 Chapter XXV. of Mystery of a Handsome Cab by Fergus Hume. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. What Dr. Chinston said. His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Maj 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. Soon 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 Rolaston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Freddleby 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. Maj caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him without stretched 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 this shade, said pretty Mrs. Rolaston, with a laugh putting up her sun-shade. 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. Rolaston blushed and shook her head. Ah! It's easy to see you came from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald, she observed, as she resumed her seat. You are making Maj jealous. So he is, answered Maj with a gay laugh. I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolaston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks. Here he comes, then, said her lover, as Rolaston 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. Rolaston sat down with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness it's over, and that I've won, he said, wiping as heated brow. Early slaves couldn't have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat sub-te-ge-mi-faggy. 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. Rolaston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil. Let it be iced, then, retorted Rolaston, lying full length on the ground and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. I always liked my something iced. It's a way you've got, said Madge, with a laugh as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-colored liquor, with a lump of ice clinging 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 Rolaston, and holding out his glass to be replenished. I'll have another please. Phew! 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 Sidney 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 gaily, 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 gaily, 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 Rolaston he began to talk to Julia feather-weight. 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's 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, aligned from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Edelby, a fugitive in a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth. Everyone gets these restless vits 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 Thackery, 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 heating glare outside. As they entered Mr. Freddleby 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 goodbye for a few days. Ah! going back to town, I suppose, said Mr. Freddleby, 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 of fexation, for he had not intended to mention the lawyer's name. Yes, said Mr. Freddleby, 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 Freddleby, 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 enough alone. I propose what? Oh, nothing! answered Fitzgerald hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Freddleby. 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 Roseanna Moore. Mr. Freddleby 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 veranda, and then out into the hot sunshine. He knows. He muttered involuntarily. "'Know 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 and tent. I am 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 Freddleby 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. Freddleby 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 soldier. "'What?' he said with a forced laugh. "'Do you really expect me to play lawn-tennis on such a day? You're mad. I'm hot, you mean,' retorted the impotervable Rawliston, 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. "'Howl'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 today.' "'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. Rawliston was arguing. "'If you go on like that in the house,' said Freddleby 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 medieval, either.' Freddleby took the doctor's arm and walked away with him. "'I want you to come to my study, doctor,' as they strolled towards the house, and examine me. "'Why, you don't feel well?' said Chinston as they entered the house. "'Not lately,' replied Freddleby. "'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 Freddleby as they entered the study. "'And what did you think of Rawliston's argument about people being mad?' "'It was amusing,' replied Chinston, taking a seat. Freddleby 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 lighthearted as they are. How extraordinary! Half the murderers and suicides are done in temporary fits of insanity,' went on Chinston, and if a person brews over anything his insipient 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 Freddleby, 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 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 handsome cab-murderer in which you were mixed up. I wasn't mixed up in it,' interrupted Freddleby, pale with anger. "'Beg pardon,' said Chinston Cooley, 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 Freddleby abruptly. "'Anyone can see that,' answered the other. Why, it 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 Freddleby, looking at his companion sharply. "'There are dozens of men in Melbourne who wear evening dress, light coats, and soft hat. 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 Freddleby, and when he had finished his face was very grave, though he laughed at the millionaire's fears. "'You're all right,' he said gaily. Action of the heart a little weak. That's all. Only, impressively, avoid excitement. Avoid excitement.' Justice Freddleby was putting on his coat, and not 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 Freddleby 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 Freddleby 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 arms 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!' End of Chapter 25. Read by Cibela Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 26 Of Mystery of a Handsome Cab by Fergus Hume Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Kilsip has a theory of his own. 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 till 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 White'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 sometime next week, and then you will learn everything that Rosanna Moore told me, but once you are possessed of the knowledge you will pity me.' "'Most extraordinary,' used Calton, leaning back in his chair as he laid down the letter. I wonder if he's about to tell me that he killed White after all, and that Sal Rollins perjured herself to save him. No, that's nonsense, or she'd have turned up in better time and wouldn't have risked this 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 Kill-Sip glided into the room. "'You are not engaged, sir,' he said in his soft, low voice. "'Oh, dear no,' answered Calton carelessly. "'Come in, come in.' Kill-Sip closed the door softly and glided 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 bear-store. "'Well, Kill-Sip,' 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 handsome 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 Kill-Sip, 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're going to get some?' "'If possible.' "'Muts virtue and if,' quoted Calton, picking up a pencil and scribbling idly on his blotting paper. "'And to whom does your suspicion point?' "'A-ha,' said Mr. Kill-Sip cautiously. "'Don't know him,' answered the other coolly, family name Humbug, I presume. "'Bosh! Whom do you suspect?' Kill-Sip looked round cautiously, as if to make sure they were alone, and then said in a stage whisper, "'Brodger Moorland.' "'That was the young man that gave evidence as to how white got drunk?' Kill-Sip 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 withwied on that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand?' "'What of it? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wears a diamond ring. But not on the forefinger of the right hand.' "'Oh! and Moorland wears a ring in that way?' "'Yes.' "'Merely a coincidence. Is that all your proof?' "'All it can obtain at present.' "'It's very weak,' said Calton scornfully. The weakest proofs may form a chain to hang a man.' Observed Kill-Sip sententiously. Moorland gave his evidence clearly enough, said Calton rising and pacing out of the room. He met white. They got drunk together. White went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwards Moorland followed with the coat, which was left behind by white, and then someone snatched it from him. "'Ah! did they?' interrupted Kill-Sip quickly. "'So Moorland says,' said Calton, stopping short. "'I understand. You think Moorland was not so drunk as he would make out, and that after following white 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 Moorland murder white? What motive had he?' "'Those papers—' "'Pshaw, another idea of gorbies,' said Calton angrily. "'How do you know there were any papers?' "'The fact is, Calton did not intend Kill-Sip to know that White 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 White's coat? Has Moorland 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 Moorland about it?' "'A reproachful look came into Kill-Sip'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, Moorland 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 White. Moorland pretty well lived on White, 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 Kill-Sip, rather angrily. "'And if Gorby makes mistakes, I don't pretend to be infallible. But at all events, when I saw Moorland 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 mayor's nest?' Kill-Sip nodded. "'And so your castle of cards falls to the ground,' said Calton jestingly. "'Your idea is absurd. Moorland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything.' "'Hm, so he says. Well, men don't calumnate themselves for nothing. It was a lesser danger to avoid a greater one,' replied Kill-Sip Cooley. "'I am sure that Moorland 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 is hidden it?' "'I am pretty sure of it. My theory is this. When Moorland got out of the cab at Pallet Street. But he didn't,' interrupted Calton angrily. "'Let us suppose for the sake of argument that he did,' said Kill-Sip quietly. I say when he left the cab he walked up Pallet 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 Kill-Sip quietly. No, neither was he,' observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence of 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 white.' "'Well, what of that?' "'If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moorland 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. Pasha, a wild goose-chase.' "'Possibly,' said Kill-Sip as he arose to go. "'And when shall I see you again?' said Calton. "'Oh, to-night,' said Kill-Sip, pausing at the door. "'I had nearly forgotten. Mother Gutter-Snipe wants to see you.' "'Why? What's up?' "'She's dying, and wants to tell you some secret.' "'Rosanna Moor by Joe,' 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 White and his mistress, and intends to divulge it. Well, I'm afraid when Fitzgerald does confess, I shall know all about it beforehand.' CHAPTER XXVII of Mystery of a Handsome Cab by Fergus Hume Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mother Gutter-Snipe joins the majority. Punctual to his appointment, Kill-Sip called at Calton's office at eight o'clock in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums. He found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm his belief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Gutter-Snipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush money in order to keep quiet. Several times before, Calton had been on the point of going to her and trying to get the secret out of her. That is, if she knew it, but now fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be true than one dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips. By the time Kill-Sip made his appearance, Calton was in a high state of excitement. I suppose we'd better go at once, he said to Kill-Sip as he led a cigar. That old hag may go off at any moment. She might, assented Kill-Sip doubtfully, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine lives like a cat. Not improbable, retorted Calton as they passed into the brilliantly lighted street. Her nature seemed to me to be essentially feline. But tell me, he went on, what's the matter with her, old age? Partly. Drink also, I think, answered Kill-Sip. Besides, her surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have pretty well settled her. It isn't anything catching, I hope, cried the Barrister with a shudder as they passed into the crowd of Bork Street. Don't know, sir, not being a doctor, answered the detectives stolidly. Oh, ejaculated Calton in dismay. It will be all right, sir, said Kill-Sip reassuringly. I've been there dozens of times, and I'm all right. I daresay, retorted the Barrister, but I may go there once and catch it, whatever it is. Take my word, sir, it's nothing worse than old age and drink. Has she a doctor? Won't let one come near her, prescribes for herself. Gin, I suppose. Much more unpleasant than the usual run of medicines. In a short time they found themselves in Little Bork Street, and after traversing a few dark and narrow lanes, by this time they were more or less familiar to Calton, they found themselves before Mother Gutter-Snipe's den. They climbed the rickety stairs, which groaned and creaked beneath their weight, and found Mother Gutter-Snipe lying on the bed in the corner. The elfish, black-haired child was playing cards with a slatterly-looking girl at a deal-table by the faint light of a tallow candle. They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and the elfish child pushed a broken chair in the sullen manner towards Mr. Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of the room and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entry awoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen. Sitting up in bed she huddled the clothes round her. She presented such a gruesome spectacle that involuntarily Calton recoiled. Her white hair was unbound, and hung entangled masses over her shoulders in snowy profusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, with the hooked nose and beady black eyes, like those of a mouse, was poked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, were waving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with her claw-like hands. The square bottle in the broken cup lay beside her, and filling herself a dram she laughed it up greedily. The irritant brought on a paroxysm of coughing which lasted until the elfish child shook her well and took the cup from her. Greedy old beast muttered this amiable infant, peering into the cup. You'd drink the jar dry, I believe. Yeah, muttered the old woman feebly. Who's they, Liza? She said, shading her eyes with one trembling hand, while she looked at Calton and the detective. The police cove in the swell, said Liza, suddenly, come to see your turn up your toes. I ain't dead yet, you welp, snarled the hag with sudden energy, and if I gets up I'll turn up your toes, Cushia. Liza gave a shrill laugh of disdain and kill-sip stepped forward. None of this, he said sharply, taking Liza by one thin shoulder and pushing her over to where the other girl was crouching. Stop there till I tell you to move. Liza tossed back her tangled black hair and was about to make some impudent reply, when the other girl, who was older and wiser, put out her hand and pulled her down beside her. Meanwhile, Calton was addressing himself to the old woman in the corner. You wanted to see me, he said gently, for not withstanding his repugnance to her, she was, after all, a woman and dying. Yes, Cushia, croaked mother gutter snipe lying down and pulling the greasy bed-clothes up to her neck. You ain't a parson, with sudden suspicion. No, I'm a lawyer. I ain't going to have the cussed parson's apprelin' around here, growled the old woman viciously. I ain't going to die yet, Cushia. I'm going to get well and strong and have a good time of it. I'm afraid you won't recover, said Calton gently. You had better let me send for a doctor. No, I shan't, retorted the hag, aiming a blow at him with all her feeble strength. I ain't going to have my inside spoiled with salt and sinner. I don't want neither parson's nor doctor's, I don't. I wouldn't have a lawyer, only I'm a thinking of making my will, I am. Mind I gets the watch, yelled Liza from the corner, if she gives it to Sal, I'll tear her eyes out. Silence, said Kilsip sharply, and with a muttered curse Liza sat back in her corner. Sharper than a serpent's tooth she are, whined the old woman, when quiet was once more restored. That young devil'd have fed my home, and now she turns, cusser. Well, well, said Calton rather impatiently. What is it you wanted to see me about? Don't be in such a hurry, said the hag with a scowl, or I'm blamed if I'll tell you any things, Sal, me. She was evidently growing very weak, so Calton turned to Kilsip and told him in a whisper to get a doctor. The detective scribbled a note on some paper, and giving it to Liza ordered her to take it. At this the other girl arose, and putting her arm in that of the child's they left together. Them too young us, he's gone, said Mother Gutterstype, right you are, for I don't want what I've got to tell to get into the newspaper I don't. And what is it? asked Calton, bending forward. The old woman took another drink of gin, and it seemed to put life into her, for she sat up in the bed and commenced to talk rapidly, as though she were afraid of dying before her secret was told. You've been here a four, she said, pointing one skinny finger at Calton, and you wanted to find out all about her, but she didn't. She wouldn't let me tell, for she was always a proud jade, a flounce and round while her poor mother was a starvin. Her mother? Are you Rosanna Moore's mother? cried Calton, considerably astonished. May I die if I ain't? croaked the hag. Her poor father died a drink, custom, and I'm a follower in him to the same place in the same way. You weren't about town in the old days, or you'd have been after her, Cushie. After Rosanna, the very girl, answered Mother Gutter Snipe, she were on the stage she were, and my eye, what a swell she were, with all the coves of dying for her, and she dancing over their black arts, custom. But she was always good to me till he came. Who came? E! yelled the old woman, raising herself on her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury. E! a comin' around with diamonds and gold and a ruin in my poor girl, and now he's held his blooming head up all these years as if he were a saint, custom, custom. Whom does she mean? whispered Calton to Kilsip. Mean! screamed Mother Gutter Snipe, whose sharp ears had caught the muttered question. Why, Mark Freddleby! Good God! Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise. I, E, were a swell in them days, pursued Mother Gutter Snipe, and he comes a philanderin' round my gal, custom, and ruins her, and leaves her and the child to starve like a black-hearted villain as he were. The child! Her name? Bah! retorted the hag with scorn, as if you didn't know my granddaughter Sal. Sal? Mark Freddleby's child? Yes, and as pretty a girl as the other, though she happened to be born on the wrong side of the edge. Oh, I've seen her a-sweeping along in her silks and satins as though we were dirt, and Sal her half-sister, Cusser. Exhausted by the effort she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat dazed, thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Freddleby's mistress he had hardly wondered at. After all, the millionaire was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty, and was evidently one of those women who, rakes at heart, prefer the untrammeled freedom of being a mistress to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality, so many people live in glass houses, that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones. Calton did not think any the worse of Freddleby for his youthful follies. But what did surprise him was that Freddleby should be so heartless as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Gutter-Snipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man that he was inclined to think that the old woman was playing him a trick. Did Mark Freddleby know that Sal was his child, he asked. Not he, snarled Mother Gutter-Snipe in an exultant tone, he thought she was dead, he did, after Rosanna gave him the go-by. And why did you not tell him? "'Cause I wanted to break his heart if he had any,' said the old bell-dame, vindictively. Sal was a-going wrong as fast as she could till she was took from me. If she had gone and got into quad, I'd have gone to him and said, Look at your daughter! How I've ruined her as you did mine. You wicked woman, said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. You sacrificed an innocent girl for this. None of your preaching,' retorted the hag sullenly, I ain't been brought up for a saint I ain't, and I wanted to pay him out. He paid me well to my old tongue about my daughter, and I got it ear, laying her hand on the pillow, all gold, good gold, and mine, cuss me. Calton rose. He felt quite sick at this exhibition of human depravity and long to be away. As he was putting on his hat, however, the two girls entered with the doctor, who nodded to kill-sip, cast a sharp, scrutinizing glance at Calton, and then walked over to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, and waited in silence for the end. Mother Gutter-Snipe had fallen back in the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if to protect her beloved gold, and over her face a deathly paleness was spreading, which told the practice dye of the doctor that the end was near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding the candle to the dying woman's face. She opened her eyes and muttered drowsily, "'Who's you? Get out!' But then she seemed to grasp the situation again, and she started up with a shrill yell which made the hearers shudder. It was so weird and eerie. "'My money!' she yelled, clasping the pillow in her skinny arms. It's all mine. You shan't have it, cuss she.' The doctor arose from his knees and shrugged his shoulders. "'Not worth while doing anything,' he said coolly. She'll be dead soon.' The old woman, mumbling over her pillow, caught the word and burst into tears. "'Dead! Dead! My poor Rosanna, with her golden hair, always lovin' her poor mother till he took her away, and she came back to die! Die! Oh!' Her voice died away in a long, melancholy wail that made the two girls in the corner shiver and put their fingers in their ears. "'My good woman!' said the doctor, bending over the bed. "'Would you not like to see a minister?' She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed, with the midst of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper, "'Why?' "'Because you have only a short time to live,' said the doctor gently. "'You are dying.' Mother Gutter-Snipe sprang up and seized his arm with a scream of terror. "'Dying! Dying! No! No!' she wailed, clawing his sleeve. "'I ain't fit to die! Cuss me! Save me! Save me! I don't know where I'd go to, so help me! Save me!' The doctor tried to remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful tenacity. "'It is impossible,' he said briefly. The hag fell back in her bed. "'I'll give you money to save me,' she shrieked. "'Good money! All mine, all mine! See here! Ear! Sovereigns!' And tearing her pillow open she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a gleaming stream of gold. Gold! Gold! It rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchanted were they by the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life. She clutched some of the shining pieces, and held them up to the three men, as they stood silently beside the bed, but her hands trembled so that Sovereigns kept falling from them on the floor with metallic clinks. "'All mine! All mine!' she shrieked loudly. "'Give me my life! Gold! Money! Cuss she! I sold my soul for it! Save me! Give me my life!' And with trembling hands she tried to force the gold on them. They said no word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two girls in the corner clung together and trembled with fear. "'Don't look at me! Don't!' cried the hag, falling down again, amid the shining gold. "'You want me to die? A shant! A shant! Give me my gold!' clawing at the scattered Sovereigns. "'I'll take it with me! A shant die!' "'God! God!' whimpering. "'I ain't done nothing! Let me live! Give me a Bible! Save me! God! Cuss it! God! God!' She fell back on the bed, a corpse. The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and on the dead face, framed entangled white hair, while the three men, sick at heart, turned away in silence to seek assistance, with that wild cry still ringing in their ears. "'God! Save me! God!' End of Chapter 27 Read by Cibela Denton For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 28 Of Mystery of a Handsome Cat by Fergus Hume Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain Mark Fretelby has a visitor According to the copy books of our youth, procrastination is the thief of time. Now, Brian found the tooth of this. He had been in town almost a week, but he had not yet been to see Calton. Each morning, or something very near it, he set out, determined to go direct to Chancey Lane, but he never arrived there. He had returned to his lodgings in East Melbourne, and had passed his time, either in the house or in the garden. When perhaps business connected with the sale of his station compelled his presence in town, he drove straight there and back. Curiously enough, he shrank from meeting any of his friends. He felt keenly his recent position in the prisoner's dock, and even when walking by the Yara, as he frequently did, he was conscious of an uneasy feeling, a feeling that he was an object of curiosity, and that people turned to look at him out of a morbid desire to see one who had been so nearly hanged for murder. As soon as his station should be sold and he married to Madge, he determined to leave Australia and never set foot on it again. But until he could leave the place he would see no one, nor would he mix with his former friends, so great was his dread of being stared at. Mrs. Samson, who had welcomed him back with shrill exclamations of delight, was loud in her expressions of disapproval as to the way he was shutting himself up. Your eyes being hollow, said the sympathizing cricket, it is natural, it's its one of air, which my husband's uncle, being a drugist, and well-to-do, in Collingwood, sees now a one of oxygen, being a French name, as he called the atmosphere, more fearful for pulling people down and making them go off their food, which you hardly eat anything, and not being a butterfly it's expected as your appetite would be larger. Oh, I'm all right, said Brian, absently lighting a cigarette, and only half listening to his landlady's garrulous chatter, but if any one calls tell them I'm not in, I don't want to be bothered by visitors. Bein' as wise a thing as Solomon ever said, answered Mrs. Samson energetically, which no doubt he was in good health when seeing the Queen of Sheber, as necessary when any one calls, and not feeling disposed to speak, which I'm often that way myself on occasions, my spirits bein' low as I've heard soda water to have that effect on them, which you takes it with a dash of brandy, though to be sure that might be the cause of your want of life, and drop that bell, she finished, hurrying out of the room as the front doorbell sounded, which my legs is a given way under me through bein' overworked. Meanwhile Brian sat and smoked contentedly, much relieved by the departure of Mrs. Samson with her constant chatter, but he soon heard her mouth the stairs again, and she entered the room with a telegram, which she handed to her lodger. Open it don't contain bad news, she said as she retreated to the door again, which I don't like him havin' had a shock in early light, through one havin' come unexpected as my uncle's grandfather were dead, havin' perished of consumption, our family all being disposed to the disease, and now if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll get to my dinner, bein' in the abode of takin' my meals regular, and I studies my inside carefully, bein' easily upset, through which I never could be a sailor. Mrs. Samson, having at last exhausted herself, went out of the room, and crackled loudly down the stairs, leaving Brian to read his telegram. He tore open the envelope and found the message was from Maj to say that they had returned, and to ask him to dine with them that evening. Fitzgerald folded up the telegram, then, rising from his seat, he walked moodily up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. So he is there, said the young man aloud, and I shall have to meet him and shake hands with him, knowing all the time what he is. If it were not for Maj I'd leave this place at once, but after the way she stood by me in my trouble I should be a coward if I did so. It was as Maj had predicted. Her father was unable to stay long in one place, and had come back to Melbourne a week after Brian had arrived. The pleasant party at the station was broken up, and like the graves of a household the guests were scattered far and wide. Peterson had left for New Zealand on roof for the wonders of the hot lakes, and the old colonist was about to start for England in order to refresh his boyish memories. Mr. and Mrs. Rolaston had come back to Melbourne, where the wretched Felix was compelled once more to plunge into politics, and Dr. Chinston had resumed his usual routine of fees and patience. Maj was glad to be back in Melbourne again, as now that her health was restored she craved for the excitement of town life. It was now more than three months since the murder, and the nine days wonder was a thing of the past. The possibility of a war with Russia was the one absorbing topic of the hour, and the colonists were busy preparing for the attack of a possible enemy. As the Spanish kings had drawn their treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the white czar lay violent hands on the golden stores of Australia, but here there were no uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the midst of stormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver White was quite forgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detective office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver White would remain a free man. There were only two people in Melbourne who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip. Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck his cowardly blow in the dark, and, though there seemed no possible chance of success, yet they worked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them. The barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the deathbed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on the subject. But he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer would soon be discovered, or at least some clue would be found that would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at the time of Mark Freddleby's return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for Fitzgerald's confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked stealthily in the dark, searching for evidence against Moreland. On receiving Madge's telegram, Brian determined to go down in the evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge to that effect. He did not want to meet Mark Freddleby, but did not, of course, tell this to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself as her father had gone to his club, and the time of his return was uncertain. After dinner she wrapped a light cloak round her and repaired to the veranda to wait for her lover. The garden looked charming in the moonlight, with the black, dense cypress trees standing up against the sky, and the great fountains splashing cool and silvery. There was a heavily foliageed oak by the gate, and she strolled down the path and stood under it in the shadow, listening to the whisper and rustle of its multitudinous leaves. It is curious the unearthly glamour which moonlight seems to throw over everything, and though Madge knew every flower, tree, and shrub in the garden, yet they all looked weird and fantastical in the cold white light. She went up to the fountain, and seating herself on the edge, amused herself by dipping her hand into the chilly water and letting it fall, like silver rain, back into the basin. Then she heard the iron gate open and shut with a clash, and, springing to her feet, saw someone coming up the path in a light coat and soft, wide-away cat. Oh, it's you at last, Brian, she cried as she ran down the path to meet him. Why did you not come before? Not being Brian, I can't say, answered her father's voice. Madge burst out laughing. What an absurd mistake, she cried. Why, I thought you were Brian. Indeed. Yes, in that hat and coat I couldn't tell the difference in the moonlight. Oh, said her father with a laugh, pushing his hat back, moonlight is necessary to complete the spell, I suppose. Of course, answered his daughter, if there were no moonlight alas for lovers. Alas indeed, echoed her father, they would become as extinct as the Moa, but where are your eyes, puss, when you take an old man like me for your gay, young Lakenvar? Well, really, papa, answered Madge deprecatingly, you do look so like him in that coat and hat that I could not tell the difference till you spoke. Nonsense, child, said Freddleby, roughly. You are fanciful. And turning on his heel he walked rapidly towards the house, leaving Madge staring after him in astonishment, as well she might, for her father had never spoken to her so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of his sudden anger, she stood spellbound, until there came a step behind her and a soft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian smiling at her. Oh, it's you, she said with a pout, as he caught her in his arms and kissed her. Only me, said Brian ungrammatically. Disappointing, isn't it? Oh, fearfully, answered the girl with a gay laugh, as arm in arm they walked towards the house. But do you know I made such a curious mistake just now? I thought papa was you. How strange, said Brian absently, for indeed he was admiring her charming face, which looked so pure and sweet in the moonlight. Yes, wasn't it? she replied. He had on a light coat and a soft hat, just like you wear sometimes, and as you are both the same height, I took you for one another. Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heart, as he saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed. For just at that moment there came into his mind the curious coincidence of the man who got into the handsome cab being dressed similarly to himself. What if—nonsense, he said aloud, rousing himself out of the train of thought the resemblance had suggested. I'm sure it isn't, said Madge, who had been talking about something else for the last five minutes. You are a very rude young man. I beg your pardon, said Brian, waking up. You were saying? That the horse is the most noble of all animals, exactly. I don't understand, began Brian, rather puzzle. Of course you don't, interrupted Madge petulantly, considering I've been wasting my eloquence on a deaf man for the last ten minutes, and very likely lame as well as deaf. And to prove the truth of the remark she ran up the path with Brian after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimble and better acquainted with the garden than he was. But at last he caught her just as she was running up the steps into the house, and then history repeats itself. They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Freddleby had gone up to his study, and did not want to be disturbed. Madge sat down to the piano, but before she struck a note, Brian took both her hands, prisoners. Madge, he said gravely, as she turned round, what did your father say when you made that mistake? He was very angry, she answered, quite cross. I'm sure I don't know why. Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the visitors bell sounded. They heard the servants answer it, and then someone was taken upstairs to Mr. Freddleby's study. When the coachman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that had come to the door. I don't know, Miss, he answered, but he said he wanted to see Mr. Freddleby particularly, so I took him up to the study. But I thought Papa said he was not to be disturbed. Yes, Miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him. Poor Papa, sighed Madge, turning again to the piano, he has always got such a lot to do. Left to themselves, Madge began playing Walter Fell's Last New Valsa, a dreamy, haunting melody with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian, lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang a gay little French song about love in a butterfly, with a mocking refrain which made Brian laugh. A memory of often buck, he said, rising and coming over to the piano, we certainly can't reproach the French in writing these eerie trifles. They're unsatisfactory, I think, said Madge, running her fingers over the keys. They mean nothing. Of course not, he replied. But don't you remember that Daquincey says there is no moral, either big or little, in the Iliad? Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allen than all those frothy things, said Madge, with fine scorn. Come and sing it. A five-act funeral it is, grown Brian, as he rose to obey. Let's have Gary Owen instead. Nothing else, however, would suit the capricious young person at the piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint old diddy of cruel Barbara Allen, who treated her dying love with such disdain. Sir John Graham was an ass, said Brian, when he had finished, or instead of dying in such a silly manner, he'd have married her right off without asking her permission. I don't think she was worth marrying, replied Madge, opening a book of Mendelssohn's duets, or she wouldn't have made such a fuss over her health not being drunk. Depend upon it she was a plain woman, remarked Brian gravely, and was angry because she wasn't toasted among the rest of the country bells. I think the young man had a narrow escape. She'd always have reminded him about that unfortunate oversight. You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well, said Madge, a little dryly. However, we'll leave the failings of Barbara Allen alone and sing this. This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, Would That My Love, which was a great favourite of Brian's. They were in the middle of it when suddenly Madge stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her father's study. Recollecting Dr. Chinston's warning, she ran out of the room and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much importance to it. Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it was locked. Who's there? asked her father sharply from inside. Only me, papa, she answered. I thought you were— No, no, I'm all right, replied her father quickly. Go downstairs, I'll join you shortly. Madge went back to the drawing room, only half satisfied with the explanation. She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather an anxious face. What's the matter? He asked, as she paused a moment at the foot of the stairs. Papa says nothing, she replied, but I am sure he must have been startled, or he would not have cried out like that. She told him what Dr. Chinston had said about the state of her father's heart, a recital which shocked Brian greatly. They did not return to the drawing room, but went out on the veranda, where, after wrapping a cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. They sat down at the far end of the veranda, somewhat in the shadow, and could see the hall door wide open, and a warm flood of mellow light pouring there from, and beyond the cold, white moonshine. After about a quarter of an hour Madge's alarm about her father having somewhat subsided, they were chatting on in different subjects, when a man came out of the hall door and paused for a moment on the steps of the veranda. He was dressed in rather a fashionable suit of clothes, but in spite of the heat of the night he had a thick white silk scarf round his throat. That's rather a cool individual, said Brian, removing his cigarette from between his lips. I wonder what—good God! He cried, rising to his feet as the stranger turned round to look at the house, and took off his hat for a moment. Roger Morland. The man started and looked quickly round to the dark shadow of the veranda where they were seated, then putting on his hat he ran quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang after him. Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian's face, as revealed by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it. Who is Roger Morland? she asked, touching his arm. Ah! I remember, with sudden horror, all of her white's friend. Yes, in a horse whisper, and one of the witnesses at the trial. End of CHAPTER XXVIII. Red by Cibella Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER XXIX. OF MYSTERY OF A HANDSOME CAB BY FERGUS HUIM. Red for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mr. Calton's curiosity is satisfied. There was not much sleep for Brian that night. He left Madge almost immediately and went home, but he did not go to bed. He felt too anxious and ill at ease to sleep, and passed the greater part of the night walking up and down his room, occupied with his own sad thoughts. He was wondering in his own mind what could be the meaning of Roger Morland's visit to Mark Freddleby. All the evidence that he had given at the trial was that he had met White and had been drinking with him during the evening. White then went out, and that was the last Morland had seen of him. Now the question was, what did he go to see Mark Freddleby for? He had no acquaintance with him and yet called by appointment. It is true that he might have been in poverty and the millionaire being well known as an extremely generous man, Morland might have called on him for money. But then the cry which Freddleby had given after the interview had lasted a short time proved that he had been startled. Madge had gone upstairs and found the door locked, her father refusing her admission. Now why was he so anxious Morland should not be seen by anyone? That he had made some startling revelation with certain, and Fitzgerald felt sure that it was in connection with the handsome cab murder case. He wearied himself with conjectures about the matter, and towards daybreak threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed, and slept heavily till twelve o'clock the next day. When he arose and looked at himself in the glass, he was startled at the haggard and worn appearance of his face. The moment he was awake his mind went back to Mark Freddleby and the visit of Roger Morland. The net is closing round him, he murdered to himself. I don't see how he can escape. Oh, Madge, Madge, if only I could spare you the bitterness of knowing what you must know sooner or later, and that other unhappy girl. The sins of the Fathers will be visited on the children. God help them. He took his bath and after dressing himself went into his sitting-room, where he had a cup of tea which refreshed him considerably. Mrs. Samson came crackling merrily upstairs with a letter and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise on seeing his altered appearance. Lord, sir, she exclaimed, what have you been a-doing? Me knowing your habits, as you'd gone to bed, not to say as it's very tempted in this hot weather, but with excuses, sir, you looks as if you hadn't slept a blessed wink. No more have I, said Brian, listlessly holding out his hand for the letter. I was walking up and down my room all last night. I must have walked miles. Ah, how that puts me in mind of my poor husband, chirped the cricket, be in a printer and accustomed like a howl to the darkness. When he was o'n for the night he walked up and down till he wore out the carpet. Bein' an expensive one, as I add on my marriage, and the only way I could stop him was by givin' him somethin' soothin' which you, sir, ought to try. Whisky, hot, with lemon and sugar, but I've heard tell his chloroform. No, dammit, said Brian hastily, startled out of his politeness. I've had enough of that. Akin teeth, no doubt, said the landlady going to the door, which I'm often takin' that way myself, decayed teeth runnin' in the family, though to be sure mine are stronger than former, a lodger of mine havin' been a dentist and doin' them beautiful instead of payin' rent, not havin' ready cash, his boxes bein' filled with bricks on his departure from the house. As Brian did not appear particularly interested in these domestic reminiscences, and seemed as if he wanted to be left alone, Mrs. Samson, with a final crackle, went downstairs and talked with a neighbor in the kitchen, as to the desirability of drawing her money out of the savings bank, in case the Russians should surprise and capture Melbourne. Brian, left alone, stared out of the window at the dusty road and the black shadows cast by the tall poplars in front of the house. I must leave this place, he said to himself. Every chance remark seems to bear on the murder, and I'm not anxious to have it constantly, by my side, like a skeleton at the feast. Suddenly he recollected the letter which he held in his hand, and which he now looked at for the first time. It proved to be from Madge, and tearing it open hastily, he read, I cannot understand what is the matter with Papa, she wrote. Ever since that man Moreland left last night, he has shut himself up in his study, and is riding there hour after hour. I went up this morning, but he would not let me in. He did not come down to breakfast, and I am getting seriously alarmed. Come down to-morrow and see me, for I am anxious about his state of health, and I am sure that Moreland told him something which has upset him. Writing, said Brian, as he put the letter in his pocket, what about, I wonder. Perhaps he is thinking of committing suicide. If so, I, for one, will not stop him. It is a horrible thing to do, but it would be acting for the best under the circumstances. In spite of his determination to seek Calton and tell all, Fitzgerald did not go near him that day. He felt ill and weary, the want of sleep and mental worry telling on him terribly, and he looked ten years older than he did before the murder of White. It is trouble which draws lines on the smooth forehead and furrows round the mouth. If a man has any mental worry, his life becomes a positive agony to him. Mental tortures are quite as bad as physical ones, if not worse. The last thing before dropping off to sleep is the thought of trouble, and with the first faint light of dawn it returns and hammers all day at the weary brain. But while a man can sleep, life is rendered at least indurable, and of all the blessings which Providence has bestowed, there is none so precious as that same sleep, which, as wise Sancho Panza says, wraps every man like a cloak. Brian felt the need of rest, so sending a telegram to Calton to call on him in the morning and another to match that he would be down to luncheon next day, he stayed indoors all day and amused himself with smoking and reading. He went to bed early and succeeded in having a sound sleep, so when he awoke next morning he felt considerably refreshed and invigorated. He was having his breakfast at half-past eight when he heard the sound of wheels and immediately afterwards a ring at the bell. He went to the window and saw Calton's trap was at the door. The owner was shortly afterwards shown into the room. Well, you are a nice fellow, cried Calton after greetings were over. Here I've been waiting for you with all the patience of Job, thinking you were still up country. Will you have some breakfast? asked Brian, laughing at his indignation. What have you got? said Calton, looking over the table. Ham and eggs. Your landlady's culinary ideas are very limited. Most landlady's ideas are, retorted Fitzgerald, resuming his breakfast, unless heaven invents some new animal, lodgers will go on getting beef and mutton, alternated with hash, until the end of the world. When one is in Rome, one mustn't speak ill of the pope, answered Calton with a grimace. Do you think your landlady could supply me with brandy and soda? I think so, answered Fitzgerald, rising and ringing the bell, but isn't it rather early for that sort of thing? There's a proverb about glass houses, said Calton severely, which applies to you in this particular instance. Whereupon Fitzgerald laughed, and Calton, having been supplied with what he required, prepared to talk business. I need hardly tell you how anxious I am to hear what you've got to say, he said, leaning back in his chair. But I may as well tell you that I am satisfied that I know half of your secret already. Indeed! Fitzgerald looked astonished. In that case I need not— Yes, you need! retorted Calton. I told you I only know half. Which half? Rather difficult to answer. However, I'll tell you what I know, and you can supply all deficiencies. I am quite ready. Go on. Stop. He arose and closed the door carefully. Well, resuming his seat, Mother Gutter Snot died the other night. Is she dead? As a doornail, answered Calton calmly, and a horrible deathbed it was, her screams ring in my ears yet. But before she died she sent for me and said, What? That she was the mother of Rosanna Moore. Yes? And that Sal Rollins was Rosanna's child, and the father, said Brian in a low voice, was Mark Fretelby. Ah! And now what have you to tell me? Nothing! Nothing! echoed Calton surprised. Then this is what Rosanna Moore told you when she died? Yes. Then why have you made such a mystery about it? You asked that, said Fitzgerald, looking up in surprise. If I had told it, don't you see what a difference it would have made to Maj? I'm sure I don't, retorted the barrister completely mystified. I suppose you mean Fretelby's connection with Rosanna Moore. Well, of course it was not a very credible thing for her to have been Fretelby's mistress, but still— His mistress, said Fitzgerald, looking up sharply, then you don't know all. What do you mean? Was she not his mistress? No, his wife. Calton sprang to his feet and gave a cry of surprise. His wife? Fitzgerald nodded. Why, Mother Guddersnight did not know this. She thought Rosanna was his mistress. He kept his marriage secret, answered Brian, and as his wife ran away with someone else shortly afterwards he never revealed it. I understand now, said the barrister slowly, for if Mark Fretelby was lawfully married to Rosanna Moore, Maj is illegitimate. Yes, and she now occupies the place which Sal Rollins, or rather Sal Fretelby, ought to. Poor girl, said Calton a little sadly, but all this does not explain the mystery of why it's murder. I will tell you that, said Fitzgerald quickly. When Rosanna left her husband she ran away to England with some young fellow, and when he got tired of her she returned to the stage and became famous as a burlesque actress under the name of Musette. There she met White, as your friend found out, and they came out here for the purpose of extorting money from Fretelby. When they arrived in Melbourne Rosanna let White do all the business and kept herself quiet. She gave her marriage certificate to White, and he had it on him the night he was murdered. Then Gorby was right, interposed Calton eagerly, the man to whom those papers were valuable did murder White. Can you doubt it? And that man was not Mark Fretelby, burst out Calton, surely not Mark Fretelby. Brian nodded. Yes, Mark Fretelby. There was a silence for a few moments, Calton being too much startled by the revelation to say anything. When did you discover this? He asked after a pause. At the time you first came to see me in prison, said Brian. I had no suspicion till then, but when you said that White was murdered for the sake of certain papers, I, knowing full well what they were and to whom they were of value, guessed immediately that Fretelby had killed White in order to obtain them and to keep his secret. There can be no doubt of it, said the barrister with a sigh. So this is the reason Fretelby wanted Maj to marry White. Her hand was to be the price of his silence. When he withdrew his consent White threatened him with exposure. I remember he left the house in a very excited state on the night he was murdered. Fretelby must have followed him up to town, got into the cab with him, and after killing him with chloroform, must have taken the marriage certificate from his secret pocket and escaped. Brian rose to his feet and walked rapidly up and down the room. Now you can understand what a hell my life has been for the last few months, he said, knowing that he had committed the crime, and yet I had to sit with him, eat with him, and drink with him, with the knowledge that he was a murderer and Maj, Maj, his daughter, just then a knot came to his door, and Mrs. Samson entered it with a telegram which she handed to Brian. He tore it open as she withdrew and glancing over it gave a cry of horror and led it flutter to his feet. Calton turned rapidly on hearing his cry, and seeing him fall into a chair with a white face, snatched up the telegram and read it. When he did so, his face grew as pale and startled as Fitzgerald's, and lifting his hand he said solemnly, It is the judgment of God. CHAPTER XXXXVIII Men, according to the old Greek, are the sport of the gods, who, enthroned on high Olympus, put evil desires into the hearts of mortals, and when evil actions were the outcome of evil thoughts, amused themselves by watching the ineffectual efforts made by their victims to escape a relentless deity called Nemesis, who exacted a penalty for their evil deeds. It was no doubt very amusing to the gods, but it is questionable if the men found it so. They had their revenge, however, for weary of plaguing puny mortals, who whimpered and cried when they saw how they could not escape. The inevitable Nemesis turned her attention from actors to spectators, and made a clean sweep of the whole Olympian hierarchy. She smashed their altars, pulled down their statues, and after she had completed her malicious work, found that she had, vulgarly speaking, been cutting off her nose despite her face, for she too became an object of derision and of disbelief, and was forced to retire to the same obscurity to which she had relegated the other deities. But men found out that she had not been altogether useless as a scapegoat upon which to lay the blame of their own shortcomings. So they created a new deity called Fate, and laid any misfortune which happened to them to her charge. Her worship is still very popular, especially among lazy and unlucky people, who never bestow themselves on the ground that whether they do so or not, their lives are already settled by Fate. After all, the true religion of Fate has been preached by George Eliot when she says that our lives are the outcome of our actions. Set up any idol you please upon which to lay the blame of unhappy lives and baffled ambitions, but the true cause is to be found in men themselves. Every action, good or bad, which we do, has its corresponding reward, and Mark Freddleby found it so, for the sins of his youth were now being punished in his old age. No doubt he had sinned gaily enough in that far-off time when life's cup was still brimming with wine and no asp hit among the roses, but Nemesis had been an unseen spectator of all his thoughtless actions, and now she came to demand her just dues. He felt somewhat as foused must have felt when Mephistopheles suggested a visit to Hades in repayment of those years of magic youth and magic power. So long ago it seemed, since he had married Rosanna Moore, that he almost persuaded himself that he had only been a dream, a pleasant dream with a disagreeable awakening. When she had left him he had tried to forget her, recognizing how unworthy she was of a good man's love. He heard that she had died in a London hospital, and with a passionate sigh for a perished love he had dismissed her from his thoughts forever. His second marriage had turned out a happy one, and he regretted the death of his wife deeply. Afterwards all his love centred in his daughter, and he thought he would be able to spend his declining years in peace. This, however, was not to be, and he was thunderstruck when white arrived from England with the information that his first wife still lived, and that the daughter of his second was illegitimate. Sooner than risk exposure Fred will be agreed to anything, but White's demands became too exorbitant and he refused to comply with them. On White's death he again breathed freely, when suddenly a second possessor of his fatal secret started up in the person of Roger Moreland, as the murder of Duncan had to be followed by that of Banquo in order to render Macbeth safe, so he foresaw that while Roger Moreland lived his life would be one long misery. He knew that the friend of the murdered man would be his master and would never leave him during his life, while after his death he would probably publish the whole ghastly story and defame the memory of the widely respected Mark Freddleby. What is it that Shakespeare says? Good name and man or woman is the immediate jewel of their souls. And after all these years of spotless living in generous use of his wealth, was he to be dragged down to the depths of infamy and degradation by men like Moreland? Already in fancy he heard the jeering cries of his fellow men and saw the finger of scorn point at him. He, the great Mark Freddleby, famous throughout Australia for his honesty, integrity, and generosity. No, it could not be, and yet this would surely happen unless he took means to prevent it. The day after he had seen Moreland and knew that his secret was no longer safe, since it was in the power of a man who might reveal it at any moment in a drunken fit or out of sheer maliciousness, he sat at his desk writing. After a time he laid down his pen, and taking up a portrait of his dead wife which stood just in front of him, he stared at it long and earnestly. As he did so, his mind went back to the time when he had first met and loved her. Even as Faust had entered into the purity and serenity of Gretchen's chamber, out of the coarseness and profligacy of our box-seller, so he, leaving behind him the wild life of his youth, had entered into the peace and quiet of a domestic home. The old feverish life with Rosanna Moore seemed to be as unsubstantial and chimerical, as no doubt his union with Lilith after he met Eve, seemed to add him in the old rabbinical legend. There seemed to be only one way open to him, by which he could escape the relentless fate which dogged his steps. He would write a confession of everything from the time he had first met Rosanna, and then death. He would cut the Gordian knot of all his difficulties, and then his secret would be safe. Safe? No, it could not be while Moreland lived. When he was dead, Moreland would see Madge and invitter her life with the story of her father's sins. Yes, he must live to protect her, and drag his weary chain of bitter remembrance through life, always with that terrible sort of democles hanging over him. But still he would write out his confession, and after his death, whenever it may happen, it might help, if not altogether to exculpate, at least to secure some pity for a man who had been hardly dealt with by fate. His resolution taken, he put it into force at once, and sat all day at his desk, filling page after page with the history of his past life, which was so bitter to him. He started at first languidly, and as in the performance of an unpleasant but necessary duty. Soon, however, he became interested in it, and took a peculiar pleasure in putting down every minute circumstance which made the case stronger against himself. He dealt with it not as a criminal, but as a prosecutor, and painted his conduct as much blacker than it had really been. Towards the end of the day, however, after reading over the earlier sheets, he experienced a revulsion of feeling, seeing how severe he had been on himself, so he wrote a defence of his conduct, showing that fate had been too strong for him. It was a weak argument to bring forward, but still he felt it was the only one that he could make. It was quite dark when he had finished, and while sitting in the twilight, looking dreamily at the sheet scattered all over his desk, he heard a knock at the door, and his daughter's voice asking if he was coming to dinner. All day long he had closed his door against everyone, but now his task being ended, he collected all the closely written sheets together, placed them in a drawer of his esquitois, which he locked, and then opened the door. Dear papa, cried Maj as she entered rapidly, and threw her arms around his neck, what have you been doing here all day by yourself? Writing, returned her father, leconically, as he gently removed her arms. Why, I thought you were ill, she answered, looking at him apprehensively. No, dear, he replied quietly, not ill, but worried. I knew that dreadful man who came last night had told you something to worry you. Who is he? Oh, a friend of mine, answered Freddleby with hesitation. What? Roger Moreland. Her father started. How do you know it was Roger Moreland? Oh, Brian recognized him as he went out. Mark Freddleby hesitated for a few moments, then busied himself with the papers on his desk, as he replied in a low voice. You're right, it was Roger Moreland. He is very hard up, and as he was a friend of poor whites, he asked me to assist him, which I did. He hated to hear himself telling such a deliberate falsehood, but there is no help for it. Maj must never know the truth so long as he could conceal it. Just like you, said Maj, kissing him lightly with filial pride, the best and kindest of men. He shivered slightly as he felt her caress, and thought how she would recoil from him, did she know all. After all, says some cynical writer, the illusions of youth are mostly due to the want of experience. Maj, ignorant in great measure of the world, cherished her pleasant illusions, though many of them had been destroyed by the trials of the past year, and her father longed to keep her in the sprain of mind. Now go down to dinner, my dear, he said, leading her to the door. I will follow soon. Don't be long, replied his daughter, or I shall come up again. And she ran down the stairs, her heart feeling strangely light. Her father looked after her until she vanished, then heaving a regretful sigh returned to his study, and taking out the scattered papers fastened them together and endorsed them. My confession. He then placed them in an envelope, sealed it, and put it back in the desk. If all that is in that packet were known, he said aloud, as he left the room, what would the world say? That night he was singularly brilliant at the dinner table. Generally a very reticent and grave man, on this night he laughed and talked so gaily that the very servants noticed the change. The fact was he felt a sense of relief at having unburdened his mind, and felt as though, by writing out that confession, he had laid the spectre which had haunted him for so long. His daughter was delighted at the change in his spirits, but the old scotch nurse, who had been in the house since Madge was a baby, shook her head. He's Faye, she said gravely. He's not long for the world. Of course she was laughed at, people who believe in presentiments generally are, but nevertheless she held firmly to her opinion. Mr. Freddleby went to bed early that night, the excitement of the last few days in the feverish gait in which he had lately indulged, proving too strong for him. No sooner had he laid his head on his pillow than he dropped off to sleep at once, and forgot in placid slumber the troubles and worries of his waking hours. It was only nine o'clock, so Madge stayed by herself in the great drawing-room, and read a new novel, which was then creating a sensation called Sweet Violet Eyes. It belied its reputation, however, for it was very soon thrown down on the table with a look of disgust, and rising from her seat Madge walked up and down the room, and wished some good fairy would hint to Brian that he was wanted. If man is a gregarious animal, how much more then is a woman? This is not a conundrum, but a simple truth. A female Robinson Caruso says a writer who prided himself on being a keen observer of human nature, a female Robinson Caruso would have gone mad for want of something to talk to. This remark, though severe, nevertheless contains several grains of truth, for women as a rule talk more than men. They are more sociable, and a miss misanthrope, in spite of Justin McCarthy's, is unknown, at least in civilized communities. Miss Freddleby, being neither misanthropic nor dumb, began to long for someone to talk to, and ringing the bell ordered Sal to be sent in. The two girls had become great friends, and Madge, though by two years the younger, assumed the role of mentor, and under her guidance Sal was rapidly improving. It was a strange irony of fate which brought together these two children of the same father, each with such different histories, the one reared in luxury and affluence, never having known want, the other dragged up in the gutter, all unsexed and bespurched by the life she had led. The whirl a gig of time brings in its revenges, and it was the last thing in the world Mark Freddleby would have thought of seeing, Rosanna Moore's child whom he fancied dead under the same roof as his daughter Madge. On receiving Madge's message Sal came to the drawing room, and the two were soon chatting amicably together. The room was almost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted. Mr. Freddleby very sensibly detesting gas with its glaring light, and had nothing but lamps in his drawing room. At the end of the apartment, where Sal and Madge were seated, there was a small table. On it stood a large lamp with an opaque globe, which having a shade over it threw a soft and subdued circle of light round the table, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of semi-darkness. Near this sat Madge and Sal, talking gaily, and away on the left-hand side they could see the door open, and a warm flood of light pouring in from the hall. They had been talking together for some time, when Sal's quick ear caught a footfall on the soft carpet, and turning rapidly she saw a tall figure advancing down the room. Madge saw it too, and started up in surprise on recognizing her father. He was clothed in his dressing gown and carried some papers in his hand. Why, Papa, said Madge in surprise, I— Hush! whispered Sal, grasping her arm. He's asleep. And so he was. In accordance with the dictates of the excited brain, the weary body had risen from the bed and wandered about the house. The two girls, drawing back into the shadow, watched him with bated breath as he came slowly down the room. In a few moments he was within the circle of light, and moving noiselessly along he laid the papers he carried on the table. They were in a large blue envelope much worn, with writing in red ink on it. Sal recognized it, at once, as the one she had seen in the possession of the dead woman, and with an instinctive feeling that there was something wrong, she tried to draw Madge back, as she watched her father's action with an intensity of feeling which held her spellbound. Freddleby opened the envelope and took there from a yellow frayed piece of paper, which he spread out on the table. Madge bent forward to see it, but Sal, with a sudden terror, drew her back. For God's sake, no, she cried. But it was too late. Madge had caught sight of the names on the paper, marriage, Rosanna Moore, Mark Freddleby, and the whole awful truth flashed upon her. These were the papers Rosanna Moore had handed to White. White had been murdered by the man to whom the papers were of value. Oh, my father! She staggered blindly forward, and then with one piercing shriek fell to the ground. In doing so, she struck against her father, who was still standing beside the table. Awakened suddenly, with that wild cry in his ears, he opened his eyes wide, put out feeble hands as if to keep something back, and with a strangled cry fell dead on the floor beside his daughter. Sal, horror-struck, did not lose her presence of mind, but snatching the papers off the table, she thrust them into her pocket, and then called aloud for the servants. But they, already attracted by Madge's wild cry, came hurrying in to find Mark Freddleby, the millionaire, lying dead, and his daughter in a faint beside her father's corpse. As soon as Brian received the telegram which announced the death of Mark Freddleby, he put on his hat, stepped into Calton's trap, and drove along to the St. Kilda station in Flinders Street with that gentleman. There Calton dismissed his trap, sending a note to his clerk with the groom, and went down to St. Kilda with Fitzgerald. On arrival they found the whole house perfectly quiet and orderly, owing to the excellent management of Sal Rollins. She had taken the command in everything, and although the servants, knowing her antecedents, were disposed to resent her doing so, yet such were her administrative powers and strong will that they obeyed her implicitly. Mark Freddleby's body had been taken up to his bedroom, Madge had been put to bed, and Dr. Chinston and Brian sent for. When they arrived they could not help expressing their admiration at the capital way in which Sal Rollins had managed things. She's a clever girl that, whispered Calton, if it's Gerald, curious things she should have taken up her proper position in her father's house, fate is a deal cleverer than we mortals think her. Brian was about to reply when Dr. Chinston entered the room. His face was very grave, and Fitzgerald looked at him in alarm. Madge, Miss Freddleby, he faltered, is very ill, replied the doctor, has an attack of brain fever. I can't answer for the consequences yet. Brian sat down on the sofa and stared at the doctor in a dazed sort of way. Madge, dangerously ill, perhaps dying. What if she were to die and he to lose the true hearted woman who stood so nobly by him in his trouble? Cheer up, said Chinston, patting him on the shoulder, while there's life there's hope, and whatever human aid can do to save her will be done. Brian grasped the doctor's hand in silence, his heart being too full to speak. How did Freddleby die? asked Calton. Heart disease, said Chinston, his heart was very much affected as I discovered a week or so ago. It appears he was walking in his sleep, and entering the drawing-room, he alarmed Miss Freddleby, who screamed and must have touched him. He awoke suddenly, and the natural consequences followed. He dropped down dead. What alarmed Miss Freddleby? asked Brian in a low voice, covering his face with his hand. The sight of her father walking in his sleep, I suppose, said Chinston, buttoning his glove, and the shock of his death which took place indirectly through her, accounts for the brain fever. Madge, Freddleby, is not the woman to scream and waken a somnambulist, said Calton decidedly, knowing as she did the danger, there must be some other reason. This young woman will tell you all about it, said Chinston, nodding toward Sal, who entered the room at this moment. She was present, and since then has managed things admirably, and now I must go, he said, shaking hands with Calton and Fitzgerald. Keep up your heart, my boy. I'll pull her through yet. After the doctor had gone, Calton turned sharply to Sal Rollins, who stood waiting to be addressed. Well, he said briskly, can you tell us what startled Miss Freddleby? I can, sir, she answered quietly. I was in the drawing room when Mr. Freddleby died, but we had better go up to the study. Why? asked Calton in surprise, as he and Fitzgerald followed her upstairs. Because, sir, she said, when they had entered the study and she had locked the door, I don't want any one but yourselves to know what I tell you. More mystery, muttered Calton as he glanced at Brian, and took his seat at the Esquitard. Mr. Freddleby went to bed early last night, said Sal calmly, and Miss Madge and I were talking together in the drawing room when he entered, walking in his sleep and carrying some papers. Both Calton and Fitzgerald started, and the latter grew pale. He came down the room and spread out a paper on the table where the lamp was. Miss Madge bent forward to see what it was. I tried to stop her, but it was too late. She gave a scream and fell on the floor. In doing so she happened to touch her father. He awoke and fell down dead. And the papers? asked Calton uneasily. Sal did not answer but producing them from her pocket laid them in his hands. Brian bent forward as Calton opened the envelope in silence, but both gave vent to an exclamation of horror at seeing the certificate of marriage which they knew Rosanna Moore had given to White. Their worst suspicions were confirmed, and Brian turned away his head, afraid to meet the barrister's eye. The latter folded up the papers thoughtfully and put them in his pocket. You know what these are? He asked Sal, eyeing her keenly. I could hardly help knowing, she answered. It proves that Rosanna Moore was Mr. Freddleby's wife and—she hesitated. Go on, said Brian in a harsh tone, looking up. And they were the papers she gave Mr. White. Well? Sal was silent for a moment and then looked up with a flush. You didn't think I'm going to split, she said indignantly, recurring to her Bork Street slang and the excitement of the moment. I know what you know, but I'll be as silent as the grave. Thank you, said Brian fervently, taking her secret. I know you love her too well to betray this terrible secret. I would be a nice and I would, said Sal with scorn, after her lifting me out of the gutter to round on her, a poor girl like me, without a friend or relative, now grandstead. Calton looked up quickly. It was plain Sal was quite ignorant that Rosanna Moore was her mother. So much the better, they would keep her in ignorance, perhaps not altogether, but it would be folly to under-see her at present. I'm going to see Miss Madge now, she said, going to the door, and I won't see you again. She's getting light-headed and might let it out, but I'll not let anyone in but myself. And so saying, she left the room. Cast thy bread upon the waters, said Calton, oracularly. The kindness of Miss Freddleby to that poor wave is already bearing fruit. Gratitude is the rarest of qualities, rarer even than modesty. Fitzgerald made no answer but stared out of the window and thought of his darling lying sick unto death, and he unable to do nothing to save her. Well, said Calton sharply. Oh, I beg your pardon, said Fitzgerald, turning in confusion. I suppose the will must be read in all that sort of thing. Yes, answered the barrister. I am one of the executors. And the others? Yourself and Chinston, answered Calton. So I suppose, turning to the desk, we can look at his papers and see that all is straight. Yes, I suppose so, replied Brian mechanically, his thoughts far away, and then he turned again to the window. Suddenly Calton gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and turning hastily, Brian saw him holding a thick roll of papers in his hand, which he had taken out of the drawer. Look here, Fitzgerald, he said greatly excited. Here is Freddleby's confession. Look! and he held it up. Brian sprang forward in astonishment. So at last the handsome cab mystery was to be cleared up. These sheets, no doubt, contained the whole narration of the crime and how it was committed. We will read it, of course, he said hesitatingly, half hoping that Calton would propose to destroy it at once. Yes, answered Calton, the three executors must read it, and then we will burn it. That will be the better way, answered Brian gloomily. Freddleby is dead, and the law can do nothing in the manner, so it would be best to avoid the scandal of publicity. But why tell Chinston? We must, said Calton decidedly. He will be sure to gather the truth from Madge's ravings, and he may as well know all. He is quite safe, and will be as silent as the grave. But I am more sorry to tell Kilsip. The detective? Good God, Calton, surely you will not do so. I must, replied the barrister quietly. Kilsip is firmly persuaded that Moreland committed the crime, and I have the same dread of his pertinacity as you had of mind. He may find out all. What must be, must be, said Fitzgerald, clenching his hands. But I hope no one else will find out this miserable story. There is Moreland, for instance. Ah, true, said Calton, thoughtfully. He called and saw Freddleby the other night, you say. Yes, I wonder what for? There is only one answer, said the barrister, slowly. He must have seen Freddleby following white when he left the hotel, and wanted hush money. I wonder if he got it, observed Fitzgerald. Oh, I'll soon find that out, answered Calton, opening the drawer again, and taking out the dead man's checkbook. Let me see what checks have been drawn lately. Most of the blocks were filled up for small amounts, and one, or two, for a hundred or so. Calton could find no large sum such as Moreland would have demanded. When, at the very end of the book, he found a check torn off, leaving the block slip quite blank. There you are, he said triumphantly holding out the book to Fitzgerald. He wasn't such a fool as to write the amount on the block, but tore the check out, and wrote in the sum required. And what's to be done about it? Let him keep it, of course, answered Calton, shrugging his shoulders. It's the only way to secure his silence. I expect he cashed it yesterday, and is off by this time, said Brian, after a moment's pause. So much the better for us, said Calton grimly, but I don't think he's off, or Kilsip would have let me know. We must tell him, or he'll get everything out of Moreland, and the consequences will be that all Melbourne will know the story. Whereas, by showing him the confession, we get him to leave Moreland alone, and thus secure silence in both cases. I suppose we must see Chinston? Yes, of course. I will telegraph to him and Kilsip to come up to my office this afternoon at three o'clock, and then we will settle the whole matter. And Sal Rollins? Oh, I quite forgot about her, said Calton in a perplexed voice. She knows nothing about her parents, and of course Mark Freddleby died in the belief that she was dead. We must tell Maj, said Brian gloomily. There is no help for it. Sal is by rights the heiress to the money of her dead father. That depends upon the will, replied Calton dryly. If it specifies that the money is left to my daughter, Margaret Freddleby, Sal Rollins can have no claim. And if such is the case, it will be no good telling her who she is. And what's to be done? Sal Rollins, went on the barrister without noticing the interruption, has evidently never given a thought to her father or mother, as the old hag, no doubt, swore they were dead. So I think it will be best to keep silent. That is, if no money is left to her, and as her father thought her dead, I don't think there will be any. In that case it would be best to settle an income on her. You can easily find a pretext and let the matter rest. But suppose, in accordance with the wording of the will, she is entitled to all the money? In that case, said Calton gravely, there is only one course open. She must be told everything, and the dividing of the money left to her generosity. But I don't think you need be alarmed. I'm pretty sure Madge is the heiress. It's not the money I think about, said Brian hastily. I take Madge without a penny. My boy, said the barrister, placing his hand kindly on Brian's shoulder, when you marry Madge Freddleby, you will get what is better than money, a heart of gold. Do more to us, Neil-Nissie Bonham. Nothing is certain but the unforeseen, so says a French proverb, and judging from the unexpected things which daily happen to us, it is without doubt a very true one. If any one had told Madge Freddleby one day that she would be stretched on a bed of sickness the next, and would be quite oblivious of the world and its doings, she would have laughed the Prophet to scorn. Yet it was so, and she was tossing and turning on a bed of pain to which the couch of Procustus was one of roses. Sal sat beside her, ever watchful of her wants, and listened to the bright hours of the day, or the still ones of the night, to the wild and incoherent words which issued from her lips. She incessantly called on her father to save himself, and then would talk about Brian and sing snatches of song, or would sob broken sentences about her dead mother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear her. No one was allowed into the room except Sal, and when Dr. Chinston heard the things she was saying, although used to such cases, he recoiled. There is blood on your hands, cried Madge, sitting up in bed, with her hair all tangled and falling over her shoulders. Red blood, and you cannot wash it off. O Cain, God save him! Brian, you are not guilty. My father killed him. God, God! And she fell back on her disordered pillows weeping bitterly. Dr. Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards took his leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see the patient. Taint likely, said Sal in a disgusted tone as she closed the door after him, I am not a viper to sting the bosom as fed me, from which it may be gathered that she was advancing rapidly in her education. Meanwhile, Dr. Chinston had received Calton's telegram, and was considerably astonished there at. He was still more so when, on arriving at the office at the time appointed, he found Calton and Fitzgerald were not alone, but a third man whom he had never seen was with them. The latter Calton introduced to him as Mr. Kilsip, of the detective office, a fact which made the worthy doctor uneasy as he could in no wise divine the meaning of it. However he made no remark, but took the seat handed to him by Mr. Calton and prepared to listen. Calton locked the door of the office and then went back to his desk, having the other three seated before him in a kind of semicircle. In the first place, said Calton to the doctor, I have to inform you that you are one of the executors under the will of the late Mr. Freddleby, and that is why I asked you to come here today. The other executors are Mr. Fitzgerald and myself. Oh, indeed! murmured the doctor politely. And now, said Calton looking at him, do you remember the handsome cab-murder which caused such a sensation some months ago? Yes, I do," replied the doctor, rather astonished. But what has that to do with the will? Nothing to do with the will, answered Calton gravely, but the fact is Mr. Freddleby was implicated in the affair. Dr. Chinston glanced inquiringly at Brian, but that gentleman shook his head. It has nothing to do with my arrest, he said sadly. Magis' words, uttered in her delirium, flashed across the doctor's memory. What do you mean, he gasped, pushing back his chair. How was he implicated? That I cannot tell you," answered Calton, until I read his confession. Ah! said Kilsip, becoming very attentive. Yes, said Calton, turning to Kilsip. Your hunt after Morland is a wild goose-chase, for the murderer of Oliver White is discovered. Discovered! cried Kilsip and the doctor in one breath. Yes, and his name is Mark Freddleby. Kilsip shot a glance of disdain out of his bright black eyes and gave a low laugh of disbelief. But the doctor pushed back his chair furiously and arose to his feet. This is monstrous, he cried in a rage. I won't sit still and hear this accusation against my dead friend. Unfortunately it is too true, said Brian sadly. How dare you say so! said Chiston, turning angrily on him, and you going to marry his daughter. There is only one way to settle the question, said Calton coldly. We must read his confession. But why the detective, asked the doctor ungraciously, as he took his seat? Because I want him to hear for himself that Mr. Freddleby committed the crime, that he may keep silence. Not till I've arrested him, said Kilsip, determinedly. But he's dead, said Brian. I'm speaking of Roger Morland, retorted Kilsip, for he and no other murdered Oliver White. That's a much more likely story, Chiston said. I tell you, said Calton vehemently, God knows I would like to preserve Mark Freddleby's good name, and it is with this object I have brought you all together. I will read the confession, and when you know the truth, I want you to keep silent about it, as Mark Freddleby is dead, and the publication of his crime can do no good to anyone. I know, resumed Calton, addressing the detective, that you are fully convinced in your own mind that you are right and I am wrong. But what if I tell you that Mark Freddleby died holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime was committed? Kilsip's face lengthened considerably. What were the papers? The marriage certificate of Mark Freddleby and Rosanna Moore, the woman who died in the back slum. Kilsip was not often astonished, but he was so now, and Dr. Chinston fell back in his chair, staring at the barrister in blank amazement. And what's more, went on Calton triumphantly. Do you know that Moreland went to Freddleby two nights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush money? What! cried Kilsip. Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently saw Freddleby and threatened to expose him unless he paid for his silence. Very strange, murmured Kilsip to himself, with a disappointed look on his face. But why did Moreland keep still so long? I cannot tell you, replied Calton, but no doubt the confession will explain all. Then for heaven's sake, read it, broke in Dr. Chinston impatiently. I'm quite in the dark, and all your talk is Greek to me. One moment, said Kilsip, dragging a bundle from under his chair and untying it. If you are right, what about this? And he held up a light coat, very much soiled and weather-worn. Who's is that? asked Calton, startled. Not White. Yes, White, repeated Kilsip with great satisfaction. I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near the gate that opens to George Street, East Melbourne. It was up in a fir tree. Then Mr. Freddleby must have got out at Palette Street and walked down George Street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardens into town, said Calton. Kilsip took no heat of the remark, but took a small bottle out of the pocket of the coat and held it up. I also found this, he said. Chloriform, cried every one, guessing at once that it was the missing bottle. Exactly, said Kilsip, replacing it. This is what the bottle, which contained the poison used by well-column the murderer. The name of the chemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who bought it. Now, who do you think? With a look of triumph. Freddleby, said Calton, decidedly. No, Moreland. Burst out Chinston, greatly excited. Neither, retorted the detective calmly, the man who purchased this was Oliver White himself. Himself, echoed Brian, now thoroughly surprised, as indeed were all the others. Yes, I had no trouble in finding out that, thanks to the Poisons Act. As I knew no one would be so foolish as to carry chloriform about in his pocket for any length of time, I mentioned the day of the murder as the probable date it was bought. The chemist turned up in his book and found that White was the purchaser. And what did he buy it for? Asked Chinston. That's more than I can tell you, said Kilsip, with a shrug of his shoulders. It's down in the book as being bought for medicinal usage, which may mean anything. The law requires a witness, observed Calton cautiously. Who is the witness? Again, Kilsip smiled triumphantly. I think I can guess, said Fitzgerald. Moreland? Kilsip nodded. And I suppose, remarked Calton in a slightly sarcastic tone, that is another of your proofs against Moreland. He knew that White had chloriform on him. Therefore he followed him that night and murdered him. Well, I— It's a lot of nonsense, said the Barrister impatiently. There's nothing against Moreland to implicate him. If he killed White, what made him go and see Freddleby? But, said Kilsip, nodding sagely in his head, if, as Moreland says, he had White's coat in his possession before the murder, how is it that I should discover it afterwards up a fir tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, with an empty chloriform bottle in the pocket? He may have been an accomplice, suggested Calton. What's the good of all this conjecturing? said Chinston impatiently, now thoroughly tired of the discussion. Read the confession, and we will soon know the truth without all this talk. Calton assented, and all having settled themselves to listen, he began to read what the dead man had written. End of Chapter 32 Read by Cibela Denton For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 33 Of Mystery of a Handsome Cab by Fergus Hume Read for LibriVox.org into the Public Domain The Confession What I am now about to write is set forth by me so that the true circumstances connected with the Handsome Cab tragedy, which took place in Melbourne in 18, may be known. I owe a confession, particularly to Brian Fitzgerald, seeing that he was accused of the crime. Although I know he was rightfully acquitted of the charge, yet I wish him to know all about the case, though I am convinced, from his altered demeanor towards me, that he is better acquainted with it than he chooses to confess. In order to account for the murder of Oliver White, I must go back to the beginning of my life in this colony, and show how the series of events began which culminated in the committal of the crime. Should it be necessary to make this confession public, in the interest of justice, I can say nothing against such a course being taken, but I would be grateful if it could be suppressed, both on account of my good name and of my dear daughter Margaret, whose love and affection has so soothed and brightened my life. If, however, she should be informed of the contents of these pages, I ask her to deal leniently with the memory of one who was sorely tried and tempted. I came to the colony of Victoria, or rather, as it was called then, New South Wales, in the year 18. I had been in a merchant's office in London, but not finding much opportunity for advancement, I looked about to see if I could better myself. I heard of this new land across the ocean, and though it was not then the El Dorado which it afterwards turned out, and truth to tell had rather a shady name owing to the transportation of convicts, yet I longed to go there and start a new life. Unhappily, however, I had not the means, and saw nothing better before me than the dreary life of a London clerk, as it was impossible that I could save out of the small salary I got. Just at this time an old maiden aunt of my mother's died and left a hundred pounds to me. With this I came out to Australia, determined to become a rich man. I stayed some time in Sydney, and then came over to Port Phillip, now so widely known as Marvellous Melbourne, where I intended to pitch my tent. I saw that it was a young and rising colony, though, of course, coming as I did before the days of the gold-diggings, I never dreamt it would spring up, as it had done since, into a nation. I was careful and saving in those days, and indeed I think it was the happiest time of my life. I bought land whenever I could scrape the money together, and at the time of the gold rush was considered well to do. When, however, the cry that gold had been discovered was raised, and the eyes of all the nations were turned to Australia, with her glittering treasures, men poured in from all parts of the world, and the golden age commenced. I began to grow rich rapidly, and was soon pointed out as the wealthiest man in the colonies. I bought a station, and leaving the rightest, feverish Melbourne life, went to live on it. I enjoyed myself there, for the wild, open-air life had great charms for me, and there was a sense of freedom to which I had hitherto been a stranger. But man is a gregarious animal, and I, growing weary of solitude and communings with mother nature, came down on a visit to Melbourne, where, with companions as gay as myself, I spent my money freely, and, as the phrase goes, saw life. After confessing that I loved the pure life of the country, it sounds strange to say I enjoyed the wild life of the town, but I did. I was neither a Joseph nor a St. Anthony, and I was delighted with Bohemia, with its good fellowship in charming suppers, which took place in the small hours of the morning, when wit and humour reigned supreme. It was at one of these suppers that I first met Rosanna Moore, the woman who was destined to curse my existence. She was a burlesque actress, and all the young fellows in those days were madly in love with her. She was not exactly what was called beautiful, but there was a brilliancy and fascination about her which few could resist. On first seeing her I did not admire her much, but laughed at my companions as they raved about her. On becoming personally acquainted with her, however, I found that her powers of fascination had not been overrated, and I ended by falling desperately in love with her. I made inquiries about her private life, and found that it was irreproachable, as she was guarded by a veritable dragon of a mother who would let no one approach her daughter. I need not tell you about my courtship, as these phases of a man's life are generally the same, but it will be sufficient to prove the depth of my passion for her when I say I was determined to make her my wife. It was on condition, however, that the marriage should be kept secret until such time as I should choose to reveal it. My reason for such a course was this—my father was still alive, and he, being a rigid Presbyterian, would never have forgiven me for having married a woman of the stage. So, as he was old and feeble, I did not wish him to learn that I had done so, fearing that the shock would be too much for him in his then state of health. I told Rosanna I would marry her, but wanted her to leave her mother, who was a perfect fury and not an agreeable person to live with. As I was rich, young, and not bad-looking, Rosanna consented, and during an engagement she had in Sydney I went over there and married her. She never told her mother she had married me, why I do not know, as I laid no restriction on her doing so. The mother made a great noise over the matter, but I gave Rosanna a large sum of money for her, and this the old Herodin accepted, and left for New Zealand. Rosanna went with me to my station, where we lived as man and wife, though in Melbourne she was supposed to be my mistress. At last, feeling degraded in my own eyes at the way in which I was supposed to be living, I wanted to reveal our secret, but this Rosanna would not consent to. I was astonished at this, and never could discover the reason, but in many ways Rosanna was an enigma to me. She then grew weary of the quiet country life and longed to return to the glittering glare of the footlights. This I refused to let her do, and from that moment she took a dislike to me. A child was born, and for a time she was engrossed with it, but soon wearied of the new plaything, and again pressed me to allow her to return to the stage. I again refused, and we became estranged from one another. I grew gloomy and irritable, and was accustomed to take long rides by myself, frequently being away for days. There was a great friend of mine who owned the next station, a fine, handsome young fellow called Frank Kelly, with a gay, sunny disposition and a wonderful flow of humor. When he found I was so much away, thinking Rosanna was only my mistress, he began to console her, and succeeded so well that one day, on my return from a ride, I found she had fled with him and had taken the child with her. She left a letter saying that she had never really cared for me, but had married me for my money. She would keep our marriage secret and was going to return to the stage. I followed my false friend and false wife down to Melbourne, but arrived too late, as they had just left for England. Disgusted with the manner in which I had been treated, I plunged into a whirl of dissipation, trying to drown the memory of my married life. My friends, of course, thought my loss amounted to no more than that of a mistress, and I soon began myself to doubt that I had ever been married. So far away and visionary did my life of the previous year seen. I continued my fast life for about six months, when suddenly I was arrested upon the brink of destruction by an angel. I say this advisedly, for if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was she who afterwards became my wife. She was the daughter of a doctor, and it was her influence which drew me back from the dreary path of profligacy and dissipation, which I was then leading. I paid her great attention, and we were, in fact, looked upon as as good as engaged, but I knew that I was still linked to that accursed woman, and could not ask her to be my wife. At this second crisis of my life fade again intervened, for I received a letter from England which informed me that Rosanna Moore had been run over in the streets of London, and had died in a hospital. The writer was a young doctor who had attended her, and I wrote home to him, begging him to send out a certificate of her death, so that I might be sure she was no more. He did so, and also enclosed an account of the accident, which had appeared in a newspaper. Then indeed I felt that I was free, and closing as I thought, for ever the darkest page of my life's history, I began to look forward to the future. I married again, and my domestic life was a singularly happy one. As the colony grew greater, with every year I became even more wealthy than I had been, and was looked up to and respected by my fellow citizens. When my dear daughter Margaret was born, I felt that my cup of happiness was full, but suddenly I received a disagreeable reminder of the past. Rosanna's mother made her appearance one day, a disreputable looking creature, smelling of gin, in whom I could not recognize the respectably dressed woman who used to accompany Rosanna to the theatre. She had spent long ago all the money I had given her, and had sunk lower and lower until she now lived in a slum off Little Bork Street. I made inquiries after the child, and she told me it was dead. Rosanna had not taken it to England with her, but had left it in her mother's charge, and no doubt neglect and want of proper nourishment was the cause of its death. There now seemed to be no link to bind me to the past, but the exception of the old hag, who knew nothing about the marriage. I did not attempt to undeceive her, but agreed to allow her enough to live on if she promised never to trouble me again, and to keep quiet about everything which had reference to my connection with her daughter. She promised readily enough, and went back to her squalid dwelling in the slums, where for all I know she still lives, as money has been paid to her regularly every month by my solicitors. I heard nothing more about the matter, and now felt quite satisfied that I had heard the last of Rosanna. As years rolled on, things prospered with me, and so fortunate was I in all speculations that my luck became proverbial. Then, alas, when all things seemed to smile upon me, my wife died, and the world has never seemed the same to me since. But I had my dear daughter to console me, and in her love and affection I became reconciled to the loss of my wife. A young Irish gentleman, called Brian Fitzgerald, came out to Australia, and I soon saw that my daughter was in love with him, and that he reciprocated that affection, whereat I was glad, as I have always esteemed him highly. I looked forward to their marriage, when suddenly a series of events occurred which must be fresh in the memory of those who read these pages. Mr. Oliver White, a gentleman from London, called on me and startled me with the news that my first wife, Rosanna Moore, was still living, and that the story of her death had been an ingenious fabrication in order to deceive me. She had met with an accident, as stated in the newspaper, and had been taken to a hospital where she recovered. The young doctor, who had sent me the certificate of her death, had fallen in love with her, and wanted to marry her, and had told me that she was dead in order that her past life might be obliterated. The doctor, however, died before the marriage, and Rosanna did not trouble herself about undeceiving me. She was then acting on the burlesque stage under the name of Musette, and seemed to have gained an unenviable notoriety by her extravagance and infamy. White met her in London, and she became his mistress. He seemed to have had a wonderful influence over her, for she told him all her past life and about her marriage with me. Her popularity being on the wane in London, as she was now growing old, and had to make way for younger actresses, White proposed that they should proceed to the colonies and extort money from me, and he had come to me for that purpose. The villain told me all this in the coolest manner, and I, knowing he held the secret of my life, was unable to resent it. I refused to see Rosanna, but told White I would agree to his terms, which were, first, a large sum of money was to be paid to Rosanna, and secondly, that he should marry my daughter. I, at first, absolutely declined to sanction the latter proposal, but as he threatened to publish the story, and that meant the proclamation to the world of my daughter's illegitimacy, I at last agreed, and he began to pay his addresses to Maj. She, however, refused to marry him, and told me she was engaged to Fitzgerald, so after a severe struggle with myself, I told White that I would not allow him to marry Maj, but would give him whatever sum he liked to name. On the night he was murdered he came to see me, and showed me the certificate of marriage between myself and Rosanna more. He refused to take a sum of money, and said that unless I consented to his marriage with Maj, he would publish the whole affair. I implored him to give me time to think, so he said he would give me two days, but no more, and left the house, taking the marriage certificate with him. I was in despair, and saw that the only way to save myself was to obtain possession of the marriage certificate and deny everything. With this idea in mind I followed him up to town, and saw him meet Moreland, and drink with him. They went into the hotel in Russell Street, and when White came out, at half-past twelve, he was quite intoxicated. I saw him go along to the Scotch Church, near the Borken Will's Monument, and cling to the lamppost at the corner. I thought I would then be able to get the certificate from him, as he was so drunk, when I saw a gentleman in a light coat. I did not know it was Fitzgerald, come up to him and hail a cab for him. I saw there was nothing more to be done at that time, so in despair went home and waited for the next day, in fear lest he should carry out his determination. Nothing, however, turned up, and I was beginning to think that White had abandoned his purpose when I heard that he had been murdered in the handsome cab. I was in great fear lest the marriage certificate should be found on him, but nothing was said about it. This I could not understand at all. I knew he had it on him, and I could only conclude that the murderer, whoever he was, had taken it from the body, and would sooner or later come to me to extort money, knowing that I dare not denounce him. Fitzgerald was arrested and afterwards acquitted, so I began to think that the certificate had been lost, and my troubles were at an end. However, I was always haunted by a dread that the sword was hanging over my head and would fall sooner or later. I was right, for two nights ago Roger Morland, who was an intimate friend of White's, called on me and produced the marriage certificate, which he offered to sell me for five thousand pounds. In horror I accused him of murdering White, which he denied at first, but afterwards acknowledged, stating that I dare not betray him for my own sake. I was nearly mad with the horror I was placed in, either to denounce my daughter as illegitimate or let a murderer escape the penalty of his crime. At last I agreed to keep silent and handed him a check for five thousand pounds, receiving in return the marriage certificate. I then made Morland swear to leave the colony, which he readily agreed to do, saying Melbourne was dangerous. When he left I reflected upon the awfulness of my position and had almost determined to commit suicide, but thank God I was saved from that crime. I write this confession in order that after my death the true story of the murder of White may be known, and that anyone who may hereafter be accused of the murder may not be wrongfully punished. I have no hopes of Morland ever receiving the penalty of his crime, as when this is opened I'll trace of him will, no doubt, be lost. I will not destroy the marriage certificate, but place it with these papers, so that the truth of my story can be seen. In conclusion I would ask the forgiveness of my daughter Margaret for my sins, which have been visited on her, but she can see for herself that circumstances were too strong for me. May she forgive me, as I hope God in his infinite mercy will, and may she come sometimes and pray over my grave, nor think too hardly upon her dead father.