He had passed out of the life of both the lovers, and they, glad that he troubled them no more, never suspected for a moment that the body of the unknown man found in Royston’s cab was that of Oliver Whyte.

About two weeks after Whyte’s disappearance Mr Frettlby gave a dinner party in honour of his daughter’s birthday. It was a delightful evening, and the wide french windows which led on to the verandah were open, letting in a gentle breeze, blowing with a fresh salt odour, from the ocean. Outside, there was a kind of screen of tropical plants, and through the tangle of the boughs, the guests, seated at the table, could just see the waters of the bay glittering like silver in the pale moonlight. Brian was seated opposite to Madge, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of her bright face behind the great silver epergne, filled with fruit and flowers, which stood in the centre of the table. Mark Frettlby was at the head of the table, and appeared in very good spirits, for his stern features were somewhat relaxed, and he drank more wine than usual.

The soup had just been removed when someone who was late, entered with apologies and took his seat. Someone in this case was Mr Felix Rolleston, one of the best known young men in Melbourne. He had an income of his own, scribbled a little for the papers, was to be seen at every house of any pretentions to fashion in Melbourne, and was always bright, happy, and full of news. Whenever any scandal occurred, Felix Rolleston was sure to know it first, and could tell more about it than anyone else. He knew everything that was going on, both at home and abroad. His knowledge, if not very accurate, was at least extensive, and his conversation was piquant and witty. As Calton, one of the leading lawyers of the city, said: ‘Rolleston put him in mind of what Beaconsfield said of one of his characters in Lothair, “He wasn’t an intellectual Croesis, but his pockets were always full of sixpences.”’ There was a good deal of truth in Calton’s remark, and Felix always distributed his sixpences freely. The conversation had been dull for the last few minutes at the Frettlby dinner table, consequently, when Felix arrived, everybody brightened up, as they felt certain now that the conversation would be amusing.

‘So awfully sorry, don’t you know,’ said Felix, as he slipped into a seat by Madge, ‘but a fellow like me has got to be careful of his time—so many calls on it.’

‘So many calls in it, you mean,’ retorted Madge, with a disbelieving smile. ‘Confess, now, you have been paying a round of visits.’

‘Well, yes,’ assented Mr Rolleston, ‘that’s the disadvantage of having a large circle of acquaintances. They give you weak tea and thin bread and butter, whereas—’

‘You would rather have a B. and S. and some devilled kidneys,’ finished Brian.

There was a laugh at this, but Mr Rolleston disdained to notice the interruption.

‘The only advantage of five o’clock tea,’ he went on, ‘is, that it brings people together, and one hears what’s going on.

‘Ah, yes, Rolleston,’ said Mr Frettlby, who was looking at him with an amused smile. ‘What news have you?’

‘Good news, bad news, and such news as you have never heard of,’ quoted Rolleston gravely. ‘Yes, I have a bit of news—haven’t you heard it?’

As no one knew what the news was they could not very well say that they had, so Rolleston was happy, having found out that he could make a sensation.

‘Well, do you know,’ he said, gravely fixing in his eyeglass, ‘they have found out the name of the fellow that was murdered in the hansom cab.’

‘Never!’ cried everyone eagerly.

‘Yes,’ went on Rolleston, ‘and what’s more, you all know him.’

‘It’s never Whyte,’ said Brian, in a horrified tone.

‘Hang it, how did you know?’ said Rolleston, rather annoyed at being forestalled. ‘Why, I just heard it at the St Kilda station.’

‘Oh, easily enough,’ said Brian, rather confused. ‘I used to see Whyte constantly, and as I had not set eyes on him for the last two weeks, I thought it might be him.’

‘How did they find out who it was,’ asked Mr Frettlby, idly toying with his wine glass.

‘Oh, one of those detective fellows, you know,’ answered Felix. ‘They know everything.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Frettlby, referring to the fact that Whyte was murdered. ‘He had a letter of introduction to me, and seemed a clever, pushing, young fellow.’

‘A confounded cad,’ muttered Felix, under his breath; and Brian, who overheard him, seemed inclined to assent.

For the rest of the meal nothing was talked about but the murder, and the mystery in which it was shrouded. When the ladies retired they chatted about it in the drawing room, but finally dropped it for more agreeable subjects. The gentlemen, however, when the cloth had been removed, filled their glasses and continued the discussion with unabated vigour. Brian, alone, did not take part in the conversation. He sat moodily staring at his untasted wine, and wrapped in a brown study.

‘What I can’t make out,’ observed Rolleston, who was amusing himself with cracking nuts, ‘is how they did not find out who he was before.’

‘That is not hard to answer,’ said Frettlby, filling his glass, ‘he was comparatively little known here, as he had been out from England such a short time, and I fancy that this was the only house he visited at.’

‘And look here, Rolleston,’ said Calton, who was sitting near him, ‘if you were to find a man dead in a hansom cab, dressed in evening clothes—which nine men out of ten are in the habit of wearing in the evening—no cards in his pockets, and no name on his linen, I rather think you would find it hard to discover who he was. I consider it reflects great credit on the police for finding out so quickly.’

‘Puts one in mind of “The Leavenworth Case,” and all that sort of thing,’ said Felix, whose reading was of the lightest description. ‘Awfully exciting, like putting a Chinese puzzle together. Gad, I wouldn’t mind being a detective myself.’

‘I’m afraid if that was the case,’ said Mr Frettlby, with an amused smile, ‘criminals would be pretty safe.’

‘Oh, I don’t know so much about that,’ answered Felix shrewdly, ‘some fellows are like trifle at a party—froth on top, but something better underneath.’

‘What a greedy simile,’ said Calton, sipping his wine, ‘but I’m afraid the police will have a more difficult task in discovering the man who committed the crime; in my opinion, he’s a deuced clever fellow.’

‘Then you don’t think he will be discovered?’ asked Brian, rousing himself out of his brown study.

‘Well, I don’t go as far as that,’ rejoined Calton, ‘but he has certainly left no trace behind him; and even the Red Indian, in whom instinct for tracking is so highly developed, needs some sort of a trail to find out his enemies. Depend upon it,’ went on Calton, warming to his subject, ‘the man who murdered Whyte is no ordinary criminal; the place he chose for the committal of the crime was such a safe one.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Rolleston.