Little wonder it was that Mrs Hableton should have condensed all her knowledge of the masculine gender into the one bitter aphorism, ‘Men is brutes.’ This she firmly believed in, and who can say she had not good grounds for doing so. ‘They is brutes,’ said Mrs Hableton, ‘they marries a woman, and makes her a beast of burden while they sits at ’ome swillin’ beer and callin’ themselves lords of creation.’

Possum Villa was an unpretentious-looking place with one bow window and a narrow verandah in front. It was surrounded with a small garden with a few sparse flowers in it which were Mrs Hableton’s delight. When not otherwise engaged she tied an old handkerchief round her head and went out into the garden where she dug and watered her flowers until they all gave up attempting to grow from sheer desperation at not being left alone. She was engaged in her favourite occupation about a week after her lodger had disappeared, and was wondering where he had gone.

‘Lyin’ drunk in a public ’ouse, I’ll be bound,’ she said, viciously pulling up a weed with an angry tug, ‘a-spendin’ ’is rent and a-spilin’ ’is inside with beer—ah, men is brutes, drat ’em.’

Just as she said this, a shadow fell across the garden and, on looking up, she saw a man leaning over the fence looking at her.

‘Git out,’ she said, sharply, rising from her knees and shaking her trowel at the intruder. ‘I don’t want no apples today, an’ I don’t care how cheap you sells ’em.’

Mrs Hableton evidently laboured under the delusion that the man was a hawker, but not seeing any handcart with him she changed her mind.

‘You’re takin’ a plan of the ’ouse to rob it, are you?’ she said. ‘Well, you needn’t, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ to rob, the silver spoons as belonged to my father’s mother ’avin’ gone down my ’usband’s throat long ago, an’ I ain’t ’ad money to buy more. I’m a lone pusson as is put on by brutes like you, an’ I’ll thank you to leave the fence I bought with my own ’ard earned money alone, and git out.’

Mrs Hableton stopped short for want of breath, and stood shaking her trowel, and gasping like a fish out of water.

‘My dear lady,’ said the man at the fence, mildly, ‘are you—’

‘No I ain’t,’ retorted Mrs Hableton, fiercely, ‘I ain’t neither a member of the ’Ouse nor a school teacher to answer your questions. I’m a woman as pays my rates an’ taxes and don’t gossip nor read yer rubbishin’ newspapers, nor care for the Russings no how, so git out.’

‘Don’t read the papers,’ repeated the man, in a satisfied tone, ‘ah! that accounts for it.’

Mrs Hableton stared suspiciously at the man who made such a peculiar remark. He was a burly looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaved, and sharp shrewd-looking grey eyes which kept twinkling like two stars. He was well dressed in a suit of light clothes, and wore a stiffly starched white waistcoat with a massive gold chain stretched across it. Altogether he gave Mrs Hableton the impression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted.

‘What d’y want?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Does Mr Oliver Whyte live here?’ asked the stranger.

‘He do, an’ he don’t,’ answered Mrs Hableton, epigramatically. ‘I ain’t seen ’im for over a week, so I s’pose he’s gone on the drink like the rest of ’em, but I’ve put sumthin’ in the paper as ’ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let ’im know I ain’t a carpet to be trod on, an’ if you’re a friend of ’im, you can tell ’im from me ’e’s a brute, an’ it’s no more but what I expected of ’im, ’e bein’ a male.’

The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs Hableton having stopped for want of breath, he interposed quietly—

‘Can I speak to you for a few moments?’

‘An’ who’s a-stoppin’ of you?’ said Mrs Hableton defiantly. ‘Go on with you, not as I expects the truth from a male, but go on.’

‘Well, really,’ said the other looking up at the cloudless blue sky and wiping his face with a gaudy red silk pocket handkerchief, ‘it is rather hot, you know, and—’

Mrs Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate, opened it with a jerk.

‘Use yer legs and walk in,’ she said, and the stranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting-room which seemed to overflow with antimacassars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There was also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutlass on the wall, and a grimy line of hard-looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornament, as they looked too unpleasant to tempt anyone to read them. The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and shiny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery looking armchair that Mrs Hableton pushed towards him, he could not help thinking it had been stuffed with stones it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, and having taken the handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.

‘Now then,’ she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, ‘who are you? what are you? and what do you want?’

The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately—

‘My name is Gorby, I am a detective, I want Mr Oliver Whyte.’

‘He ain’t here,’ said Mrs Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was going to be arrested.

‘I know that,’ answered Mr Gorby.

‘Then where is ’e?’

Mr Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

‘He is dead.’

Mrs Hableton got quite pale and pushed back her chair. ‘No,’ she cried, ‘he never killed ’im, did ’e?’

‘Who never killed him?’ queried Mr Gorby sharply.

Mrs Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to tell, for, recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively.

‘He never killed himself.’

Mr Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.

‘Clever,’ muttered the detective to himself, ‘knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I’ll get it out of her.’ He paused a moment and then went on smoothly, ‘Oh, no, he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?’

Mrs Hableton did not answer, but rising from her seat went over to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard from whence she took a bottle of brandy and a small wineglass. Half filling the glass, she drank it off, and returned to her seat. ‘I don’t take much of that stuff,’ she said, seeing the detective’s eyes fixed curiously on her, ‘but you ’ave given me such a turn that I ’ad to take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?’

‘Tell me all you know,’ said Mr Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, which thereupon changed, and grew a shade paler.

‘Where was Mr Whyte killed?’ she asked.

‘He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St Kilda Road.’

‘In the open street?’ she asked, in a startled tone.

‘Yes, in the open street.’

‘Ah!’ she drew a long breath, and closed her lips firmly.

Mr Gorby said nothing as he saw that she was deliberating whether to tell or not, and a word from him might seal her lips, so, like a wise man, he kept silent. He obtained his reward sooner than he expected.

‘Mr Gorby,’ she said at length, ‘I ’ave ’ad a ’ard struggle all my life which it came along of a bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, I ain’t got much inducement to think well of the lot of you, but—murder,’ she shivered slightly though the room was quite warm, ‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘In connection with whom?’

‘Mr Whyte, of course,’ she answered hurriedly.

And who else?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then there is nobody else?’

‘Well, I don’t know—I’m not sure’

The detective was puzzled.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I will tell you all I know,’ said Mrs Hableton, ‘an’ if ’e’s innocent, God will ’elp ’im.’

‘If who is innocent?’

‘I’ll tell you everythin’ from the start,’ said Mrs Hableton, ‘an’ you can judge for yourself.’

Mr Gorby assented, and she began:

‘It’s only two months ago since I decided to take in lodgers; but charrin’s ’ard work, and sewin’s tryin’ for the eyes. So, bein’ a lone woman ’avin’ bin badly treated by a brute, who is now dead, which I was allays a good wife to ’im, I thought lodgers ’ud ’elp me a little, so I put a notice in the paper, an’ Mr Oliver Whyte took the rooms two months ago.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor moustache, an’ quite the gentleman.’

‘Anything peculiar about him?’

Mrs Hableton thought for a moment.

‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘he ’ad a mole on his left temple, but it was covered with ’is ’air, an’ few people ’ud ’ave seen it.’

‘The very man,’ said Gorby to himself, ‘I’m on the right path.’

‘Mr Whyte said ’e ’ad just come from England,’ went on the woman.

‘Which,’ murmured Mr Gorby, ‘accounts for the corpse not being recognised by friends.’

‘He took the rooms, an’ said ’e’d stay with me for six months an’ paid a week’s rent in advance, an’ ’e allays paid up reg’lar like a respectable man, tho’ I don’t believe in ’em myself. He said ’e’d lots of friends, an’ used to go out every night.’

‘Who were his friends?’

‘That I can’t tell you, for ’e were very close, an’ when ’e went out of doors I never know’d where ’e went, which is jest like ’em; for they ses they’re goin’ to work, an’ you finds ’em in the beershop. Mr Whyte told me ’e was a-goin’ to marry a heiress, ’e was.’

‘Ah!’ interjected Mr Gorby, sapiently.

‘He ’ad only one friend as I ever saw—a Mr Moreland—who comed ’ere with ’im, an’ was allays with ’im—brotherlike.’

‘What is this Mr Moreland like?’

‘Good-lookin’ enough,’ said Mrs Hableton sourly, ‘but ’is ’abits weren’t as good as ’is face—’andsom is as ’andsom does is what I ses.’

‘I wonder if he knows anything about this affair,’ muttered Gorby to himself. ‘Where is Mr Moreland to be found?’ he asked aloud.

‘Not knowin’, can’t tell,’ retorted the landlady, ‘’e used to be ’ere reg’lar, but I ain’t seen ’im for over a week.’

‘Strange! very!’ thought Gorby, shaking his head, ‘I should like to see this Mr Moreland. I suppose it’s probable he’ll call again?’ he remarked aloud.

‘’Abit bein’ second nature I s’pose he will,’ answered the woman, ‘’e might call at any time, mostly ’avin’ called at night.’

‘Ah! then I’ll come down this evening on chance of seeing him,’ replied the detective, ‘coincidences happen in real life as well as in novels, and the gentleman in question may turn up in the nick of time. Now, what else about Mr Whyte?’

‘About two weeks ago, or three, I’m not cert’in which, a gentleman called to see Mr Whyte; ’e was very tall, and wore a light coat.’

‘Ah! a morning coat?’

‘No; ’e was in evenin’ dress, and wore a light coat over it, an’ a soft ’at.’

‘The very man,’ said the detective below his breath, ‘go on.’

‘He went into Mr Whyte’s room, an’ shut the door. I don’t know how long they were talkin’ together; but I was sittin’ in this very room and heard their voices git angry, and they were a-swearin’ at one another, which is the way with men, the brutes. I got up an’ went into the passage in order to ask ’em not to make such a noise, when Mr Whyte’s door opens, an’ the gentleman in the light coat comes out, and bangs along to the door.