, but the last one proved to be from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a sensation of pleasure. Calton was a capital letter-writer, and his epistles had done much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which succeeded his acquittal of Whyte's murder, when he was in danger of getting into a morbid state of mind. Brian, therefore, sipped his brandy and soda, and, lying back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself.
"My dear Fitzgerald," wrote Calton his peculiarly clear handwriting, which was such an exception to the usual crabbed hieroglyphics of his brethren of the bar, "while you are enjoying the cool breezes and delightful freshness of the country, here am I, with numerous other poor devils, cooped up in this hot and dusty city. How I wish I were with you in the land of Goschen, by the rolling waters of the Murray, where everything is bright and green, and unsophisticated—the two latter terms are almost identical—instead of which my view is bounded by bricks and mortar, and the muddy waters of the Yarra have to do duty for your noble river. Ah! I too have lived in Arcadia, but I don't now: and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, I am not sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is a lotus-eating Paradise of blissful ignorance, and I love the world with its pomps, vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, oh Corydon—don't be afraid, I'm not going to quote Virgil—are studying Nature's book, I am deep in the musty leaves of Themis' volume, but I dare say that the great mother teaches you much better things than her artificial daughter does me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, 'When one is in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope,' so being in the legal profession, I must respect its muse. I suppose when you saw that this letter came from a law office, you wondered what the deuce a lawyer was writing to you for, and my handwriting, no doubt suggested a writ—pshaw! I am wrong there, you are past the age of writs—not that I hint that you are old; by no means—you are just at that appreciative age when a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by the experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the good things of this world, videlicet—love, wine, and friendship. I am afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law. On reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as Praed's Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and write sense. I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore entrusted you with—ah! you see I know her name, and why?—simply because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the ARGUS very cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of Whyte's murder, and the reason for it, is known to you, but you refuse, even in the interests of justice, to reveal it—why, I don't know; but we all have our little faults, and from an amiable though mistaken sense of—shall I say—duty?—you refuse to deliver up the man whose cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life. After your departure from Melbourne every one said, 'The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer will never be discovered.' I ventured to disagree with the wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself, 'Who was this woman who died at Mother Guttersnipe's?' Receiving no satisfactory answer from myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney in the JOHN ELDER about a year ago as Mr. and Mrs. Whyte. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, coming from a city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, 'Find out the name and all about the woman who left England in the JOHN ELDER on the 21st day of August, 18—, as wife of Oliver Whyte.' MIRABILE DICTU, he found out all about her, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity London is, you must admit my friend was clever. It appears, however, that the task I set him was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs. Whyte was rather a notorious individual in her own way. She was a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and, being a very handsome woman, had been photographed innumerable times. Consequently, when she very foolishly went with Whyte to choose a berth on board the boat, she was recognised by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of the Frivolity. Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot tell you. With reference to men understanding women, I refer you to Balzac's remark anent the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St. John's Wood and champagne suppers, and longed for the purer air of her native land. Ah! you open your eyes at this latter statement—you are surprised—no, on second thoughts you are not, because she told you herself that she was a native of Sydney, and had gone home in 1858, after a triumphant career of acting in Melbourne. And why did she leave the applauding Melbourne public and the flesh-pots of Egypt? You know this also. She ran away with a rich young squatter, with more money than morals, who happened to be in Melbourne at the time. She seems to have had a weakness for running away. But why she chose Whyte to go with this time puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly good-looking, had no position, and a bad temper. How do I know all these traits of Mr. Whyte's character, morally and socially? Easily enough; my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr. Oliver Whyte was the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off, retired into a private life, and ultimately went the way of all flesh. His son, finding himself with a capital income, and a pretty taste for amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent, found out that his family had come over with the Conqueror—Glanville de Whyte helped to sew the Bayeux tapestry, I suppose—and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day, he worshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess, pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran off with fortunate Mr. Whyte. So far as this goes there is nothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the sake of light o' loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched youth embezzles money to buy jewellery for his divinity. The career of Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the DEMI-MONDE, and, as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far so good; the motive of the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his money in England, and, consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney with comparatively very little cash. However, with an Epicurean-like philosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common one—drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it. Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne, and finding that a new generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph—I mean Musette—she drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel with Mr. Whyte, to view Melbourne by night—a familiar scene to her, no doubt. What took her to Little Bourke Street I don't know. Perhaps she got lost—perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days; at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavoury locality, by Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan—took her to the squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady's story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel. Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer of this letter has a theory—a fanciful one, if you will—that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte's death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not—well, I shall find out without you. I have taken, and still take, a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later to discover the secret which led to Whyte's murder. If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps, will come round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands. So think over what I have said; if I do not hear from you within the next week, I shall regard your decision as final, and pursue the search myself. I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to her father. With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly,"DUNCAN CALTON."
When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back in his chair, stared blankly into the dawning light outside. He arose after a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it quickly. Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the marvellous breaking of the dawn. He stood staring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton's letter.
"I can do no more," he said bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house. "There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all. My poor Madge! My poor Madge!"
A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and, turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire-worshipper.
"I accept the omen of the dawn," he cried, "for her life and for mine."
His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intended departure.
The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and, guided by the sound of merry voices, and the laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn-tennis ground. Madge and her guests were there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Frettlby was not present. He was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.
"How good of you to come," she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, "and on such a hot day."
"Yes, it's something fearful in the shade," said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade.
"Pardon me if I think the contrary," replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.
Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head.
"Ah! it's easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald," she observed, as she resumed her seat. "You are making Madge jealous."
"So he is," answered Madge, with a gay laugh. "I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks."
"Here he comes, then," said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness it's over, and that I have won," he said, wiping his heated brow; "galley slaves couldn't have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat SUB TEGMINE FAGI."
"Which means?" asked his wife, lazily.
"That onlookers see most of the game," answered her husband, impudently.
"I suppose that's what you call a free and easy translation," said Peterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil."
"Let it be iced then," retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. "I always like my 'something' iced."
"It's a way you've got," said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.
"He's not the only one who's got that way," said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.
"It's a way we've got in the army,It's a way we've got in the navy,It's a way we've got in the 'Varsity."
"And so say all of us," finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; "I'll have another, please. Whew, it is hot."
"What, the drink?" asked Julia, with a giggle.
"No—the day," answered Felix, making a face at her. "It's the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith's advice, by getting out of one's skin, and letting the wind whistle through one's bones."
"With such a hot wind blowing," said Peterson, gravely, "I'm afraid they'd soon be broiled bones."
"Go, giddy one," retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, "or I'll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game."
"Not I," replied Peterson, coolly. "Not being a salamander, I'm hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;" and turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.
Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, though not of his reasons for it.
"I received a letter last night," he said, turning his face away from her; "and, as it's about some important business, I must start at once."
"I don't think it will be long before we follow," answered Madge, thoughtfully. "Papa leaves here at the end of the week."
"Why?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Madge, petulantly; "he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing; but wander all over the world."
There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald's mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby—"A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth."
"Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later," he said, idly. "In fact," with an uneasy laugh, "I believe I'm in one myself."
"That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday," she said. "This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians."
"Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place," said Brian, absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, "but we all lose our way to it late in life."
"At that rate we won't lose our way to it for some time," she said laughing, as they stepped into the drawing-room, so cool and shady, after the heat and glare outside.
As they entered Mr. Frettlby rose from a chair near the window. He appeared to have been reading, for he held a book in his hand.
"What! Fitzgerald," he exclaimed, in a hearty tone, as he held out his hand; "I am glad to see you."
"I let you know I am living, don't I?" replied Brian, his face flushing as he reluctantly took the proffered hand. "But the fact is I have come to say good-bye for a few days."
"Ah! going back to town, I suppose," said Mr. Frettlby, lying back in his chair, and playing with his watch chain. "I don't know that you are wise, exchanging the clear air of the country for the dusty atmosphere of Melbourne."
"Yet Madge tells me you are going back," said Brian, idly toying with a vase of flowers on the table.
"Depends upon circumstances," replied the other carelessly. "I may and I may not. You go on business, I presume?"
"Well, the fact is Calton—" Here Brian stopped suddenly, and bit his lip with vexation, for he had not intended to mention the lawyer's name.
"Yes?" said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sitting up quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.
"Wants to see me on business," he finished, awkwardly.
"Connected with the sale of your station, I suppose," said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the young man's face.
"Can't have a better man. Calton's an excellent man of business."
"A little too excellent," replied Fitzgerald, ruefully, "he's a man who can't leave well alone."
"A PROPOS of what?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Fitzgerald, hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time a single name flashed through their brains—the name of Rosanna Moore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes, and break the spell.
"Ah, well," he said, lightly, as he rose from his chair and held out his hand, "if you are two weeks in town, call at St. Kilda, and it's more than likely you will find us there."
Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat, and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hot sunshine.
"He knows," he muttered involuntarily.
"Knows what, sir?" said Madge, who came silently behind him, and slipped her arm through his. "That you are hungry, and want something to eat before you leave us?"
"I don't feel hungry," said Brian, as they walked towards the door.
"Nonsense," answered Madge, merrily, who, like Eve, was on hospitable thoughts intent. "I'm not going to have you appear in Melbourne a pale, fond lover, as though I were treating you badly. Come, sir—no," she continued, putting up her hand as he tried to kiss her, "business first, pleasure afterwards," and they went into the dining-room laughing.
Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn-tennis ground, thinking of the look he had seen in Brian's eyes. He shivered for a moment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenly chill.
"Someone stepping across my grave," he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile. "Bah! how superstitious I am, and yet—he knows, he knows!"
"Come on, sir," cried Felix, who had just caught sight of him, "a racket awaits you."
Frettlby awoke with a start, and found himself near the lawn-tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking a cigarette.
He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young man lightly on the shoulder.
"What?" he said with a forced laugh, "do you really expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day? You are mad."
"I am hot, you mean," retorted the imperturbable Rolleston, blowing a wreath of smoke.
"That's a foregone conclusion," said Dr. Chinston, who came up at that moment.
"Such a charming novel," cried Julia, who had just caught the last remark.
"What is?" asked Peterson, rather puzzled.
"Howell's book, 'A Foregone Conclusion,'" said Julia, also looking puzzled. "Weren't you talking about it?"
"I'm afraid this talk is getting slightly incoherent," said Felix, with a sigh. "We all seem madder than usual to-day."
"Speak for yourself," said Chinston, indignantly, "I'm as sane as any man in the world."
"Exactly," retorted the other coolly, "that's what I say, and you, being a doctor, ought to know that every man and woman in the world is more or less mad."
"Where are your facts?" asked Chinston, smiling.
"My facts are all visible ones," said Felix, gravely pointing to the company. "They're all crooked on some point or another."
There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then every one burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr. Rolleston was arguing.
"If you go on like that in the House," said Frettlby, amused, "you will, at all events, have an entertaining Parliament."
"Ah! they'll never have an entertaining Parliament till they admit ladies," observed Peterson, with a quizzical glance at Julia.
"It will be a Parliament of love then," retorted the doctor, dryly, "and not mediaeval either."
Frettlby took the doctor's arm, and walked away with him. "I want you to come up to my study, doctor," he said, as they strolled towards the house, "and examine me."
"Why, don't you feel well?" said Chinston, as they entered the house.
"Not lately," replied Frettlby. "I'm afraid I've got heart disease."
The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.
"Nonsense," he said, cheerfully, "it's a common delusion with people that they have heart disease, and in nine cases, out of ten it's all imagination; unless, indeed," he added waggishly, "the patient happens to be a young man."
"Ah! I suppose you think I'm safe as far as that goes," said Frettlby, as they entered the study; "and what did you think of Rolleston's argument about people being mad?"
"It was amusing," replied Chinston, taking a seat, Frettlby doing the same. "That's all I can say about it, though, mind you, I think there are more mad people at large than the world is aware of."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; do you remember that horrible story of Dickens', in the 'Pickwick Papers,' about the man who was mad, and knew it, yet successfully concealed it for years? Well, I believe there are many people like that in the world, people whose lives are one long struggle against insanity, and yet who eat, drink, talk, and walk with the rest of their fellow-men, apparently as gay and light-hearted as they are."
"How extraordinary."
"Half the murders and suicides are done in temporary fits of insanity," went on Chinston, "and if a person broods over anything, his incipient madness is sure to break out sooner or later; but, of course, there are cases where a perfectly sane person may commit a murder on the impulse of the moment, but I regard such persons as mad for the time being; but, again, a murder may be planned and executed in the most cold-blooded manner."
"And in the latter case," said Frettlby, without looking at the doctor, and playing with a paper knife, "do you regard the murderer as mad?"
"Yes, I do," answered the doctor, bluntly. "He is as mad as a person who kills another because he supposes he has been told by God to do so—only there is method in his madness. For instance, I believe that hansom cab murder, in which you were mixed up—"
"I wasn't mixed up in it," interrupted Frettlby, pale with anger.
"Beg pardon," said Chinston, coolly, "a slip of the tongue; I was thinking of Fitzgerald. Well, I believe that crime to have been premeditated, and that the man who committed it was mad. He is, no doubt, at large now, walking about and conducting himself as sanely as you or I, yet the germ of insanity is there, and sooner or later he will commit another crime."
"How do you know it was premeditated?" asked Frettlby, abruptly.
"Any one can see that," answered the other. "Whyte was watched on that night, and when Fitzgerald went away the other was ready to take his place, dressed the same."
"That's nothing," retorted Frettlby, looking at his companion sharply. "There are dozens of men in Melbourne who wear evening dress, light coats, and soft hats—in fact, I generally wear them myself."
"Well, that might have been a coincidence," said the doctor, rather disconcerted; "but the use of chloroform puts the question beyond a doubt; people don't usually carry chloroform about with them."
"I suppose not," answered the other, and then the matter dropped. Chinston made an examination of Mark Frettlby, and when he had finished, his face was very grave, though he laughed at the millionaire's fears.
"You are all right," he said, gaily. "Action of the heart a little weak, that's all—only," impressively, "avoid excitement—avoid excitement."
Just as Frettlby was putting on his coat, a knock came to the door, and Madge entered.
"Brian is gone," she began. "Oh, I beg your pardon, doctor—but is papa ill?" she asked with sudden fear.
"No, child, no," said Frettlby, hastily, "I'm all right; I thought my heart was affected, but it isn't."
"Not a bit of it," answered Chinston, reassuringly. "All right—only avoid excitement."
But when Frettlby turned to go to the door, Madge, who had her eyes fixed on the doctor's face, saw how grave it was.
"There is danger?" she said, touching his arm as they paused for a moment at the door.
"No! No!" he answered, hastily.
"Yes, there is," she persisted. "Tell me the worst, it is best for me to know."
The doctor looked at her in some doubt for a few moments, and then placed his hand on her shoulder.
"My dear young lady," he said gravely, "I will tell you what I have not dared to tell your father."
"What?" she asked in a low voice, her face growing pale.
"His heart is affected."
"And there is great danger?"
"Yes, great danger. In the event of any sudden shock—" he hesitated.
"Yes—"
"He would probably drop down dead."
"My God!"
Mr. Calton sat in his office reading a letter he had just received from Fitzgerald, and judging from the complacent smile upon his face it seemed to give him the greatest satisfaction.
"I know," wrote Brian, "that now you have taken up the affair, you will not stop until you find out everything, so, as I want the matter to rest as at present, I will anticipate you, and reveal all. You were right in your conjecture that I knew something likely to lead to the detection of Whyte's murderer; but when I tell you my reasons for keeping such a thing secret, I am sure you will not blame me. Mind you, I do not say that I know who committed the murder; but I have suspicions—very strong suspicions—and I wish to God Rosanna Moore had died before she told me what she did. However, I will tell you all, and leave you to judge as to whether I was justified in concealing what I was told. I will call at your office some time next week, and then you will learn everything that Rosanna Moore told me; but once that you are possessed of the knowledge you will pity me."
"Most extraordinary," mused Calton, leaning back in his chair, as he laid down the letter. "I wonder if he's about to tell me that he killed Whyte after all, and that Sal Rawlins perjured herself to save him! No, that's nonsense, or she'd have turned up in better time, and wouldn't have risked his neck up to the last moment. Though I make it a rule never to be surprised at anything, I expect what Brian Fitzgerald has to tell me will startle me considerably. I've never met with such an extraordinary case, and from all appearances the end isn't reached yet. After all," said Mr. Calton, thoughtfully, "truth is stranger than fiction."
Here a knock came to the door, and in answer to an invitation to enter, it opened, and Kilsip glided into the room.
"You're not engaged, sir?" he said, in his soft, low voice.
"Oh, dear, no," answered Calton, carelessly; "come in—come in!"
Kilsip closed the door softly, and gliding along in his usual velvet-footed manner, sat down in a chair near Calton's, and placing his hat on the ground, looked keenly at the barrister.
"Well, Kilsip," said Calton, with a yawn, playing with his watch chain, "any good news to tell me?"
"Well, nothing particularly new," purred the detective, rubbing his hands together.
"Nothing new, and nothing true, and no matter," said Calton, quoting Emerson. "And what have you come to see me about?"
"The Hansom Cab Murder," replied the other quietly.
"The deuce!" cried Calton, startled out of his professional dignity. "And have you found out who did it?"
"No!" answered Kilsip, rather dismally; "but I have an idea."
"So had Gorby," retorted Calton, dryly, "an idea that ended in smoke. Have you any practical proofs?"
"Not yet."
"That means you are going to get some?"
"If possible."
"Much virtue in 'if,'" quoted Calton, picking up a pencil, and scribbling idly on his blotting paper. "And to whom does your suspicion point?"
"Aha!" said Mr. Kilsip, cautiously.
"Don't know him," answered the other, coolly; "family name Humbug, I presume. Bosh! Whom do you suspect?"
Kilsip looked round cautiously, as if to make sure they were alone, and then said, in a stage whisper—
"Roger Moreland!"
"That was the young man that gave evidence as to how Whyte got drunk?"
Kilsip nodded.
"Well, and how do you connect him with the murder?"
"Do you remember in the evidence given by the cabmen, Royston and Rankin, they both swore that the man who was with Whyte on that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand?"
"What of that? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wears a diamond ring?"
"But not on the forefinger of the right hand."
"Oh! And Moreland wears a ring in that way?"
"Yes!"
"Merely a coincidence. Is that all your proof?"
"All I can obtain at present."
"It's very weak," said Calton, scornfully.
"The weakest proofs may form a chain to hang a man," observed Kilsip, sententiously.
"Moreland gave his evidence clearly enough," said Calton, rising, and pacing the room. "He met Whyte; they got drunk together. Whyte went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwards Moreland followed with the coat, which was left behind by Whyte, and then someone snatched it from him."
"Ah, did they?" interrupted Kilsip, quickly.
"So Moreland says," said Calton, stopping short. "I understand; you think Moreland was not so drunk as he would make out, and that after following Whyte outside, he put on his coat, and got into the cab with him."
"That is my theory."
"It's ingenious enough," said the barrister; "but why should Moreland murder Whyte? What motive had he?"
"Those papers—"
"Pshaw! another idea of Gorby's," said Calton, angrily. "How do you know there were any papers?"
The fact is, Calton did not intend Kilsip to know that Whyte really had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tell him.
"And another thing," said Calton, resuming his walk, "if your theory is correct, which I don't think it is, what became of Whyte's coat? Has Moreland got it?"
"No, he has not," answered the detective, decisively.
"You seem very positive about it," said the lawyer, after a moment's pause. "Did you ask Moreland about it?"
A reproachful look came into Kilsip's white face.
"Not quite so green," he said, forcing a smile. "I thought you'd a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton. Ask him?—no."
"Then how did you find out?"
"The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel."
"A barman!" echoed Calton; "and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman—pshaw! the idea is absurd."
"Well, you may be right about the matter," said Kilsip, rather angrily; "and if Gorby makes mistakes I don't pretend to be infallible. But, at all events, when I saw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand."
"Silver isn't a diamond."
"No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on. When I saw that, I determined to search his room. I managed to do so while he was out, and found—"
"A mare's nest?"
Kilsip nodded.
"And so your castle of cards falls to the ground," said Calton, jestingly. "Your idea is absurd. Moreland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything."
"Humph—so he says."
"Well, men don't calumniate themselves for nothing."
"It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one," replied Kilsip, coolly. "I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out."
"Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?"
"I shall start looking for the coat first."
"Ah! you think he has hidden it?"
"I am sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett Street—"
"But he didn't," interrupted Calton, angrily.
"Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did," said Kilsip, quietly. "I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett Street, turned to the left down George Street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy Gardens, then, knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away, or rather, hid it, and walked out of the Gardens through the town—"
"In evening dress—more noticeable than the coat."
"He wasn't in evening dress," said Kilsip, quietly.
"No, neither was he," observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial. "Another blow to your theory. The murderer was in evening dress—the cabman said so."
"Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte."
"Well, what of that?"
"If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moreland wore dark trousers—at least, I suppose so—and, with the coat buttoned up, it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr. Fitzgerald."
"That sounds better," said Calton, thoughtfully. "And what are you going to do?"
"Look for the coat in the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Pshaw! a wild goose chase."
"Possibly," said Kilsip, as he arose to go.
"And when shall I see you again?" said Calton.
"Oh, to-night," said Kilsip, pausing at, the door. "I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you."
"Why? What's up?"
"She's dying, and wants to tell you some secret."
"Rosanna Moore, by Jove!" said Calton. "She'll tell me something about her. I'll get to the bottom of this yet. All right, I'll be here at eight o'clock."
"Very well, sir!" and the detective glided out.
"I wonder if that old woman knows anything?" said Calton to himself, as he resumed his seat. "She may have overheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, and intends to divulge it. Well, I'm afraid when Fitzgerald does confess, I shall know all about it beforehand."