‘Why I should think that a hansom cab in a public street would be very unsafe.’

‘It is that very fact that makes it safer,’ replied Mr Calton, epigrammatically. ‘You read De Quincey’s account of the Marr murders in London, and you will see that the more public the place the less risk there is of detection. There was nothing about the gentleman in the light coat who murdered Whyte to excite Royston’s suspicions. He got into the cab with Whyte, no noise or anything likely to attract attention was heard, and then he got out. Naturally enough, Royston drove down to St Kilda, and never suspected Whyte was dead till he looked inside and touched him. As to the man in the light coat, he doesn’t live in Powlett Street—no—nor in East Melbourne either.’

‘Why not?’ asked Frettlby.

‘Because he wouldn’t have been such a fool as to leave a trail to his own door; he did what the fox often does—he doubled. My opinion is that he either went right through East Melbourne to Fitzroy, or he walked back through the Fitzroy Gardens into town. There was no one about at that time of the morning, and he could walk home to his lodgings, hotel, or wherever it was, with impunity. Of course this is a theory that may be wrong; but from what insight into human nature my profession has given me, I think that my idea is a correct one.’

All present agreed with Mr Calton’s idea, as it really did seem the most natural thing that would be done by a man desirous of escaping detection.

‘Tell you what,’ said Felix to Brian, as they were on their way to the drawing-room, ‘if the fellow that committed the crime is found out, by gad, he ought to get Calton to defend him.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

BRIAN TAKES A WALK AND A DRIVE

When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room a young lady was engaged in playing one of those detestable pieces of music called Morceau de Salon, in which an unoffending air is taken and variations embroidered on it till it becomes a perfect agony to distinguish the tune amid the perpetual rattle of quavers and demisemiquavers. The air in this case was ‘Over the Garden Wall,’ with variations by Signor Thumpanini, and the young lady who played it was a pupil of that celebrated Italian musician. When the male portion of the guests entered the air was being played in the bass with a great deal of power (that is, the loud pedal was down), and with a perpetual rattle of treble notes trying, with all their shrill power, to drown the tune.

‘Gad! it’s getting over the garden wall in a hailstorm,’ said Felix, as he strolled over to the piano, for he saw that the musician was Dora Featherweight, an heiress to whom he was then paying attention, in the hopes that she might be induced to take the name of Rolleston, together with the present owner of the same. So, when the fair Dora had paralysed her audience with one final bang and rattle, as if the gentleman going over the garden wall had tumbled into the cucumber frame, Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.

‘Such power, you know, Miss Featherweight,’ he said, sinking into a chair, and mentally wondering if any of the piano strings had given way at that last crash, ‘you put your heart into it—(and all your muscle, too, by gad)’—he added mentally.

‘It’s nothing but practice,’ answered Miss Featherweight with a modest blush, ‘I am at the piano four hours every day.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Felix, ‘what a time the family must have of it;’ but he kept this remark to himself, and, screwing his eyeglass into his left organ of vision, merely ejaculated, ‘Lucky piano.’

Miss Featherweight, not being able to think of any answer to this looked down and blushed, while the ingenuous Felix looked up and sighed.

Madge and Brian were in one corner of the room talking together about Whyte’s death.

‘I never did like him,’ she said, ‘but it was horrible to think of him dying like that.’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Brian, gloomily, ‘from all I can hear chloroform is a very easy death.’

‘Death can never be easy,’ replied Madge, ‘especially to a young man so full of health and spirits as Mr Whyte was.’

‘I believe you are sorry he’s dead,’ said Brian jealously.

‘Aren’t you?’ she asked in some surprise.

‘De mortius nil nisi bonum,’ quoted Fitzgerald; ‘but as I detested him when alive you can’t expect me to regret his end.’

Madge did not answer him, but glanced quickly at his face, and for the first time it struck her he looked ill.

‘What is the matter with you, dear?’ she asked, placing her hand on his arm, ‘you are not looking well.’

‘Nothing—nothing,’ he answered hurriedly, ‘I’ve been a little worried about business lately—but come,’ he said, rising, ‘let us go outside, for I see your father has got that girl with the steam whistle voice to sing.’

The girl with the steam whistle voice was Julia Featherweight, the sister of Rolleston’s inamorata, and Madge stifled a laugh as she went on to the verandah with Fitzgerald.

‘What a shame of you,’ she said, bursting into a laugh when they were safely outside, ‘she’s been taught by the best masters.’

‘How I pity them,’ retorted Brian, grimly, as Julia wailed out “Meet me once again” with an ear-piercing shrillness, ‘I’d much rather listen to our ancestral Banshee, and as to meeting her again, one interview would be more than enough.’

Madge did not answer, but leaning lightly over the high rail of the verandah looked out into the beautiful moonlight night. There were a number of people passing along the Esplanade, some of which stopped and listened to Julia’s shrill notes, which, being mellowed by distance, must have sounded rather nice. One man in particular seemed to have a taste for music, for he persistently stared over the fence at the house. Brian and Madge talked of all sorts of things, but every time Madge looked up she saw the man watching the house.

‘What does that man want, Brian?’ she asked.

‘What man?’ asked Brian, starting. ‘Oh,’ he went on indifferently as the man moved away from the gate and crossed the road on to the footpath, ‘he’s taken up with the music, I suppose, that’s all.’

Madge did not say anything, but could not help thinking there was more in it than the music. Presently Julia ceased, and she proposed to go in.

‘Why?’ asked Brian, who was lying back in a comfortable seat, smoking a cigarette, ‘it’s nice enough here.’

‘I must attend to my guests,’ she answered, rising, ‘you stop here and finish your cigarette,’ and with a gay laugh she flitted into the house like a shadow.

Brian sat and smoked, staring out into the moonlight meanwhile. Yes, the man was certainly watching the house, for he sat on one of the seats and kept his eyes fixed on the brilliantly lighted windows. Brian threw away his cigarette and shivered slightly.

‘Could anyone have seen me?’ he muttered, rising uneasily, ‘pshaw, of course not, and the cabman would never recognise me again. Curse Whyte, I wish I’d never set eyes on him.’

He gave one glance at the dark figure on the seat, and then, with a shiver, passed into the warm, well-lighted room. He did not feel easy in his mind, and he would have felt still less so had he known that the man on the seat was one of the cleverest of the Melbourne detectives.

Mr Gorby had been watching the Frettlby mansion the whole evening, and was getting rather annoyed. Moreland did not know where Fitzgerald lived, and as the detective wanted to find out, he determined to watch Brian’s movements and trace him home.

‘If he’s that pretty girl’s lover, I’ll wait till he leaves the house,’ argued Mr Gorby to himself, when he first took his seat on the Esplanade, ‘he won’t stay long away from her, and once he leaves the house, I’ll follow him up till I find out where he lives.’

When Brian made his appearance early in the evening on his way to Mark Frettlby’s mansion, he was in evening dress, with a light coat over it, and also had on a soft hat.

‘Well, I’m dashed!’ ejaculated Mr Gorby, when he saw Fitzgerald disappear. ‘If he isn’t a fool I don’t know who is, to go about in the very clothes he wore when he polished Whyte off, and think he won’t be recognised. Melbourne ain’t Paris or London, that he can afford to be so careless, and when I put the darbies on him he will be astonished. Ah, well,’ he went on, lighting his pipe and taking a seat on the Esplanade, ‘I suppose I’ll have to wait here till he comes out.’

Mr Gorby’s patience was pretty severely tried for hour after hour passed, and no one appeared. He smoked several pipes, and watched the people strolling along in the soft silver moonlight. A bevy of girls passed by with their arms round one another’s waists, and were giggling to one another. Then a young man and woman came walking slowly along, evidently lovers, for they sat down near Mr Gorby and looked hard at him, just to hint that he need not stay. But the detective took no notice of their appealing glances, but kept his eyes steadily on the great house opposite to him, so the lovers took themselves off with a very bad grace. Then he saw Madge and Brian come out on to the verandah, and heard Miss Featherweight’s shrill voice singing, which sounded weird and unearthly in the stillness of the night.