CHAPTER XVII. IN SPITE OF THE UPMOST VIGILANCE ON THE PART OF THE POLICE, AND THE OFFER OF A LARGE REWARD, BOTH BY CALTON, ON BEHALF OF THE ACCUSED, AND BY MR. FREDELBY, THE MUCH DESIRED SAL ROLLIN STILL REMAINED HIDDEN. The millionaire had maintained a most friendly attitude towards Brian throughout the whole affair.  All Australia and New Zealand rang with the extremely plebeian name of Sal Rollins, the papers being full of notices offering rewards, and handbills of staring red letters were posted up in all railway stations, in conjunction with liquid sunshine, rum, and DWD whiskey. She had become famous without knowing it, unless indeed she had kept herself concealed purposefully, but this was hardly probable, as there was no apparent motive for her doing so. If she was above ground she must certainly have seen the handbills, if not the papers, and though not able to read she could hardly help hearing something about the one topic of conversation throughout Australia. Notwithstanding all this, Sal Rollins was still undiscovered, and Calton, in despair, began to think that she must be dead. But madge, though at times her courage gave way, was still hopeful. God will not permit such a judicial crime as the murder of an innocent man to be committed, she declared. Mr. Calton, to whom she said this, shook his head doubtfully. God has permitted it to take place before, he answered softly, and we can only judge the future by the past. At last the day of the long expected trial came, and as Calton sat in his office looking over his brief, a clerk entered and told him Mr. Freddleby and his daughter wished to see him. When they came in, the barrister saw that the millionaire looked haggard and ill, and there was a worried expression on his face. There is my daughter, Calton, he said, after hurried greetings had been exchanged. She wants to be present in court during Fitzgerald's trial, and nothing I can say will dissuade her. Calton turned and looked at the girl in some surprise. Yes, she answered, meeting his looks steadily, though her face was very pale. I must be there. I shall look all mad with anxiety unless I know how the trial goes on. But think of the disagreeable amount of attention you will attract, urged the lawyer. No one will recognize me, she said calmly. I am very plainly dressed, and I will wear this veil. And drawing one from her pocket, she went to a small looking-glass which was hanging on the wall, and tied it over her face. Calton looked in perplexity at Mr. Freddleby. I am afraid you must consent, he said. Very well, replied the other almost sternly, while a look of annoyance passed over his face. I shall leave her in your charge. And you? I am not coming, answered Freddleby quickly, putting on his hat. I don't care about seeing a man whom I have had at my dinner table in the prisoner's dock, much as I sympathize with him. Good day! And with a curt nod he took his lead. When the door closed on her father, Madge placed her hand on Calton's arm. Any hope? she whispered, looking at him through the black veil. The nearest chance, answered Calton, putting his brief into his bag. We have done everything in our power to discover this girl, but without result. If she does not come at the eleventh hour, I am afraid Brian Fitzgerald is a doomed man.  Oh, God of mercy! she cried, raising her hands as if in prayer. Save him. Save my darling and let him not die for the crime of another. God! She dropped her face in her hands and wept convulsively, as the lawyer touched her lightly on the shoulder. Come, he said kindly, be the brave girl you were, and we may save him yet. The hour is darkest before the dawn, you know. Madge dried her tears and followed the lawyer to the cab, which was waiting for them at the door. They drove quickly up to the court and Calton put her in a quiet place, where she could see the dock and yet be unobserved by the people in the body of the court. Just as he was leaving her she touched his arm. Tell him, she whispered in trembling voice, tell him I am here. Calton nodded and hurried away to put on his wig and gown, while Madge looked hurriedly round the court from her point of vantage. It was crowded with fashionable Melbourne of both sexes, and they were all talking together in subdued whispers. The popular character of the prisoner, his good looks and engagement to Madge Fretelby, together with the extraordinary circumstances of the case, had raised public curiosity to the highest pitch, and consequently everybody who could possibly manage to gain admission was there. Felix Rolaston had secured an excellent seat beside the pretty Miss Featherweight, whom he admired so much, and he was chattering to her with the utmost volubility.  Butchered to make a Roman holiday by jove. Don't say such horrid things, you frivolous creature, simpered Miss Featherweight, using her smelling-bottle. We are all here out of sympathy for that poor dear Mr. Fitzgerald. The mercurial Felix, who had more cleverness in him than people gave him credit for, smiled outright at this eminently feminine way of covering and overpowering curiosity. Ah, yes, he said lightly, exactly. I dare say Eve only ate the apple, because she didn't like to see such a lot of good fruit go to waste. Miss Featherweight eyed him doubtfully. She was not quite certain whether he was ingest or earnest. Just as she was about to reply to the effect that she thought it wicked to make the Bible subject for joking, the judge entered and the court rose. When the prisoner was brought in, there was a great flutter among the ladies, and some of them even had the bad taste to produce opera-glasses. Brian noticed this, and he flushed up to the roots of his fair hair, for he felt his degradation acutely. He was an intensely proud man, and to be placed in the criminal dock with a lot of frivolous people who had called themselves his friends, looking at him as though he were a new actor or wild animal, was galling in the extreme. He was dressed in black and looked pale and worn, but all the ladies declared that he was as good-looking as ever, and they were sure he was innocent. The jury were sworn in, and the crowned prosecutor rose to deliver his opening address. Most of those present knew the facts only through the medium of the newspapers, and such floating rumours as they had been able to gather. They were therefore unaware of the true history of events which had led to Fitzgerald's arrest, and they prepared to listen to the speech with profound attention. The ladies ceased to talk, the men to stay around, and nothing could be seen but row after row of eager and attentive faces hanging on the words that issued from the lips of the crowned prosecutor. He was not a great order, but he spoke clearly and distinctly, and every word could be heard in the dead silence. He gave a rapid sketch of the crime, merely a repetition of what had been published in the newspapers, and then proceeded to enumerate the witnesses for the prosecution. He would call the landlady of the deceased to show that ill-feeling existed between the prisoner and the murdered man, and that the accused had called on the deceased a week prior to the committal of the crime and threatened his life. There was great excitement at this, and several ladies decided, on the spur of the moment, that the horrid man was guilty, but the majority of them still refused to believe in the guilt of such a good-looking young fellow. He would call a witness who could prove that white was drunk on the night of the murder, and went along to Russell Street, in the direction of Collins Street. The cabman Royston would swear to the fact that the prisoner had hailed the cab, and after going away for a short time, returned and entered the cab with the deceased. He would also prove that the prisoner left the cab at the grammar school in the St. Kilda Road, and on the arrival of the cab at the junction he discovered the deceased had been murdered. The cabman Rankin would prove that he drove the prisoner from the St. Kilda Road to Pallet Street in East Melbourne, where he got out, and he would call the prisoner's landlady to prove that the prisoner resided in Pallet Street, and that on the night of the murder he had not reached home till shortly after two o'clock. He would also call the detective who had charge of the case to prove the finding of a glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the coat which the prisoner wore on the night of the murder, and the doctor who had examined the body of the deceased would give evidence that the death was caused by inhalation of chloroform. As he had now fully shown the chain of evidence which he proposed to prove, he would call the first witness, Malcolm Royston. Royston, on being sworn, gave the same evidence as he had given at the inquest, from the time that the cab was hailed up to his arrival at the St. Kilda police station with the dead body of white. In the cross-examination Calton asked him if he was prepared to swear that the man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in with the deceased, were one and the same person. Witness. I am. Calton. You are quite certain? Witness. Yes, quite certain. Do you then recognize the prisoner as the man who hailed the cab? Witness, hesitatingly. I cannot swear to that. The gentleman who hailed the cab had his hat pulled down over his eyes, so that I could not see his face, but the hide and general appearance of the prisoner are the same. Then it is only because the man who got into the cab was dressed like the prisoner on that night that you thought they were both the same? Witness. That never struck me for a minute that they were not the same. Besides, he spoke as if he had been there before. I said, Oh, you've come back. And he said, Yes, I'm going to take him home, and got into my cab. Calton. Did you notice any difference in his voice? Witness. No, except the first time I saw him he spoke in a loud voice, and the second time he came back very low. Calton. You were sober, I suppose? Witness, indignantly. Yes, quite sober. Calton. Ah, you did not have a drink, say, at the Oriental Hotel, which I believe is near the rank where your cab stands? Witness, hesitatingly. Well, I might have had a glass. Calton. So you might, you might have had several. Witness, soquely. Well, there's no law against a cove feeling thirsty. Calton. Certainly not, and I suppose you took advantage of the absence of such a law. Witness, defiantly. Yes, I did. Calton. And you were elevated? Witness. Yes, on my cab. Laughter. Calton, severely. You are here to give evidence, sir, not to make jokes, however clever they may be. Were you or were you not slightly the worst for drink? Witness. I might have been. Calton. So you were in such a condition that you did not observe very closely the man who hailed you. Witness. No, I didn't. There was no reason why I should. I didn't know a murder was going to be committed. Calton. And it never struck you it might be a different man. Witness. No, I thought it was the same man the whole time. This closed Royston's evidence and Calton sat down very dissatisfied and not being able to elicit anything more definite from him. One thing appeared clear that someone must have dressed himself to resemble Brian and have spoken in a low voice for fear of betraying himself. Clement Rankin, the next witness, deposed to having picked up the prisoner on the St. Kilda Road between one and two Friday morning and driven him to Pallet Street, East Melbourne. In the cross-examination Calton elicited one point in the prisoner's favour. Calton. Is the prisoner the same gentleman you drove to Pallet Street? Witness. Confidently. Oh, yes. Calton. How do you know? Did you see his face? Witness. No, his hat was pulled down over his eyes and I could only see the ends of his mustache and his chin, but he carried himself the same as the prisoner and his mustache is the same light colour. Calton. When you drove up to him on the St. Kilda Road, where was he and what was he doing? Witness. He was near the grammar school, walking quickly in the direction of Melbourne, and was smoking a cigarette. Calton. Did he wear gloves? Witness. Yes, one on the left hand, the other was bare. Calton. Did he wear any rings on the right hand? Witness. Yes, a large diamond one on the forefinger. Calton. Are you sure? Witness. Yes, because I thought it a curious place for a gentleman to wear a ring, and when he was paying me my fare I saw the diamond glitter on his finger in the moonlight. Calton. That will do. The counsel for the defense was pleased with this bit of evidence as Fitzgerald detested rings and never wore any, so he made a note of the matter on his brief. Mrs. Habelton, the landlady of the deceased, was then called, and deposed that Oliver White had lodged with her for nearly two months. He seemed a quite enough young man, but often came home drunk. The only friend she knew he had was a Mr. Moreland, who was often with him. On the 14th of July the prisoner had called to see Mr. White, and they had had a quarrel. She heard White say, She is mine, you can't do anything with her, and the prisoner answered, I can kill you, and if you marry her I shall do so in the open street. She had no idea at the time of the name of the lady they were talking about. There was a great sensation in the court at these words, and half the people present looked upon such evidence as being sufficient in itself to prove the guilt of the prisoner. In cross-examination Calton was unable to shake the evidence of the witness, as she merely reiterated the same statements over and over again. The next witness was Mrs. Samson, who crackled into the witness-box, dissolved in tears, and gave her answers in a piercingly shrill tone of anguish. She stated that the prisoner was in the habit of coming home early, but on the night of the murder had come in shortly before two o'clock. Crown prosecutor, referring to his brief, you mean after-two. Witness, Avon made a mistake once by saying five minutes after-two to the policeman as called himself an insurance agent, which he put the words in my mouth, I ain't going to do so again, it being five minutes of four or two as I can swear to. Crown prosecutor, you are sure your clock was right? Witness, it nabbed been, but may nevy being a watchmaker called unbeknown to me, and made it right on Thursday night, which it was Friday morning when Mr. Fitzgerald came home. Mrs. Samson bravely stuck to this statement, and ultimately left the witness-box in triumph, the rest of her evidence being comparatively unimportant as compared with this point of time. The witness Rankin, who drove the prisoner to Pallet Street, as sworn to by him, was recalled and gave evidence that it was two o'clock when the prisoner got down from his cab in Pallet Street. Crown prosecutor, how do you know that? Witness, because I heard the post-office-clock strike. Crown prosecutor, could you hear it at East Melbourne? Witness, it was a very still night, and I heard the chimes and then the hour strike quite plainly. This conflicting evidence as to time was a strong point in Brian's favour. If, as the landlady stated on the authority of the kitchen clock, which had been put right on the day previous to the murder, Fitzgerald had come into the house at five minutes to two. He could not possibly be the man who had alighted from Rankin's cab at two o'clock at Pallet Street. The next witness was Dr. Chinston, who swore to the death of the deceased man by means of chloroform administered in a large quantity, and he was followed by Mr. Gorby, who deposed as to the finding of the glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the prisoner's coat. Roger Morlandt, an intimate friend of the deceased, was called next. He stated that he had known the deceased in London and had met him in Melbourne. He was with him a great deal. On the night of the murder he was in the Orient Hotel in Bork Street. White came in and was greatly excited. He was in evening dress and more light coat. They had several drinks together and then went up to an hotel in Russell Street and had some more drinks there. Both witness and deceased were intoxicated. White took off his light coat, saying he felt warm, and went out shortly afterwards, leaving witness to sleep at the bar. He was awakened by the barman, who wanted him to leave the hotel. He saw that White had left his coat behind him and took it up with the intention of giving it to him. As he stood in the street someone snatched the coat from him and made off with it. He tried to follow the thief, but he could not do so, being too intoxicated. He then went home and to bed as he had to leave early for the country in the morning. In cross-examination, Calton, when you went into the street after leaving the hotel, did you see the deceased? Witness. No, I did not, but I was very drunk, and unless deceased had spoken to me I would not have noticed him. Calton. What was the deceased excited about when you met him? Witness. I don't know. He did not say. Calton. What were you talking about? Witness. All sorts of things. London, principally. Calton. Did the deceased mention anything about papers? Witness. Surprised. No, he did not. Calton. Are you sure? Witness. Quite sure. Calton. What time did you get home? Witness. I don't know. I was too drunk to remember. This closed the case for the crown, and as it was now late the case was adjourned till the next day. The court was soon emptied of the busy, chattering crowd, and Calton, on looking over his notes, found that the result of the first day's trial was two points in favor of Fitzgerald. First, the discrepancy of time in the evidence of Rankin and the landlady, Mrs. Sampson. Second, the evidence of the cabman Royston as to the wearing of a ring on the forefinger of the right hand by the man who murdered White, whereas the prisoner never wore rings. These were slender proofs of innocence to put against the overwhelming mass of evidence in favor of the prisoner's guilt. The opinions of all were pretty well divided, some being in favor and others against, when suddenly an event happened which surprised everyone. All over Melbourne extras were posted, and the news passed from lip to lip like wildfire. Return of the missing witness, Sal Rollins. CHAPTER XVIII. OF MYSTERY OF A HANDSOME CAB BY FERGUS HUME. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Sal Rollins tells all she knows. And indeed such was the case. Sal Rollins had made her appearance at the eleventh hour to the heartfelt thankfulness of Calton, who saw in her an angel from heaven sent to save the life of an innocent man. It was at the conclusion of the trial and together with Maj he had gone down to his office when his clerk entered with the telegram. The lawyer opened it hastily and with a silent look of pleasure on his face handed the telegram to Maj. She, womanlike, being more impulsive, gave a cry when she read it, and falling on her knees thanked God for having heard her prayers and saved her lover's life. Take me to her at once, she implored the lawyer. She was anxious to hear from Sal Rollins own lips the joyful words which would save Brian from a felon's death. No, my dear, answered Calton firmly but kindly, I can hardly take a lady to the place where Sal Rollins lives. You will know all to-morrow, but meanwhile you must go home and get some sleep. And will you tell him, she whispered, clasping her hands on Calton's arm. At once, he answered promptly, and I will see Sal Rollins tonight and hear what she has to say. Rest content, my dear, he added, as he placed her in the carriage. He is perfectly safe now. Brian heard the good news with a deep feeling of gratitude, knowing that his life was safe and that he could still keep his secret. It was the natural revulsion of feeling after the unnatural life he had been leading since his arrest. When one is young and healthy, and has all the world before one, it is a terrible thing to contemplate a sudden death. And yet in spite of his joy at being delivered from the hangman's rope, there mingled with his delight the horror of that secret which the dying woman had told him with such malignant joy. I had rather she died in silence than she should have bequeathed to me this legacy of sorrow. And the jailers, seeing his haggard face the next morning, muttered to himself, he were blessed if the swell weren't sorry he were safe. So while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the weary watches of the night, Maj, in her own room, was kneeling beside her bed and thanking God for his great mercy, and Calton, the good fairy of the two lovers, was hurrying towards the humble abode of Mrs. Rollins, familiarly known as Mother Gutter-Snipe. Kilsip was beside him and they were talking eagerly about the providential appearance of the invaluable witness. What I like, observed Kilsip in his soft purring tone, is the cell it will be for that gorby. He was so certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the man, and when he gets off to-morrow, gorby will be in a rage. Where were Sal the whole time? asked Calton absently, not thinking of what the detective was saying. Ill! answered Kilsip. After she left the Chinaman, she went into the country, caught cold by falling into some river and ended up by getting brain fever. Some people found her, took her in, and nursed her. When she got well she came back to her grandmothers. But why didn't the people who nursed her tell her she was wanted? They must have seen the papers. Not they, retorted the detective, they knew nothing. Vegetables, muttered Calton contemptuously. How can people be so ignorant? Why, all Australia has been ringing with the case. At any rate it's money out of their pocket. Well, there's nothing more to tell, said Kilsip, except that she turned up to-night at five o'clock, looking more like a corpse than anything else. When they entered the squalid, dingy passage that led to Mother Gutter Snipe's abode, they saw a faint light streaming down the stair. As they climbed up they could hear the rancorous voice of the old hag pouring forth alternate blessings and curses on her prodigal offspring, and the low tones of a girl's voice in reply. On entering the room Calton saw that the sick woman, who had been lying in the corner on the occasion of his last visit, was gone. Mother Gutter Snipe was seated in front of the deal-table with a broken cup and her favorite bottle of spirits before her. She evidently intended to have a night of it in order to celebrate Sal's return, and had commenced early so as to lose no time. Sal herself was seated on a broken chair and leaned wearily against the wall. She stood up as Calton and the detective entered, and they saw that she was a tall, slender woman of about twenty-five, not bad-looking, but with a pallid and haggard appearance from recent illness. She was clothed in a kind of tawdry blue dress, much soiled and torn, and had over her shoulders an old tartan shawl, which she drew tightly across her breast as the strangers entered. Her grandmother, who looked more weird and grotesquely horrible than ever, saluted Calton and the detective on their entrance with a shrill yell and a volley of choice language.  I'll have the law of both of you, so help me, I will. Kilsip paid no attention to this outbreak of the old fury, but turned to the girl. This is the gentleman who wants to speak to you, he said gently, making the girl sit on the chair again, for indeed she looked too ill to stand. Just tell him what you told me. About the queen, sir, said Sal, in a low horse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton. If I'd only known you was a wanting me, I'd have come before. Where were you? asked Calton in a pitying tone. New South Wales, answered the girl with a shiver, the cove as I went with to Sydney left me.  Cussum, croaked the old woman in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup. I took up with a Chinaman, went on to granddaughter wearily, and lived with him for a bit. It's awful, ain't it? She said with a jury laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer's face. But Chinaman ain't bad. They treat a poor girl a dash sight better, nor a white cove does. They don't beat the life out of them with their fists, nor drag them about on the floor by the air. Cussum, croaked mother gutter-sniped drowsily, I'll tear their arts out.  For outer I left the Chinor cove. I went on walking and walking, right into the bush, a trying to cool my head, for it felt on fire-like. I went into a river and got wet, and then I took my hat and boots off and lay down on the grass, and then the rain come down, and I walked to a house as was near, where they took me in. Oh, such kind people, she sobbed, stretching out her hands, that didn't badger me about my soul, but gave me good food to eat. I gave them a wrong name. I was so afraid of that army of finding me. Then I got ill and knowed nothing for weeks. They said I was off my chump. And then I came back here to see Grand.  And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder? Sal shook her head. No, it were a long way in the country, and they never knowed anything, they didn't. Ah, that explains it, muttered Calton to himself. Come now, he said cheerfully. Tell me all that happened on the night you brought Mr. Fitzgerald to see the Queen. Who's he? asked Sal, puzzled. Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for, to the Melbourne Club. OM! said Sal, a sudden light breaking over a wine-face. I never knowed his name before. Calton nodded complacently. I knew you didn't, he said. That's why you didn't ask for him at the club. She never told me his name, said Sal, jerking her head in the direction of the bed. Then whom did she ask you to bring to her? asked Calton eagerly. No one, replied the girl. This was the way of it. On that night she was awful ill, and I sat beside her while Grand was asleep. I was drunk, broke in Grand, fiercely. None of your lies, I was blazing drunk. And she says to me, she says, went on the girl and different to her grandmother's interruption. Get me some paper and pencil, and I'll write a note to him, I will. So I goes and gets her what she asks for out of Grand's box. I stole it, cussed you, shrieked the old hag, shaking her fist. Hold your tongue, said Kilsip, in a peremptory tone. Mother Gutter's night burst into a volley of oaths, and having run rapidly through all she knew subsided into a sulky silence. She wrote on it, went on Sal, and then asked me to take it to the Melbourne Club and give it to him. Says I, Oozim, says she, it's on the letter. Don't you ask no questions and you won't ear no lives. But give it to him at the club and wait for him at the corner of Bork and Russell Street. So I goes and gives it to a cove at the club, and then he comes along and says he, take me to her, and I took him. And what like was the gentleman? O, where he good-looking, said Sal, where he tall, with the other hair and moustache. He had party clothes on and a masher coat and a soft hat. That's Fitzgerald right enough, murdered Calton, and what did he do when he came? He goes right up to her and she says, are you E? And he says, I am. Then she says, do you know what I'm going to tell you? And he says, no. Then she says, it's about her. And says he, looking very white.  And she gets up and screeches. Turn that gal out, and I'll tell you. And he takes me by the arm and says he, ear, get out. And I gets out, and that's all I knows. And how long was he with her? asked Calton, who had been listening attentively. About half an hour, answers Sal. I takes him back to Russell Street about twenty-five minutes to two, because I looked at the clock on the post office, and he gives me a sob, and then he goes at tearing up the street like anything. Take him about twenty minutes to walk to East Melbourne, said Calton to himself, so he must have got in at the time Mrs. Samson said. He was in with the Queen the whole time, I suppose, he asked, looking keenly at Sal. I was at that door, said Sal, pointing to it, and he couldn't have got out unless I'd seen him. Oh, it's all right, said Calton, nodding to Kilsip. There won't be any difficulty in proving an alibi. But I say, he said, turning to Sal, what were they talking about? I don't know, answered Sal. I was at the door, and they talked that quiet. I couldn't hear them. Then he sings out, my God, it's too horrible. And I hear her laugh and like to bust, and then he comes to me and says, quite wild like, take me out of this hell, and I took them. And when you came back, she was dead. Dead, as a blessed doornail, said Sal cheerfully. And I never knowed I was in the room with a corpse, wailed Mother Gutter Snipe, waking up. Cusser, she was always a-doing contrary things. How do you know, said Calton sharply, as he rose to go. I knowed her longer, nor you, croaked the old woman, fixing one evil eye on the lawyer.  Calton turned from her with a shrug of his shoulders. You will come to the court to-morrow with Mr. Kilsip, he said to Sal, and tell what you have just now told me. Sal truce, help me, said Sal eagerly. He was here all the time. Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, when Mother Gutter Snipe rose. Where's the money for fine in her? She screeched, pointing one skinny finger at Sal. Well, considering the girl found herself, said Calton dryly, the money is in the bank, and will remain there. And I'm to be done out of my hard-earned tins, so help me, how old the old fury.  You'll go there yourself if you don't take care, said Kilsip in his soft, purring tones. Yeah! shrieked Mother Gutter Snipe, snapping her fingers at him. What do I care about your quad? Ain't I been in pentagon, it ain't hurt me as it. I'm as lively as a gal, I am. And the old fury, to prove the truth of her words, danced a kind of war dance in front of Mr. Calton, snapping her fingers and yelling out curses as an accompaniment to her ballet. Her luxurious white hair streamed out during her gyrations, and with her grotesque appearance in the faint light of the candle she presented a gruesome spectacle. Calton remembered the tales he had heard of the women of Paris at the Revolution, and the way they danced la commandeuse. Mother Gutter Snipe would have been in her element in that sea of blood and turbulence, he thought. But he merely shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room, as with a final curse delivered in a horse-voice Mother Gutter Snipe sank exhausted on the floor and yelled for gin. CHAPTER XIX The news that Sal Rollins, who alone could prove the innocence of the prisoner, had been found, and would appear in court that morning, had spread like wildfire, and the acquittal of the prisoner was confidently expected by a large number of sympathizing friends, who seemed to have sprung up on all sides like mushrooms in a single night. There were, of course, plenty of cautious people left who waited to hear the verdict of the jury before committing themselves, and who still believed him to be guilty. But the unexpected appearance of Sal Rollins had turned the great tide of public feeling in favor of the prisoner, and many who had been loudest in their denunciations of Fitzgerald, were now more than half convinced of his innocence. Pious clergyman talked in an incoherent way about the finger of God and the innocent not suffering unjustly, which was a case of counting unhatched chickens as the verdict had yet to be given. Felix Rolliston awoke, and found himself famous in a small way. Out of good-natured sympathy and despise of contrariness he had declared his belief in Brian's innocence, and now, to his astonishment, he found that his view of the matter was likely to prove correct. He received so much praise on all sides for his presumed perspicuity that he soon began to think that he had believed in Fitzgerald's innocence by a calm course of reasoning, and not because of a desire to differ from everyone else in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolliston is not the only man who has been astonished to find greatness thrust upon him and come to believe himself worthy of it. He was a wise man, however, and while in the full tide of prosperity he seized the flying moment and proposed to Miss Featherweight, who, after some hesitation, agreed to endow him with herself and her thousands, she decided that her future husband was a man of no common intellect, seeing that he had long ago arrived at a conclusion which the rest of Melbourne were only beginning to discover now. So she determined that, as soon as she assumed marital authority, Felix, like Streffen in Elath, should go into Parliament, and with her money in his brains she might some day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolliston had no idea of the political honours which his future spouse intended for him, and was seated in his old place in the Court, talking about the case.  Whereupon a clergyman, happening to overhear the lively Felix make this flippant remark, disagreed with it entirely, and preached a sermon to prove that good looks and crime were closely connected, and that both Judas Iscaret and Nero were beauty men. Ah! said Calton, when he heard the sermon, if this unique theory is a true one, what a pious man that clergyman must be. This allusion to the looks of the Reverend Gentleman was rather unkind, for he was by no means bad looking. But then Calton was one of those witty men who would rather lose a friend than suppress an epigram. When the prisoner was brought in, a murmur of sympathy ran through the crowded court. So ill and worn out he looked, but Calton was puzzled to account for the expression of his face, so indifferent from that of a man whose life had been saved, or rather was about to be saved, for in truth it was a foregone conclusion. You know who stole those papers, he thought, as he looked at Fitzgerald Keenley, and the man who did so was the murderer of White. The judge having entered, and the court being opened, Calton rose to make his speech, and stated in a few words the line of defense he intended to take. He would first call Albert Dendy, a watchmaker, to prove that on Thursday night, at eight o'clock in the evening, he had called at the prisoner's lodgings while the landlady was out, and while there had put the kitchen-clock right and had regulated the same. He would also call Felix Rolaston, a friend of the prisoners, to prove that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings, and frequently expressed his detestation of such a custom. Sebastian Brown, a waiter at the Melbourne Club, would be called to prove that on Thursday night a letter was delivered to the prisoner at the club by one Sarah Rollins, and that the prisoner left the club shortly before one o'clock on Friday morning. He would also call Sarah Rollins to prove that she had delivered a note to Sebastian Brown for the prisoner at the Melbourne Club at a quarter to twelve on Thursday night, and that at a few minutes past one o'clock on Friday morning she had conduct the prisoner to a slum off Little Bork Street, and that he was there between one and two on Friday morning, the hour at which the murder was alleged to have taken place. This being his defense to the charge being brought against the prisoner, he would call Albert Dendy. Albert Dendy, Dooley Swarn, stated, I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I remember Thursday the twenty-sixth of July last. On the evening of that day I called at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who was the landlady of the prisoner. She was out at the time I called, and I waited in the kitchen till her return. I looked at the kitchen-clock to see if it was too late to wait, and then at my watch. I found that the clock was ten minutes fast, upon which I put it right and regulated it properly. Calton, at what time did you put it right? Witness, about eight o'clock. Calton, between that time and two in the morning, was it possible for the clock to gain ten minutes? Witness, no, it was not possible. Calton, would it gain at all? Witness, not between eight and two o'clock, the time was not long enough. Calton, did you see your aunt that night? Witness, yes, I waited till she came in. Calton, and did you tell her you had put the clock right? Witness, no, I did not. I forgot all about it. Calton, that she was still under the impression that it was ten minutes fast? Witness, yes, I suppose so. After Dendy had been cross-examined, Felix Rolliston was called, and deposed as follows. I am an intimate friend of the prisoner. I have known him for five or six years, and never saw him wearing a ring during that time. He has frequently told me that he did not care for rings and would never wear them. In cross-examination. Crown prosecutor. You have never seen the prisoner wearing a diamond ring? Witness. No, never. Crown prosecutor. Have you ever seen any such ring in his possession? Witness. No, I have seen him buying rings for ladies, but I never saw him with any ring such as a gentleman would wear. Crown prosecutor. Not even a seal ring? Witness. No, not even a seal ring. Sarah Rollins was then placed in the witness box, and after having been sworn deposed, I know the prisoner. I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter addressed to him at the Melbourne Club at a quarter to twelve o'clock on Thursday, the twenty-sixth of July. I did not know what his name was. He met me shortly after one at the corner of Russell and Bork Streets, where I had been told to wait for him. I took him to my grandmother's place in a lane off Little Bork Street. There was a dying woman there who had sent for him. He went in and saw her for about twenty minutes, and then I took him back to the corner of Bork and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quarters-clock strike shortly after I left him. Crown prosecutor. You are quite certain that the prisoner was the man you met on that night? Witness. Quite certain, so help me God. Crown prosecutor. And he met you a few minutes past one o'clock? Witness. Yes, about five minutes. I heard the clock a strike in one just before he came down the street, and when I leaves him again it were about twenty-five to two, because it took me ten minutes to get home, and I heard the clock go three-quarters just as I gets to the door. Crown prosecutor. How do you know it was exactly twenty-five to two when you left him? Witness. Because I saw the clock. I left him in the corner of Russell Street and comes down Bork Street, and I could see the post office clock as plain as day, and when I gets into Swatston Street I looks at the town all promiscuous like and sees the same time there. Crown prosecutor. And you never lost sight of the prisoner the whole time? Witness. No, there was only one door by the room, and I was a sitting outside it, and when he comes out he falls over me. Crown prosecutor. Were you asleep? Witness. Not a blessed wink. Calton then directed Sebastian Brown to be called. He deposed. I know the prisoner. He is a member of the Melbourne Club at which I am a waiter. I remember Thursday, the twenty-sixth of July. On that night the last witness came with a letter to the prisoner. It was about a quarter to twelve. She just gave it to me and went away. I delivered it to Mr. Fitzgerald. He left the club at about ten minutes to one. This closed the evidence for the defense, and after the Crown prosecutor had made his speech, in which he pointed out the strong evidence against the prisoner, Calton arose to address the jury. He was a fine speaker and made a splendid defense. Not a single point escaped him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is still remembered and spoken of admiringly in the perlews of Temple Court and Chancey Lane. He began by giving a vivid description of the circumstances of the murder, of the meeting of the murderer and his victim in Collins Street East, the cab driving down to St. Kilda, the getting out of the cab of the murderer after committing the crime, and the way in which he had secured himself against pursuit. Having thus enchained the attention of the jury by the graphic manner in which he described the crime, he pointed out that the evidence brought forward by the prosecution was purely circumstantial, and that they had utterly failed to identify the prisoner in the dock with the man who had entered the cab. The supposition that the prisoner and the man in the light coat were one and the same person rested solely upon the evidence of the cab man, Royston, who, although not intoxicated, was, judging from his own statements, not in a fit state to distinguish between the man who hailed the cab and the man who got in. The crime was committed by means of chloroform. Therefore, if the prisoner was guilty, he must have purchased the chloroform in some shop, or obtained it from some friends. In Sullivan's the prosecution had not brought forward a single piece of evidence to show how and where the chloroform had been obtained. With regard to the glove belonging to the murdered man found in the prisoner's pocket, he picked it up off the ground at the time when he first met White, when the deceased was lying drunk near the Scotch Church. Certainly there was no evidence to show that the prisoner had picked it up before the deceased entered the cab, but on the other hand there was no evidence to show that it had been picked up in the cab. It was far more likely that the glove, and especially a White glove, would be picked up under the light of a lamp near the Scotch Church, where it was easily noticeable, than in the darkness of a cab, where there was very little room and where it would be quite dark as the blinds were drawn down. The cab men, Royston, swore positively that the man who got out of his cab on the St. Kilda Road were a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand, and the cab men, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who got out at Pallet Street. Against this could be placed the evidence of one of the prisoner's most intimate friends, one who had seen him almost daily for the last five years, and he had sworn positively that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings. The cab men, Rankin, had also sworn that the man who entered his cab on the St. Kilda Road alighted at Pallet Street, East Melbourne, at two o'clock on Friday morning, as he heard that hour strike from the post office clock, whereas the evidence of the prisoner's landlady showed plainly that he had entered the house five minutes previously, and her evidence was further supported by that of the watchmaker, Dendi. Mr. Samson saw the hand of the kitchen clock point to five minutes to two, and thinking it was ten minutes slow, told the detective that the prisoner did not enter the house till five minutes past two, which would just give the man who alighted from the cab, presuming him to have been the prisoner, sufficient time to walk up to his lodgings. The evidence of the watchmaker, Dendi, however, showed clearly that he had put the clock right at the hour of eight on Thursday night, that it was impossible for it to gain ten minutes before two on Friday morning, and therefore the time, five minutes to two, seen by the landlady was the correct one, and the prisoner was in the house five minutes before the other man alighted from the cab in Pallet Street. These points in themselves were sufficient to show that the prisoner was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Rollins must prove conclusively to the jury that the prisoner was not the man who committed the crime. The witness Brown had proved that the woman Rollins had delivered a letter to him, which he gave to the prisoner, and that the prisoner left the club to keep the appointment spoken of in the letter, which letter, or rather the remains of it, had been put in evidence. The woman Rollins swore that the prisoner met her at the corner of Russell and Bork Street, and had gone with her to one of the back slums, there to see the rider of the letter. She also proved that at the time of the committal of the crime the prisoner was still in the back slum, by the bed of the dying woman, and there being only one door to the room he could not possibly have left without the witness seeing him. The woman Rollins further proved that she left the prisoner at the corner of Bork and Russell Streets at twenty-five minutes to two o'clock, which was five minutes before Royston drove his cab up to the St. Kilda police station with the dead body inside. Finally, the woman Rollins proved her words by stating that she saw both the post office and town hall clocks, and supposing the prisoner started from the corner of Bork and Russell Streets, as she says he did, he would reach East Melbourne in twenty minutes, which made it five minutes to two on Friday morning, the time at which, according to the landlady's statement, he entered the house. All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreed completely and formed a chain which showed the whole of the prisoner's movements at the time of the committal of the murder. Therefore it was absolutely impossible that the murder could have been committed by the man in the dock. The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that of the witness, Habelton, who swore that the prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the language used was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner. The defense which the prisoner set up was that of an alibi, and the evidence of the witnesses for the defense proved conclusively that the prisoner could not and did not commit the murder. Finally, Calton wound up his elaborate and exhaustive speech which lasted for over two hours by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to base their verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did so they could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of not guilty. When Calton sat down a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, strongly in favor of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired and immediately there was a dead silence in the crowded court, an unnatural silence such as must have fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long, lithe forms of the lion and pant their creeping steadily towards their prey. The hour being late the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glare through the wide hall. Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock which seemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and then the quick drawn breath of some timid onlooker. Suddenly a woman, whose nerves were overstrung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence, every eye being fixed on the door through which the jury would reissue with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock moved slowly round, a quarter, a half, three quarters, and then the hour sounded with the silvery ring which startled everyone. Maj, sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her highly strung nerves would give way. My God! she muttered softly to herself. Will this suspense never end? Just then the door opened and the jury re-entered. The prisoner was again placed in the dock, and the judge resumed his seat, this time with the black cap in his pocket as everyone guessed. The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foremen of the jury stood up every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed a little and then grew pale as death, giving a quick nervous glance at the quiet figure in black, of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then came the verdict, sharp and decisive, not guilty. On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong was the sympathy with Brian. In vain the crier of the court yelled, Order! until he was read in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court. His voice being inaudible did not matter much. The enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before Order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment and discharged the prisoner in accordance with the verdict. Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed Fitzgerald innocent. And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the court, where a woman was waiting for him, a woman who clung round his neck and sobbed out, My darling, my darling, I knew that God would save you. The Argus gives its opinion. The morning after the trial was concluded the following article in reference to the matter appeared in the Argus. During the past three months we have frequently in our columns commented on the extraordinary case which is now so widely known as the Handsome Cab tragedy. We can safely say that it is the most remarkable case which has ever come under the notice of our criminal court, and the verdict given by the jury yesterday has enveloped the matter in a still deeper mystery. By a train of strange coincidences Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, a young squatter, was suspected of having murdered White, and had it not been for the timely appearance of the woman Rollins who termed up at the eleventh hour, we feel sure that a verdict of guilty would have been given, and an innocent man would have suffered punishment for the crime of another. Fortunately for the prisoner and for the interests of justice his counsel, Mr. Calton, by unweary diligence, was able to discover the last witness and prove an alibi. Had it not been for this, in spite of the remarks made by the learned counsel in his brilliant speech yesterday, which resulted in the acquittal of the prisoner, we question very much if the rest of the evidence in favor of the accused would have been sufficient to persuade the jury that he was an innocent man. The only points in favor of Mr. Fitzgerald were the inability of the cab men Royston to swear to him as the man who got into the cab with White, the wearing of a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand, whereas Mr. Fitzgerald wears no rings, and the difference in time sworn to by the cab men Rankin and the landlady. Against these points, however, the prosecution placed a mass of evidence which seemed conclusively to prove the guilt of the prisoner, but the appearance of Sal Rollins in the witness box put an end to all doubt. In language which could not be mistaken for anything else than the truth, she positively swore that Mr. Fitzgerald was in one of the slums off Bork Street, between the hours of one and two on Friday morning, at which time the murder was committed. Under these circumstances the jury unanimously agreed and returned a verdict of not guilty, and the prisoner was forthwith acquitted. We have to congratulate his counsel, Mr. Colton, for the able speech he made for the defense, and also Mr. Fitzgerald for his providential escape from a dishonorable and undeserved punishment. He leaves the court without a stain on his character and with the respect and sympathy of all Australians, for the courage and dignity with which he comported himself throughout, while resting under the shadow of such a serious charge. But now that it has been conclusively proved that he is innocent, the question arises in everyone's mind. Who is the murderer of Oliver White? The man who committed this dastardly crime is still at large, and for all we know may be in our midst. Emboldened by the impunity with which he has escaped the hands of justice, he may be walking securely down our streets and talking of the very crime of which he is the perpetrator. Secure in the thought that all traces of him have been lost forever, from the time he alighted from Rankin's cab at Pallet Street, he has ventured probably to remain in Melbourne, and for all that anyone knows, he may have been in the court during the late trial. Nay, this very article may meet his eye, and he may rejoice at the futile efforts which have been made to find him. But let him beware, justice is not blind but blindfolded, and when he least expects it, she will tear the bandage from her keen eyes and drag him forth to the light of day to receive the reward of his deed. Owing to the strong evidence against Fitzgerald, that is the only direction in which the detectives have hitherto looked, but baffled on one side they will look on the other, and this time may be successful. That such a man as the murderer of Oliver White should be at large is a matter of danger, not only to individual citizens, but to the community at large, for it is a well-known fact that a tiger who once tastes human blood never overcomes his craving for it, and without doubt the man who so daringly and coolly murdered a drunken, and therefore defenceless man, will not hesitate to commit a second crime. The present feeling of all classes in Melbourne must be one of terror, that such a man should be at large, and must, in great measure, resemble the fear which filled everyone's heart in London when the Marr murders were committed, and it was known that the murderer had escaped. Anyone who has read De Quincey's graphic description of the crime perpetrated by Williams must tremble to think that such another devil incarnate is in our midst. It is an imperative necessity that such a feeling should be done away with. But how is this to be managed? It is one thing to speak and another to act. There seems to be no possible clue discoverable at present which can lead to the discovery of the real murderer. The man in the light coat who got out of Rankin's Cab at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, designedly as it now appears, in order to throw suspicion on Fitzgerald, has vanished completely as the witches in Macbeth, and left no trace behind. It was two o'clock in the morning when he left the Cab, and in a quiet suburb like East Melbourne no one would be about, so that he could easily escape unseen. There seems to be but one chance of ever tracing him, and that is to be found in the papers which were stolen from the pocket of the dead man. What they were, only two persons knew, and one knows now. The first two were white and the woman who was called the Queen, and both of them are now dead. The other who knows now is the man who committed the crime. There can be no doubt that these papers were the motive for the crime, as no money was taken from the pockets of the deceased. The fact also that the papers were carried in a pocket made inside the waistcoat of the deceased shows that they were of value. Now the reason we think that the dead woman knew of the existence of these papers is simply this. It appears that she came out from England with widest's mistress, and after staying some time in Sydney came on to Melbourne. How she came into such a foul and squalid den as that she died in, we are unable to say, unless, seeing that she was given to drink, she was picked up drunk by some Samaritan of the slums, and carried to Mrs. Rollins's humble abode. White visited her there frequently, but appears to have made no attempt to remove her to a better place, alleging as his reason that the doctor said she would die if taken into the air. Our reporter learned from one of the detectives that the dead woman was in the habit of talking to White about certain papers, and on one occasion was overheard to say to him, They'll make your fortune if you play your cards well. This was told to the detective by the woman Rollins, to whose providential appearance Mr. Fitzgerald owes his escape. From this it can be gathered that the papers, whatever they might be, were of value, and sufficient to tempt another to commit a murder in order to obtain them. White therefore being dead, and his murderer having escaped, the only way of discovering the secret which lies at the root of this tree of crime is to find out the history of the woman who died in the slum. Traced back for some years, circumstances may be discovered which will reveal what these papers contained, and once that is found we can confidently say that the murderer will be soon discovered. This is the only chance of finding out the cause and the author of this mysterious murder, and if it fails we fear the handsome cab tragedy will have to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes, and the assassin of white will have no other punishment than that of the remorse of his own conscience. CHAPTER XXI.  Such a description of snowy December sounds per chance a trifle strange to English ears. It may strike them as being somewhat fantastic, as was the play in a Midsummer Night's DREAM to Demetrius when he remarked, This is hot ice and wondrous cold fire. But here in Australia we are in the realm of contrarity, and many things other than dreams go by contrary. Here black swans are an established fact, and the proverb concerning them, made when they were considered as mythical a bird as the phoenix, has been rendered null and void by the discoveries of Captain Cook. Here ironwood sinks and pumice stone floats, which must strike the curious spectator as a queer freak on the part of Dame Nature. At home the Edinburgh mail bears the hardy traveller to a cold climate, with snowy mountains and a wintry blast, but here the further north one goes the hotter it gets, till one arrives in Queensland, where the heat is so great that a profane traveller of an epigrammatic turn of mind once fittingly called it an amateur hell. But however contrary, as Mrs. Gamp would say, Nature be in her dwellings, the English race out in this great continent are much the same as in the old country. John Bull, Patty and Sandy, all being of a conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinions as to the keeping up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmas day, with the sun one hundred odd in the shade, Australian revelers sit down to the roast beef and plum pudding of Old England, which they eat contentedly as the Orthodox thing, and on New Year's Eve the festive kelp repairs to the doors of his frieze with a bottle of whisky and a cheering burst of old angzine. Still, it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obscenity, but keeps his Christmas in the old fashion and wears his clothes in the new fashion without regard to heat or cold. A nation that never surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to give in to the fire of the sun. But if some ingenious mortal would only invent some lightenary costume, after the fashion of the Greek dress, and Australians would consent to adopt the same, life in Melbourne and her sister cities would be much cooler than it is at present. Madge was thinking, somewhat after this fashion, as she sat on the wide veranda, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the wide plains lying parched and erred under the blazing sun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, ranging midway between heaven and earth, and through its tremulous veil the distant hills looked aerial and unreal. Stretched out before her was the garden with its intensely vivid flowers. To look at them merely was to increase one's caloric condition. Great bushes of oleanders with their bright pink blossoms, luxurious rose trees with their yellow, red and white blooms, and all along the border a rainbow of many colored flowers, with such brilliant tints that the eye ached to see them in the hot sunshine, and turned restfully to the cool green of the trees which encircled the lawn. In the centre was a round pool, surrounded by a ring of white marble, and containing a still sheet of water which flasks like a mirror in the blinding light. The homestead of Yabba Yaluk's station was a long low house, with no upper story, and with a wide veranda running nearly round it. Cool green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out the sun, and all along were scattered lounging chairs of basket work, with rugs, novels, empty soda water bottles, and all the other evidences that Mr. Fretelby's guests had been wise, and stayed inside during the noonday heat. Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs, and she divided her attention between the glowing beauty of the world outside which she could see through a narrow slit in the blinds. But she did not seem greatly interested in her book, and it was not long before she let it fall unheeded to the ground and took refuge in her own thoughts. The trial through which she had so recently passed had been a great one, and it had not been without its outward result. It had left its impress on her beautiful face, and there was a troubled look in her eyes. After Brian's acquittal of the murder of Oliver White, she had been taken by her father up to the station, in the hope it would restore her to health. The mental strain which had been on her during the trial had nearly brought on an attack of brain fever. But here, far from the excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country, she had recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are more impressionable than men, and it is perhaps for this reason that they age quicker. A trouble which would pass lightly over a man leaves an indelible mark on a woman, both physically and mentally, and the terrible episode of White's murder had changed Madge from a bright and merry girl into a grave and beautiful woman. Sorrow is a potent enchantress. Once she touches the heart, life can never be quite the same again. We never more surrender ourselves entirely to pleasure, and often we find so many of the things we have longed for are, after all, but dead sea fruit. Sorrow is the veiled ices of the world, and once we penetrate her mystery and see her deeply furrowed face and mournful eyes, the magic light of romance dies all away, and we realize the hard, bitter fact of life in all its nakedness. Madge felt something of this. She saw the world now, not as the fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful veil of tears through which we all must walk till we reach the promised land.  After the trial he had left town immediately, in order to avoid meeting with his friends, and had gone up to his station, which was next to that of the Fretelbees. There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking over the secret which the dead woman had told him, and which threatened to overshadow his life. Every now and then he wrote over and saw Madge. But this was generally when he knew her father to be away from Melbourne, for of late he had disliked the millionaire. Madge could not but condemn his attitude, remembering how her father had stood beside him in his recent trouble. Yet there was another reason why Brian kept aloof from Yaba Yaluk's station. He did not wish to meet any of the gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial he was an object of curiosity and sympathy to everyone, a position galling enough to his proud nature. At Christmas time Fretelbee had asked several people up from Melbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yet she could not refuse her father and had to play hostess with a smiling brow and aching heart. Who a month since had joined the noble army of Benedict's was there with Mrs. Rawliston, Niais Featherweight, who ruled him with a rod of iron. Having bought Felix with her money, she had determined to make good use of him, and being ambitious to shine in Melbourne society had insisted upon Felix studying politics, so that when the next general election came round he could enter Parliament. Felix had rebelled at first, but ultimately gave way, as he found that when he had a good novel concealed among his parliamentary papers, time passed quite pleasantly, and he got the reputation of a hard worker at little cost. They had brought up Julia with them, and this young person had made up her mind to become the second Mrs. Fretelbee. She had not received much encouragement, but like the English at Waterloo did not know when she was beaten and carried on the siege of Mr. Fretelbee's heart in an undaunted manner. Dr. Chinston had come up for a little relaxation and gave never a thought to his anxious patience or the many sick rooms he was in the habit of visiting. A young English fellow called Peterson, who amused himself by travelling, and old colonists full of reminiscences of the old days, when by God, sir, we hadn't a gas lamp in the whole of Melbourne, and several other people completed the party.  Suddenly she started, as she heard a step behind her, and turning saw Sal Rollins in the neatest of black gowns with a coquettish white cap and apron and an open book. Madge had been so delighted with Sal for saving Brian's life that she had taken her into her service as maid. Mr. Fretelbee had offered strong opposition at first that a fallen woman like Sal should be near his daughter, but Madge was determined to rescue the unhappy girl from the life of sin she was leading, and so at last he reluctantly consented. Brian too had objected, but ultimately yielded, as he saw that Madge had set her heart on it. Mother Gutter-Snipe objected at first, characterizing the whole affair as cuss and humbug, but she likewise gave in and Sal became made to Miss Fretelbee, who immediately set to work to remedy Sal's defective education by teaching her to read. The book she held in her hand was a spelling-book, and this she handed to Madge. I think I knows it now, Miss," she said respectfully, as Madge looked up with a smile. "'Do you, indeed,' said Madge Gailey, you will be able to read in no time, Sal.' "'Read this,' said Sal, touching Tristan, a romance by Zoe.' "'Hardly,' said Madge, picking it up with the look of contempt. "'I want you to learn English, and not a confusion of tongues like this thing. But it's too hot for lessons, Sal,' she went on, leaning back in her seat. So get a chair and talk to me.' Now complied, and Madge looked out at the brilliant flower beds, and at the black shadow of the tall witch-elm which grew on one side of the lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very much of late, and with the quick instinct of her sex she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum. Anxious to share his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian which affected him so deeply. "'Sal,' she said, after a short pause, turning her clear gray eyes on the woman, "'I want to ask you something.'" The other shivered and turned pale. "'About—about that?' Madge nodded. Sal hesitated for a moment, and then flung herself at the feet of her mistress. "'I will tell you,' she cried, "'you have been kind to me and have a right to know. I will tell you all I know.' Brian asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her hands tightly together, "'Who was this woman whom Mr. Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she come from?' "'Gran and me found her one evening in Little Bork Street,' answered Sal, just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, and we took her home with us. "'Oh, how kind of you,' said Madge. "'Oh, it wasn't that,' replied the other dryly. Gran wanted her clothes. She was awful swell-dressed. And she took the clothes. How wicked! One would have done it down our way,' answered Sal indifferently. But Gran changed her mind when she got her home. I went out to get some gin for Gran, and when I got back she was a hugging and a kiss in the woman. She recognized her. "'Yes, I suppose so,' replied Sal. "'And next morning, when the lady got square, she made a grab at Gran and hollered out, "'I was coming to see you.' And then?' Gran chucked me out of the room, and they had a long jaw. And then when I come back, Gran tells me the lady is going to stay with us, because she was ill, and sent me for Mr. White.' And he came. "'Oh, yes, often,' said Sal. He kicked up a row when he first turned up, but when he found she was ill he sent a doctor, but it weren't no good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the morning she saw Mr. Fitzgerald. "'I suppose Mr. White was in the habit of talking to this woman?' "'Lots,' returned Sal. But he always turned Gran and me out of the room before he started. "'And,' hesitating, "'did you ever overhear one of those conversations?' "'Yes, one,' answered the other with a nod. I got riled at the way he cleared us out of our own room, and once when he shut the door and Gran went off to get some gin, I sat down at the door and listened. He wanted her to give up some papers, and she wouldn't.  "'Rather,' said Sal. I was looking through a hole in the door, and she takes him from under her pillar, and he takes him to the table where the candle was and looks at him. They were in a large blue envelope with writing on it and red ink. Then he put him in his pocket and she sings out, "'You'll lose him,' and he says, "'No, I'll always have him with me, and if he wants him he'll have to kill me first before he gets him.' "'And you did not know who the man was, to whom the papers were of such importance?' "'No, I didn't. They never said no names.' "'And when was it White got the papers? About a week before he was murdered,' said Sal, after a moment's thought. And after that he never turned up again. She kept watching for him night and day, and because he didn't come, got mad at him. I hear her saying, "'You think you've done with me, my gentleman, and leaves me here to die, but I'll spoil your little game.' And then she wrote that letter to Mr. Fitzgerald, and I brought him to her, as you know. "'Yes, yes,' said Madge, rather impatiently. I heard all that at the trial. But what conversation passed between Mr. Fitzgerald and this woman? Did you hear it?' "'Bits of it,' replied the other. I didn't split in court, because I thought the lawyer would be down on me for listening. The first thing I heard Mr. Fitzgerald saying was, "'You're mad. It ain't true.' And she says, "'Selt me, it is. White's got the proof.'"  And says he, "'I will. I love her more than ever.' And then she makes a grab at him and says, "'Spoil his game if you can,' and says he, "'What's your name?' And she says, "'What?' asked Madge breathlessly. "'Rosanna Moore.' There was a sharp exclamation as Sal said the name, and turning round quickly, Madge found Brian standing beside her, pale as death, with his eyes fixed on the woman who had risen to her feet. "'Go on,' he said sharply. "'That's all I know,' she replied in a sullen tone. Brian gave a sigh of relief. "'You can go,' he said slowly. I wish to speak with Ms. Fretelby alone.' Sal looked at him for a moment, and then glanced at her mistress, who nodded to her as a sign that she might withdraw. She picked up her book, and with another sharp, inquiring look at Brian, turned and walked slowly into the house. End of CHAPTER XXI. BREAD BY SIBELLA DENTON. FOR MORE FREE AUDIO BOOKS OR TO VOLUNTEER, PLEASE VISIT LEBERVOX.ORG. CHAPTER XXII. OF MYSTERY OF A HANDSOME CAP BY FERGUS HUME. BREAD FOR LEBERVOX.ORG INTO THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. A DAUGHTER OF EVE. After Sal had gone, Brian sank into a chair beside Maj with a weary sigh. He was in riding-dress, which became his stalwart figure well, and he looked remarkably handsome but ill and worried. "'What on earth were you questioning that girl about?' he said abruptly, taking his hat off and tossing it and his gloves onto the floor. Maj flushed crimson for a moment, and then taking Brian's two strong hands in her own, looked steadily into his frowning face. "'Why don't you trust me?' she asked in a quiet tone. "'It is not necessary that I should,' he answered mootily. The secret that Rosanna Moore told me on her death-bed is nothing that would benefit you to know. "'Is it about me?' she persisted. "'It is, and it is not,' he answered epigrammatically. "'I suppose that means that it is about a third person and concerns me,' she said calmly, releasing his hands. "'Well, yes,' impatiently striking his boot with his riding-whip. "'But it is nothing that can harm you so long as you do not know it. But God help you should any one tell it to you, for it would embitter your life.' "'My life being so very sweet now,' answered Maj, with a slight sneer. "'You are trying to put out a fire by pouring oil on it, and what you say only makes me more determined to learn what it is.' "'Maj, I implore you not to persist in this foolish curiosity,' he said almost fiercely, "'it will bring you only misery.' "'If it concerns me, I have a right to know it,' she answered curtly. "'When I marry you, how can we be happy together with the shadow of a secret between us?' Brian rose and leaned against the veranda-post with a dark frown on his face. "'Do you remember that verse of brownings?' he said, coolly. "'Where the apple reddens never pry, lest we lose our Eden's, Eve and I.' "'Singularly applicable to our present conversation, I think.' "'Ah!' she said, her pale face fleshing with anger, you want me to live in a fool's paradise, which may end at any moment.' "'That depends upon yourself,' he answered coolly. "'I never roused your curiosity by telling you that there was a secret, but betrayed it inadvertently to Calton's cross- questioning. "'I tell you candidly that I did learn something from Rosanna Moore, and it concerns you, though only indirectly through a third person. But it would do no good to reveal it and would ruin both our lives.' She did not answer, but looked straight before her into the glowing sunshine. Brian fell on his knees beside her and stretched out his hands with an intriguing gesture. "'Oh, my darling,' he cried sadly, "'cannot you trust me. The love which has stood such a test as yours cannot fail like this. Let me bear the misery of knowing it alone without blighting your young life with the knowledge of it. I would tell you if I could, but God help me, I cannot, I cannot.'   There was a struggle going on in her breast between her feminine curiosity and her love for the man at her feet. The latter conquered, and she bowed her head over his. "'Brian,' she whispered softly, "'let it be as you wish. I will never again try to learn this secret since you do not desire it.' He arose to his feet and caught her in his strong arms with a glad smile. "'My dearest,' he said, kissing her passionately, and then for a few moments neither of them spoke. "'We will begin a new life,' he said at length. "'We will put the sad past away from us and think of it only as a dream.' "'But this secret will still fret you,' she murmured. "'It will wear away with time and with change of scene,' he answered sadly. "'Change of scene,' she repeated in a startled tone. "'Are you going away?' "'Yes. I've sold my station and intend leaving Australia forever during the next three months.' "'And where are you going?' asked the girl, rather bewildered. "'Anywhere,' he said a little bitterly. "'I am going to follow the example of Cain and be a wanderer on the face of the earth.' "'Alone?' "'That is what I have come to see you about,' said Brian, looking steadily at her. "'I have come to ask if you will marry me at once, and we will leave Australia together.' She hesitated. "'I know it is asking a great deal,' he said hurriedly, "'to leave your friends, your position, and, with hesitation, your father, but think of my life without you. Think how lonely I shall be, wandering round the world by myself, but you will not desert me now I have so much need of you. You will come with me and be my good angel in the future, as you have been in the past.' She put her hand on his arm, and, looking at him with her clear grey eyes, said, "'Yes.' "'Thank God for that,' said Brian reverently, and there was again a silence. Then they sat down and talked about their plans, and built castles in the air after the fashion of lovers. "'I wonder what papa will say,' observed Maj, idly twisting her engagement ring round and round. Brian frowned, and a dark look passed over his face. "'I suppose I must speak to him about it,' he said at length, reluctantly. "'Yes, of course,' she replied lightly. "'It is merely a formality, still one that must be observed.' "'And where is Mr. Freddleby?' asked Fitzgerald, rising. "'In the billiard room,' she answered, as she followed his example. "'No,' she continued, as she saw her father step onto the veranda. "'Here he is.' Brian had not seen Mark Freddleby for some time, and was astonished at the change which had taken place in his appearance. Formerly he had been as straight as an arrow, with a stern, fresh-coloured face, but now he had a slight stoop, and his face looked old and withered.  His eyes alone were unchanged. They were as keen and bright as ever. Brian knew full well how he himself had altered. He knew, too, that Madge was not the same, and now he could not but wonder whether the great change that was apparent in her father was attributed to the same source to the murder of Oliver White. Sad and thoughtful as Mr. Freddleby looked, as he came along, a smile broke over his face as he caught sight of his daughter.  When did you come over?' "'About half an hour ago,' replied Brian, reluctantly, taking the extended hand of the millionaire. "'I came to see Madge and have a talk with you.' "'Ah, that's right,' said the other, putting his arm round his daughter's waist. "'So that's what has brought the roses to your face, young lady,' he went on, pinching her cheek playfully.  "'Nonsense,' interrupted Freddleby, hospitably. "'We are not in Melbourne, and I am sure Madge will excuse her dress. You must say.' "'Yes, do,' said Madge, in a beseeching tone, touching his hand lightly. "'I don't see so much of you that I can let you off with half an hour's conversation.' "'Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.' "'Very well,' he said in a low voice, I shall stay.' "'And now,' said Freddleby, in a brisk tone, as he sat down, the important question of dinner being settled, what is it you want to see me about? Your station?' "'No,' answered Brian, leaning against the veranda-post, while Madge slipped her hand through his arm. "'I've sold it.' "'SOLD IT!' echoed Freddleby aghast. "'What for?' "'I felt restless and wanted a change.' "'Ah, rolling stone,' said the millionaire, shaking his head. "'Gathers no mosh, you know.' "'Stones don't roll of their own accord,' replied Brian, in a gloomy tone. "'They are impelled by a force over which they have no control.' "'Oh, indeed,' said the millionaire, in a joking tone. "'And may I ask what is your propelling force?' "'Brian looked at the man's face with such a steady gaze that the latter's eyes dropped after an uneasy attempt to return it.' "'Well,' he said impatiently, looking at the two tall young people standing before him, "'what do you want to see me about?' "'Madge has agreed to marry me at once, and I want your consent.' "'Impossible,' said Freddleby curtly. "'There is no such a word as impossible,' retorted Brian coolly, thinking of the famous remark in Richelieu. "'Why should you refuse? I am rich now.' "'Peshaw,' said Freddleby, rising impatiently. "'It's not money I'm thinking about. I've got enough for both of you, but I cannot live without Madge.' "'Come with us,' said his daughter, kissing him. Her lover, however, did not second the imitation, but stood moodily, twisting his tawny moustache, and staring out into the garden in an absent sort of manner. "'What do you say if it's Gerald,' said Freddleby, who was eyeing him keenly. "'Oh, delighted, of course,' answered Brian, confusedly. "'In that case,' returned the other, coolly, "'I will tell you what we will do. I've bought a steam-yacht, and she will be ready for sea about the end of January. You will marry my daughter at once and go round New Zealand for your honeymoon. When you return, if I feel inclined, and you two turtle-doves don't object, I will join you, and we will make a tour of the world.' "'Oh, how delightful!' cried Madge, clasping her hands. "'I'm so fond of the ocean, with a companion, of course,' she added, with a saucy glance at her lover. Brian's face had brightened considerably, for he was a born sailor, and a pleasant yachting voyage in the blue waters of the Pacific, with Madge as his companion, was to his mind as near paradise as any mortal could get. "'And what is the name of the yacht?' he asked, with deep interest. "'Her name,' repeated Mr. Freddleby hastily, "'Oh, a very ugly name, and one which I intend to change. At present she is called the Rosanna.' "'Rosanna?' Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the former stared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidence between the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in the Melbourne slum. Mr. Freddleby flushed a little when he saw Brian's eyes fixed on him with such an inquiring gaze, and rose with an embarrassed laugh. "'You are a pair of moon-struck lovers,' he said, gaily, taking an arm of each, and leading them into the house, but you forget dinner will be ready soon.' CHAPTER XXIII of Mystery of a Handsome Cab by Fergus Hume. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Across the walnuts and the wine. Before, sweetest of Bard sings, Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream. But he made this assertion in his callow days before he had learned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth, Love's young dream is, no doubt, very charming, lovers as a rule having a small appetite, but to a man who has seen the world and drunk deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy. So said Talleyrand, a cynic, if you like, but a man who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art of love, brilliant savorin, of the art of dining, yet, I warrant you, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four the hour when, seated at an artistically laid table with delicately cooked viands, good wine, and pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a delightful sense of absolute enjoyment. Dinner with the English people is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred right. But there are men, alas, few and far between, who possess the rare art of giving good dinners, good in the sense of sociality, as well as in that of cookery. Mark Freddleby was one of these rare individuals. He had an innate genius for getting pleasant people together. People who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of a pink shaded lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation. On one side of the dining room were the French windows opening onto the veranda, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the dazzling colors of the flowers somewhat tempered by the soft, hazy glow of the twilight. Brian had made himself as respectable as possible under the odd circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Maj, contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter which was going on around him. Felix Rolaston was in great spirits, the more so as Mrs. Rolaston was at the further end of the table, hidden from his view.  Dr. Chinston and Peterson were seated on the other side of the table, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post of honor on Mr. Fretelby's right hand. The conversation had turned on to the subject evergreen and fascinating of politics, and Mr. Rolaston thought it a good opportunity to air his views as to the government of the colony, and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish and become a power in the political world. "'By Jove, you know,' he said, with a wave of his hand, as though he were addressing the house, the country is going to the dogs and all that sort of thing. What we want is a man like Beaconsfield. Ah! But you can't pick up a man like that every day,' said Fretelby, who was listening with an amused smile to Rolaston's disquisitions. "'Rather a good thing, too,' observed Dr. Chinston, dryly. Genius would become too common. "'Well, when I am elected,' said Felix, who had his own views, which modesty forbade him to publish on the subject of the coming colonial disraeli, I probably shall form a party.' "'To advocate what?' asked Peterson, curiously. "'Oh, well, you see,' hesitated Felix.  "'And on what are your political opinions founded?' asked Mr. Fretelby, absently, without looking at Felix. "'Oh, you see, I've read the parliamentary reports in constitutional history and—' "'And Vivian Gray,' said Felix, who began to feel himself somewhat at sea. "'The last of which is what the author called it, a pussous naturee,' observed Chinston. "'Don't erect your political schemes on such bubble foundations as are in that novel, for you won't find a Marquis Carabas out here.' "'Unfortunately no,' observed Felix mournfully, but we may find a Vivian Gray. Everyone smothered a smile. The illusion was so patent. "'Well, he didn't succeed in the end,' cried Peterson. "'Of course he didn't,' retorted Felix disdainfully. He made it enemy of a woman, and a man who was such a fool as to do that deserves to fall. "'You have an excellent opinion of our sex,' Mr. Roliston, said Maj, with a wicked glance at the wife of that gentleman, who was listening complacently to her husband's aimless chatter. "'No better than they deserve,' replied Roliston gallantly. "'But you have never gone in for politics, Mr. Fretelby.' "'Who? I? No,' said the host, rousing himself out of the brown study into which he had fallen. "'I'm afraid I'm not sufficiently patriotic, and my business did not permit me. And now?' "'Now,' echoed Mr. Fretelby, glancing at his daughter, I intend to travel. "'The jolliest thing out,' said Peterson eagerly. "'One never gets tired of seeing the queer things that are in the world.  "'Oh!' cried Julia, putting her hands up to his ears. "'Don't dare tell me them, for I'm sure they're naughty. "'We weren't saints then,' said old Valpy, with a senile chuckle. "'Ah, then we haven't changed much in that respect,' retorted Fretelby, dryly. "'You talk of your old theatres now,' went on Valpy, with the garrulousness of old age. "'Why, you haven't got a dancer like Rosanna.' Brian started on hearing this name again, and he felt Madge's cold hand touch his. "'And who is Rosanna?' asked Felix, curiously, looking up. "'A dancer in a burlesque atreus,' replied Valpy, vivaciously, nodding his old head. "'Such a beauty. We were all mad about her. Such hair and eyes. You remember her, Fretelby?' "'Yes,' answered the host, in a curiously dry voice. "'But before Mr. Valpy had the opportunity to wax more eloquent, Madge rose from the table, and the other ladies followed. The ever-polite Felix held the door open for them, and received a bright smile from his wife for what she considered his brilliant talk at the dinner table. Brian sat still and wondered why Fretelby changed color on hearing the name. He supposed that the millionaire had been mixed up with the actress, and did not care about being reminded of his early indiscretions. And after all, who does? She was as light as a fairy,' continued Valpy, with a wicked chuckle. "'What became of her?' asked Brian, abruptly. Mark Fretelby looked up suddenly, as Fitzgerald asked this question. "'She went to England in 1858,' said the aged one. "'I'm not quite sure if it was July or August, but it was 1858.' "'You will excuse me, Valpy, but I hardly think these reminiscences of a ballet dancer are amusing,' said Fretelby, certainly, pouring himself out a glass of wine. "'Let us change the subject.'" Notwithstanding the plainly expressed wish of his host, Brian felt strongly inclined to pursue the conversation. Politeness, however, forbads such a thing, and he consult himself with the reflection that, after dinner, he would ask old Valpy about the ballet dancer whose name caused Mark Fretelby to exhibit such strong emotion. But to his annoyance, when the gentleman went into the drawing-room, Fretelby took the old colonist off to his study, where he sat with him the whole evening, talking over old times. Fitzgerald found Madge seated at the piano in the drawing-room, playing one of Mendelssohn's songs without words. "'What a dismal thing that is you are playing, Madge,' he said lightly, as he sank into a seat beside her. It is more like a funeral march than anything else. "'God, so it is,' said Felix, who came up at this moment. "'I don't care myself about Op. 84 and all that classical humbug. Give me something like, Belle Helena, with Emile Melville, and all that sort of thing.' "'Felix,' said his wife, in a stern tone. "'My dear,' he answered recklessly, rendered bold by the champagne he had taken, you observed. Nothing particular,' answered Mrs. Rolaston, glancing at him with a stony eye, except that I consider Up-and-Buck low. "'I don't,' said Felix, sitting down to the piano, from which Madge had just risen, and to prove he ain't here goes. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and dashed into a brilliant Off-and-Buck gallop, which had the effect of waking up the people in the drawing-room, who felt sleepy after dinner, and sent the blood tingling through their veins. When they were thoroughly roused, Felix, now that he had an appreciative audience, for he was by no means an individual who believed in wasting his sweetness on the desert air, prepared to amuse them. "'You haven't heard the last new song by Frosty, have you?' he asked, after he had brought his gallop to a conclusion. Is that the composer of Inasmuch and How So?' asked Julia, clasping her hands? I do love his music, and the words are so sweetly pretty. Infernoly stupid, she means,' whispered Peterson to Brian, they've no more meaning in them than the titles. "'Sing us the new song, Felix,' commanded his wife, and her obedient husband obeyed her. It was entitled Somewhere, Words by Vashti, Music by Paola Frosty, and was one of those extraordinary compositions which may mean anything. That is, if the meaning can be discovered. Felix had a pleasant voice, though it was not very strong, and the music was pretty, while the words were mystical. The first first was as follows. A flying cloud, a breaking wave, a faint light in a moonless sky, a voice from the silent grave, sounds sad in one long bitter cry. I know not, sweet, where you may stand, with shining eyes and golden hair, yet I know I will touch your hand and kiss your lips somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, when the summer sun is fair, waiting on me on land or sea, somewhere, love, somewhere.' The second verse was very similar to the first, and when Felix finished a murmur of applause broke from every one of the ladies. How sweetly pretty, sighed Julia, such a lot in it. "'But what is its meaning?' asked Brian, rather bewildered. "'It hasn't got one,' replied Felix complacently. "'Surely you don't want every song to have a moral, like a book of Aesop's fables.' Brian shrugged his shoulders and turned away with Maj. "'I must say I agree with Fitzgerald,' said the doctor quickly. "'I like a song with some meaning in it. The poetry of the one you sang is as mystical as browning, without any of his genius to redeem it.' Philistine, murmured Felix under his breath, and then vacated his seat at the piano in favour of Julia, who was about to sing a ballad called Going Down the Hill, which had been the rage in Melbourne musical circles during the last two months. Meanwhile, Maj and Brian were walking up and down in the moonlight. It was an exquisite night, with a cloudless blue sky glittering with the stars, and a great yellow moon in the west. Maj seated herself on the side of the marble ledge which girdled the still pool of water in front of the house, and dipped her hand into the cool water. Brian leaned against the trunk of a great magnolia tree, whose glossy green leaves and great creamy blossoms looked fantastic in the moonlight. In front of them was the house, with the ruddy lamp light streaming through the wide windows, and they could see the guests within, excited by the music, waltzing to Rolliston's playing, and their dark figures kept passing and repassing the windows, while the charming music of the waltz mingled with their merry laughter. "'Looks like a haunted house,' said Brian, thinking of Poe's weird poem, but such a thing is impossible out here. "'I don't know so much about that,' said Maj gravely, lifting up some water in the palm of her hand, and letting it stream back like diamonds in the moonlight. I knew a house in St. Kilda which was haunted.' "'By what?' asked Brian skeptically. "'Noises,' she answered solemnly. Brian burst out laughing, and startled a bat, which flew round and round in the silver moonlight, and whirled away into the shelter of a witch-elm. "'Rats and mice are more common here than ghosts,' he said lightly. "'I'm afraid the inhabitants of your haunted house were fanciful. So you don't believe in ghosts?' "'There's a banshee in our family,' said Brian with a gay smile, who is supposed to cheer our deathbeds with her howlings. But as I've never seen the lady myself, I'm afraid she's a Mrs. Harris.' "'It's aristocratic to have a ghost in a family,' I believe,' said Maj. "'That is the reason we colonials have none.' "'Ah, but you will have,' he answered with a careless laugh. "'There are no doubt democratic as well as aristocratic ghosts. But, pshaw!' he went on impatiently. "'What nonsense I talk! There are no ghosts except of a man's own raising. The ghosts of a dead youth, the ghosts of past follies, the ghosts of what might have been—these are the specters which are more to be feared than those of the churchyard.' Maj looked at him in silence, for she understood the meaning of that passionate outburst, the secret which the dead woman had told him, and which hung like a shadow over his life. She arose quietly and took his arm. The light touch roused him, and a faint wind sent an eerie rustle through the still leaves of the magnolia as they walked back in silence to the house. CHAPTER XXIV. OF MYSTERY OF A HANDSOME CAB BY FERGUS HUME. Red for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Brian receives a letter. Notwithstanding the hospitable invitation of Mr. Freddleby, Brian refused to stay at Yabiyaluq that night, but after saying good-bye to Maj, mounted his horse and rolled slowly away in the moonlight. He felt very happy, and letting the rains lie loose on his horse's neck, he gave himself up unreservedly to his thoughts. Atra Kura certainly did not sit behind the horseman on this night, and Brian, to his surprise, found himself singing kitty of colorain as he rode along in the silver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the future seemed so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes, they would live on the ocean, and she would find how much pleasanter it was on the restless waters with their solemn sense of mystery than on the crowded land. Was not the sea made for the free land of courts and slaves alone? More was perfectly right. She would learn that when, with a fair wind and all sail set, they were flying over the blue Pacific waters. And then they would go home to Ireland, to the ancestral home of the Fitzgeralds, where he would lead her in under the arch with Cade Milfalcha on it, and everyone would bless the fair young bride. Why should he trouble himself about the crime of another? No, he had made a resolve, and intended to keep it. He would put this secret with which he had been entrusted behind his back, and would wander about the world with Maj. And her father. He felt a sudden chill come over him as he murmured the last words to himself. Her father. I'm a fool, he said impatiently, as he gathered up the rains and spurred his horse into a canter. It can make no difference to me so long as Maj remains ignorant, but to sit beside him, to eat with him, to have him always present like a skeleton at a feast. God help me! He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he rushed over the turf, with the fresh cool night wind blowing keenly against his face, he felt a sense of relief, as though he were leaving some dark spectre behind. On he galloped, with the blood throbbing in his young veins, over miles of plain, with the dark blue, star-studded sky above, and the pale moon shining down on him. Past a silent shepherd's hut, which stood near a wide creek, splashing through the cool water, which round through the dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight, then again the wide grassy plain, dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheep scurrying away like fantastic specters, on, on, ever on, until his own homestead appears, and he sees the star-like light shining brightly in the distance. A long avenue of tall trees over whose wavering shadows his horse thundered, and then the wide grassy space in front of the house, with the clamorous sparking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hooves up the avenue, comes round the side of the house, and Brian leaps off his horse, and flinging the reins to the man walks into his own room. There he finds a lighted lamp, brandy and soda on the table, and a packet of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa, and opened the window and door, so as to let in the cool breeze. Then, mixing for himself a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up the lamp and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up was from a lady. Always, a she-correspondent for me, says Isaac Disraeli, provided she does not cross. Brian's correspondence did not cross, but not withstanding this, after reading half a page of small talk and scandal, he flung the letter on the table with an impatient ejaculation. The other letters were principally business ones, but the last one proved to be from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a sensation of pleasure. Calton was a capital letter-writer, and his epistles had done much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which succeeded his acquittal of white's murder, when he was in danger of getting into a morbid state of mind.  "'My dear Fitzgerald,' wrote Calton in his peculiarly clear handwriting, which was such an exception to the usual crabbed hieroglyphics of his brethren of the bar, while you were enjoying the cool breezes and delightful freshness of the country, here am I, with numerous other poor devils, cooped up in this hot and dusty city. How I wish I were with you in the land of Goshen, by the rolling waters of the Murray, where everything is bright and green and unsophisticated. The two latter terms are almost identical, instead of which my view is bounded by bricks and mortar and the muddy waters of the Yara have to do duty for your noble river. Ah, too long I have lived in Arcadia, but I don't now, and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, I am not sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is a lotus-eating paradise of blissful ignorance, and I love the world with its pumps, vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, O Corridan, don't be afraid, I am not going to quote Virgil, our studying nature's book. I am deep in the musty leaves of Themis's volume. But I daresay that the Great Mother teaches you much better things than her artificial daughter does me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, when one is in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope. So being in the legal profession, I must respect its muse. I suppose when you saw that this letter came from a law office, you wondered what the doose a lawyer was writing to you for, and my handwriting no doubt suggested a writ. Pasha, I am wrong there, you are past the age of writs. Not that I hint that you are old, by no means. You are just at that appreciative age when a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by the experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy the utmost good things of this world. Vedicillate. Love. Wine. And friendship. I am afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid waste of the law. On reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as Prad's vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas and right sense. I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore entrusted with you. Ah, you see I know her name, and why? Simply because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find out who murdered all of her white, and as the Argus very cleverly pointed out, Rosanna Moore, as likely to be at the bottom of the whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of white's murder, and the reason for it, is known to you, but you refuse, even in the interest of justice, to reveal it. Why, I don't know.  After your departure from Melbourne, everyone said, the handsome cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer will never be discovered. I ventured to disagree with the Wise Acres who made such a remark, and asked myself, who was this woman who died at Mother Gutter's Nights? Receiving no satisfactory answer for myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at the trial, that White and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney on the John Elder about a year ago as Mr. and Mrs. White. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go through the formality of marriage, as such a time might have been found inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as coming from a city like London it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, find out the name and all about the woman who left England on the John Elder on the twenty-first day of August, eighteen, as wife of Oliver White. For Bieldic, too, he found out all about her, and knowing as you do what a maelstrom of humanity London is, you must admit my friend was clever. It appears, however, that the task I set him was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs. White was rather a notorious individual in her own way. She was a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and being a very handsome woman had been photographed in numerous times. Consequently, when she very foolishly went with White to choose a berth on board the boat, she was recognized by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of the Frivolity. Why she ran away with White, I cannot tell you. With reference to men understanding women, I refer you to Balzac's remark and at the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St. John's Wood and Champagne's uppers, and longed for the pure air of her native land. Ah! You open your eyes at this latter statement. You are surprised. No, on second thoughts you are not, because she told you herself that she was a native of Sydney and had gone home in 1858 after a triumphant career of acting in Melbourne. And why did she leave the applauding Melbourne public in the flesh pots of Egypt? You know this also. She ran away with a rich young squatter with more money than morals who happened to be in Melbourne at the time. She seems to have had a weakness for running away. But why she chose White to go with this time puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly good-looking, had no position and a bad temper. How do I know all these traits of Mr. White's character, morally and socially? Easily enough my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr. White was the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off retired into a private life, and ultimately went the way of all flesh. His son, finding himself with a capital income and a pretty taste for amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent, found out that his family had come over with a conqueror, Glanville de White helped to sow the bayou tapestry, I suppose, and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day he worshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess, pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran off with fortunate Mr. White. So far as this goes there is nothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the sake of the light of loves like Musette, unless indeed some wretched youth embezzles money to buy jewelry for his divinity. The career of Musette in London was simply that of a clever member of the Demi Monde, and as far as I can learn no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far so good. The motive of the crime must be found in Australia. White had spent nearly all his money in England, and consequently Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney with comparatively very little cash. However, with an Epicurean-like philosophy they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, and then came to Melbourne where they stayed at a second-rate hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common one, drink. She loved champagne and drank a good deal of it. Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne and not finding that a new generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph, I mean Musette, she drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel with Mr. White to view Melbourne by night. A familiar scene to her, no doubt. But it took her to Little Bork Street, I don't know. Perhaps she got lost. Perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days. At all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavory locality by Sal Rollins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal acted the part of the Good Samaritan, took her to the squalid end she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. White, who had missed her, found out where she was and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an incumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady's story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel. Still, he does not break off his connection with the dying woman, but one night is murdered in a handsome cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So from all appearances everything is ended. Not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer of this letter has a theory, a fanciful one, if you will, that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver White's death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed White, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind. If you do not, well, I shall find out without you. I have taken and still take a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice, so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain, sooner or later, to discover the secret which led to White's murder. If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps will come round to your view and let the matter drop. But if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver White need expect no mercy at my hands. So think over what I have said. If I do not hear from you within the next week, I shall regard your decision as final, and pursue the search myself. I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Freddleby and to her father. With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly, Duncan Calton. When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leading back in his chair, stared blankly into the dawning light outside. He arose after a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it quickly. Then, mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the marvellous breaking of the dawn. He stood staring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton's letter. I can do no more, he said bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house. There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all.  A soft wind arose and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east, then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire-worshipper. I accept the omen of the dawn, he cried, for her life and for mine. End of Chapter 24 Read by Cibella Denton.