Mr Whyte ’e comes to the door of ’is room, an’ ’e ’ollers out, “She is mine; you can’t do anything;” an’ the other turns with ’is ’and on the door an’ says, “I can kill you, an’ if you marry ’er I’ll do it, even in the open street.”’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Gorby, drawing a long breath, ‘and then?’

‘Then he bangs the door to, which it’s never shut easy since, an’ I ain’t got no money to get it put right, an’ Mr Whyte walks back to his room laughing.’

‘Did he make any remark to you?’

‘No; except he’d bin worried by a loonatic.’

‘And what was the stranger’s name?’

‘That I can’t tell you, as Mr Whyte never told me. He was very tall with a fair moustache, an’ dressed as I told you.’

Mr Gorby was satisfied.

‘That is the man,’ he said to himself, ‘who got into the hansom cab and murdered Whyte; there’s no doubt of it! Whyte and he were rivals for the heiress.’

‘What d’y think of it?’ said Mrs Hableton curiously.

‘I think,’ said Mr Gorby slowly, with his eyes fixed on her, ‘I think that there is a woman at the bottom of this crime.’

CHAPTER SIX

MR GORBY MAKES FURTHER DISCOVERIES

When Mr Gorby left Possum Villa no doubt remained in his mind as to who had committed the murder. The gentleman in the light coat had threatened to murder Whyte even in the open street—these last words being especially significant—and there was no doubt that he had carried out his threat. The committal of the crime was merely the fulfilment of the words uttered in anger. What the detective had now to do was to find who the gentleman in the light coat was, where he lived, and, having found out these facts, ascertain his doings on the night of the murder.

Mrs Hableton had described him, but was ignorant of his name, and her very vague description might apply to dozens of young men in Melbourne. There was only one person who, in Mr Gorby’s opinion, could tell the name of the gentleman in the light coat, and that was Moreland, the intimate friend of the dead man. They appeared from the landlady’s description to have been so friendly that it was more than likely Whyte would have told Moreland all about his angry visitor. Besides, Moreland’s knowledge of his dead friend’s life and habits might be able to supply the answer as to whom Whyte’s death would have been a gain, and whom the heiress was the deceased boasted he was going to marry.

What puzzled the detective was that Moreland should be ignorant of his friend’s tragic death, seeing that the papers were full of the murder, and that the reward gave an excellent description of the personal appearance of the deceased. The only way in which Gorby could account for Moreland’s extraordinary silence was that he was out of town, and had neither seen the papers nor heard anyone talking about the murder. If this was the case he might either stay away for an indefinite time or might come back after a few days. At all events it was worthwhile going down to St Kilda in the evening on the chance that Moreland might have returned to town, and would call to see his friend. So, after his tea, Mr Gorby put on his hat, and went down to Possum Villa, on what he could not help acknowledging to himself was a very slender possibility.

Mrs Hableton opened the door for him and in silence led the way, not into her own sitting-room, but into a much more luxuriously furnished apartment, which Gorby guessed at once was that of Whyte’s. He looked keenly round the room, and his estimate of the dead man’s character was formed at once.

‘Fast,’ he said to himself, ‘and a spendthrift. A man who would have friends, and possibly enemies, among a very shady lot of people.’

What led Mr Gorby to this belief was the evidences which surrounded him of Whyte’s mode of life. The room was well furnished, the furniture being covered with dark-red velvet, while the curtains on the windows and the carpet were all of the same somewhat sombre hue.

‘I did the thing properly,’ observed Mrs Hableton, with a satisfactory smile on her hard face. ‘When you wants young men to stop with you the rooms must be well furnished, an’ Mr Whyte paid well tho’ ’e was rather perticler about ’is food, which I’m only a plain cook, an’ can’t make them French things which spile the stomach.’

The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink colour, and Mrs Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr Gorby’s arrival, there was a soft roseate hue through all the room like the first faint flush of the early dawn. Mr Gorby put his hands in his capacious pockets and strolled leisurely through the room, examining everything with a curious eye. The walls were covered with pictures of celebrated horses and famous jockeys. Alternating with these were photographs of ladies of the stage, mostly London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars evidently being the objects of the late Mr Whyte’s adoration. Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number of plush frames of all colours with pretty faces smiling out of them; a remarkable fact being that all the photographs were of ladies, and not a single male face was to be seen either on the walls, or in the plush frames.

‘Fond of the ladies I see,’ said Mr Gorby nodding his head towards the mantelpiece.

‘A set of hussies,’ said Mrs Hableton grimly, closing her lips tightly, ‘I feel that ashamed when I dusts ’em as never was—I don’t believe in gals gettin’ their picters taken with ’ardly any clothes on as if they just got out of bed, but Mr Whyte seemed to like ’em.’

‘Most young men do,’ answered Mr Gorby dryly, going over to the bookcase.

‘Brutes,’ said the lady of the house. ‘I’d drown ’em in the Yarrer, I would, a-settin’ ’emselves and a-callin’ ’emselves lords of creation, as if women were made for nothin’ but to earn money an’ see ’em drink it as my ’usband did which ’is inside never seemed to ’ave enough beer, an’ me a pore lone woman with no family, thank God, or they’d ’ave taken arter their father in ’is drinkin’ ’abits.’

Mr Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood looking at Mr Whyte’s library, which seemed to consist mostly of French novels and sporting newspapers.

‘Zola,’ said Mr Gorby thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book rather tattered. ‘I’ve heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn’t care to read them.’

Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive, on hearing which Mrs Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. ‘That may be Mr Moreland,’ she said, as the detective quickly replaced Zola in the bookcase. ‘I never ’ave visitors in the evenin’ bein’ a lone widder, and if it is ’im I’ll bring ’im in ’ere.’

She went out, and presently Gorby who was listening intently; heard a man’s voice ask if Mr Whyte was at home. ‘No, sir, he ain’t,’ answered the landlady; ‘but there’s a gentleman in his room askin’ after ’im—won’t you come in, sir?’

‘For a rest, yes,’ returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards Mrs Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte’s most intimate friend. He was a tall, slender man with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-coloured moustache—altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual. He was well-dressed in a fashionable suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.

‘And where is Mr Whyte tonight?’ he asked, sinking into a chair, and taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article of furniture.

‘Haven’t you seen him lately?’ asked the detective quickly. Mr Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or not. At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back in his chair.

‘No, I have not,’ he said with a yawn. ‘I have been up the country for a few days and only arrived back this evening, so I have not seen him for over a week.