When he received them he went into a corner by himself and started to examine them. There was nothing remarkable about the coat, as it was merely a well-cut and well-made dress coat, so with a grunt of dissatisfaction Mr Gorby threw it on one side, and picked up the waistcoat.

Here he found something which interested him very much, and that was a pocket made on the left hand side of the waistcoat, and on the inside.

‘Now, what the deuce is this for?’ said Mr Gorby, scratching his head; ‘it ain’t usual for a dress waistcoat to have a pocket on its inside as I’m aware of; and,’ continued the detective greatly excited, ‘this ain’t tailor’s work, he did it himself, and jolly badly he did it too. Now he must have taken the trouble to make this pocket himself so that no one else would know anything about it, and it was made to carry something valuable—so valuable that he had to carry it with him even when he wore evening clothes. Ah! Here’s a tear on the side nearest the outside of the waistcoat, something has been pulled out roughly— I begin to see now—the dead man possessed something which the other man wanted, and which he knew the dead one carried about with him. He sees him drunk, gets into the cab with him, and tries to get what he wants; the dead man resists, upon which the other kills him by means of the chloroform which he had with him, and being afraid that the cab will stop, and he will be found out, snatches what he wants out of the pocket so quickly that he tears the waistcoat, and then makes off. That’s clear enough, but the question is, what was it he wanted? A case with jewels? No! It could not have been anything so bulky, or the dead man would never have carried it about inside his waistcoat. It was something flat which could easily lie in the pocket—a paper—some valuable paper which the assassin wanted, and for which he killed the other.

‘This is all very well,’ said Mr Gorby, throwing down the waistcoat, and rising. ‘I have found number two before number one. The first question is: Who is the murdered man? He’s a stranger in Melbourne, that’s pretty clear, or else someone would be sure to have recognised him before now by the description given in the reward. Now, I wonder if he has any relations here? No, he can’t, or else they would have made enquiries before this. Well, there’s one thing certain, he must have had a landlady or landlord, unless he slept in the open air. He can’t have lived in an hotel, as the landlord of any hotel in Melbourne would have recognised him from the description, especially when the whole place is ringing with the murder. Private lodgings, more like, and a landlady who doesn’t read the papers, and doesn’t gossip, or she’d have known all about it by this time. Now, if he did live, as I think, in private lodgings, and suddenly disappeared, his landlady wouldn’t keep quiet. It’s a whole week since the murder, and as the lodger has not been seen or heard of, the landlady will naturally make enquiries. If, however, as I surmise, the lodger is a stranger, she will not know where to enquire, therefore, under these circumstances, the most natural thing for her to do would be to advertise for him; so I’ll have a look at the newspapers.’

Mr Gorby got a file of the different newspapers, and looked carefully in the columns where missing friends, and people who will hear something to their advantage are generally advertised for.

‘He was murdered,’ said Mr Gorby to himself, ‘on a Friday morning, between one and two o’clock, so he might stay away till Monday without exciting any suspicion. On Monday, however, the landlady would begin to feel uneasy, and on Tuesday she would advertise for him. Therefore,’ said Mr Gorby, running his fat finger down the column, ‘Wednesday it is.’

It did not appear in Wednesday’s paper, neither did it in Thursday’s, but in Friday’s issue, exactly one week after the murder, Mr Gorby suddenly came on the following advertisement:—

‘If Mr Oliver Whyte does not return to Possum Villa, Grey Street, St Kilda, before the end of the week, his rooms will be let again.—Rubina Hableton.’

‘Oliver Whyte,’ repeated Mr Gorby, slowly, ‘and the initials on the pocket handkerchief which was proved to have belonged to the deceased were “O. W.” So his name is Oliver Whyte is it? Now, I wonder if Rubina Hableton knows anything about this matter. At any rate,’ said Mr Gorby, putting on his hat, ‘as I’m fond of sea breezes, I think I’ll go down, and call at Possum Villa, Grey Street, St Kilda.’

CHAPTER FIVE

MRS HABLETON UNBOSOMS HERSELF

Mrs Hableton was a lady with a grievance, as anybody who happened to become acquainted with her soon found out. It is Beaconsfield, who says, in one of his novels, that no one is so interesting as when he is talking about himself; and, judging Mrs Hableton by this statement, she was an extremely fascinating individual, as she never by any chance talked upon any other subject. What was the threat of a Russian invasion to her as long as she had her special grievance—once let that be removed, and she would have time to attend to these minor details which affected the colony.

The grievance Mrs Hableton complained of, was want of money; not an uncommon one by any means, but on being reminded of this, Mrs Hableton would reply, snappishly, that she ‘know’d that, but some people weren’t like other people,’ the meaning of which mystical remark was simply this: She had come out to the colonies in the early days, when there was not so much difficulty in making money as now, but owing to a bad husband, had failed to make any.

The late Mr Hableton—for he had long since departed this life—was addicted to the intemperate use of the flowing bowl, and at the time when he should have been earning money, was generally to be found in a drinking shanty, spending his wife’s earnings in standing treat for himself and his friends. The constant drinking, and the hot Victorian climate, soon carried him off, and when Mrs Hableton had seen him safely under ground in the Melbourne Cemetery, she returned home to survey her position and see how it could be bettered. She gathered together a little money from the wreck of her fortune, and land being cheap, purchased a small section at St Kilda, and built a house on it. She supported herself by going out charring, taking in sewing, and acting as a sick nurse. So, among this multiplicity of occupations, she managed to do fairly well, and even put a little money in the bank. But she was very bitter against the world for the treatment she had received, and often spoke of it. ‘I ought to ’ave bin in my kerrige and ’e in the ’Ouse,’ she would say bitterly, ‘if ’e ’adn’t bin sich a brute, but ye can’t make a man out of a beast whatever them Darwin folks say.’

And, indeed, it was a hard case, for just at the time when she should have been resting and reaping the reward of her early industry, she had to toil for her daily bread, and all through no fault of her own. Depend upon it, that if Adam was angry at Eve for having eaten the apple and got them driven out of the pleasant garden, his descendants have amply revenged themselves on Eve’s daughters for her sin. Mrs Hableton is only the type of many women who, hardworking and thrifty themselves, are married to men who are a curse both to their wives and families.