Mrs Hableton gave a cry of surprise at seeing this.

‘Why, it’s Miss Frettlby,’ she said. ‘How did he know her?’

‘Knew her father—letter of introduction, and all that sort of thing,’ said Mr Moreland, glibly.

‘Ah! indeed,’ said Mr Gorby slowly. ‘So Mr Whyte knew Mark Frettlby, the millionaire; but how did he obtain a photograph of the daughter?’

‘She gave it to him,’ said Moreland. ‘The fact is, Whyte was very much in love with Miss Frettlby.’

‘And she—’

‘Was in love with someone else,’ finished Moreland. ‘Exactly! Yes, she loved a Mr Brian Fitzgerald, to whom she is now engaged. He was mad on her, and Whyte and he used to quarrel over the young lady desperately.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr Gorby. ‘And do you know this Mr Fitzgerald?’

‘Oh, dear, no!’ answered the other coolly. ‘Whyte’s friends were not mine. He was a rich young man who had good introductions. I am only a poor devil on the outskirts of society, trying to push my way in the world.’

‘You know his personal appearance, of course,’ observed Mr Gorby.

‘Oh, yes, I can tell you that,’ said Moreland. ‘In fact, he’s not at all unlike me, which I take to be rather a compliment, as he is said to be good-looking. He is tall, rather fair, talks in a bored sort of manner, and is altogether what one would call a heavy swell; but you must have seen him,’ he went on, turning to Mrs Hableton, ‘he was here three or four weeks ago, Whyte told me.’

‘Oh, that was Mr Fitzgerald, was it?’ said Mrs Hableton, in surprise. ‘Yes, he was rather like you; and so the lady they quarrelled over must have been Miss Frettlby.’

‘Very likely,’ said Moreland rising. ‘Well, I’m off, here’s my address,’ putting a card into Gorby’s hand. ‘I’m glad to be of any use to you in the matter, as Whyte was my dearest friend, and I’ll do all in my power to help you to find out the murderer.’

‘I don’t think that is a very difficult matter,’ said Gorby slowly.

‘Oh, you have your suspicions?’ said Moreland, looking at him.

‘I have.’

‘Then who do you think murdered Whyte?’

Mr Gorby paused a moment, and then said deliberately, ‘I have an idea—but I am not certain—when I am certain, I’ll speak.’

‘You think Fitzgerald killed my friend,’ said Moreland. ‘I see it in your face.’

Mr Gorby smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ he said ambiguously. ‘Wait till I’m certain.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

A WOOL KING

The old Greek story of Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold, is truer than most people suppose. Medieval superstition changed the human being who possessed such a power, into the philosophers’ stone, after which so many alchemists went hunting in the dark ages, but we of the nineteenth century have given the miracle of changing everything into gold by the touch, back to its human possessor. We, however, do not ascribe it either to Greek deity or medieval superstition, but simply call it luck, and he who possesses luck is a happy man, or, at least, he ought to be. Wiseacres who may read this will, of course, repeat the stale proverb, that ‘Riches do not bring happiness,’ but luck means more than riches—it means happiness in everything which the fortunate possessor may choose to go in for. If he goes into a speculation, it turns out well; if he marries a wife, she is sure to be everything that can be desired; if he aspires to a position, social or political, he attains it with ease—worldly wealth, domestic happiness, and good position, all these belong to the men who have luck.

Mark Frettlby was one of these fortunate individuals, and his luck was proverbial throughout Australia. If there was any speculation for which Mark Frettlby went in, other men would be sure to follow, and in every case the result turned out as well, and in many cases even better than they expected. He had come out in the early days of the colony with comparatively little money, but his great perseverance and never-failing luck had soon changed his hundreds into thousands, and now at the age of fifty-five he did not himself know the extent of his income. He had large stations scattered all over the Colony of Victoria, which brought him in a splendid income. A charming country house, where at certain seasons of the year, he dispensed hospitality to his friends, like the lord of an English manor, and a magnificent town house down in St Kilda, which would not have been unworthy of Park Lane.

Nor were his domestic relations less happy—he had a charming wife, who was one of the best known and most popular ladies of Melbourne, and an equally charming daughter, who, being both pretty and an heiress, naturally attracted crowds of suitors. But Madge Frettlby was capricious, and refused innumerable offers. Being an extremely independent young person with a mind of her own, as she had not yet seen anyone she could love, she decided to remain single, and with her mother continued to dispense the hospitality of the mansion at St Kilda. But the fairy prince comes to every woman, even if she has to wait a hundred years like the Sleeping Beauty, and in this case he arrived at the appointed time.

Ah! what a delightful prince he was, tall, handsome, and fair-haired, who came from Ireland, and answered to the name of Brian Fitzgerald. He had left behind him in the old country, a ruined castle and a few acres of barren land, inhabited by discontented tenants who refused to pay the rent, and talked darkly about the Land League, and other agreeable things.