BOURKE STREET is a more crowded thoroughfare than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres that it contains are in themselves sufficient for the gathering of a considerable crowd. It is a grimy crowd for the most part. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, waiting till some kind friend shall invite them to step inside. Further on a knot of horsey-looking men are to be seen standing under the Opera House verandah giving and taking odds about the Melbourne Cup, or some other meeting. Here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, "'Erald, third 'dition, one penny!" until the ear wearies of the constant repetition. Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here, a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club — there, a dingy-looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement, three violins and a harp are playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators. If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music. Their fondness for it is only equalled by their admiration for horse-racing. Any street band which plays at all decently, may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their performance. Some writer has described Melbourne, as Glasgow with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon. In spite of the dismal prognostications of Marcus Clarke regarding the future Australian, whom he describes as being "a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship," it is more likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarian principles. Climatic influence should be taken into account with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will no more resemble us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands of the Adriatic.

   This was the conclusion at which Mr. Calton arrived as, he followed his guide through the crowded streets, and saw with what deep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling melodies of Offenbach. The brilliantly-lit street, with the never-ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles, and the fitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character constantly passing before his eyes. But his guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the narrowness of the thoroughfare, with the high buildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas-lamps, and the few ragged-looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene they had just left. Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane. It was as hot as a furnace from the accumulated heat of the day. To look up at the clear starlit sky was to experience a sensation of delicious coolness.

   "Keep close to me," whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the arm; "we may meet some nasty customers about here."

   It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of haze so observable in Australian twilights, and this weird light was just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and the barrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring upon them unaware, and they could see sometimes on the one side, a man cowering back into the black shadow, or on the other, a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a breath of fresh air. There were also some children playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill young voices came echoing strangely through the gloom, mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song, sung by a man, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones. Now and then a mild-looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad in their dull-hued blue blouses, either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy on their yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm light through an open door, and within, the Mongolians were gathered round the gambling- tables, playing fan-tan, or leaving the seductions of their favourite pastime, to glide soft-footed to the many cook-shops, where enticing-looking fowls and turkeys already cooked were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip turning to the left, led the barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in such murky places.

   At last, to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow. Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark, ill-smelling passage. At the end a faint light glimmered. Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along the passage. There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just as they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete darkness.

   "Light that," cried the detective in a peremptory tone of voice. "What do you mean by dowsing the glim?"

   Thieves' argot was, evidently, well understood here, for there was a shuffle in the dark, a muttered voice, and someone lit a candle. Calton saw that the light was held by an elfish-looking child. Tangled masses of black hair hung over her scowling white face. As she crouched down on the floor against the damp wall she looked up defiantly yet fearfully at the detective.

   "Where's Mother Guttersnipe?" asked Kilsip, touching her with his foot.

   She seemed to resent the indignity, and rose quickly to her feet.

   "Upstairs," she replied, jerking her head in the direction of the right wall.

   Following her direction, Calton — his eyes now somewhat accustomed to the gloom — could discern a gaping black chasm, which he presumed was the stair alluded to.

   "Yer won't get much out of 'er to-night; she's a-going to start 'er booze, she is."

   "Never mind what she's doing or about to do," said Kilsip, sharply, "take me to her at once."

   The girl looked him sullenly up and down, then she led the way into the black chasm and up the stairs. They were so shaky as to make Calton fear they might give way. As they toiled slowly up the broken steps he held tightly to his companion's arm. At last they stopped at a door through the cracks of which a faint glimmer of light was to be seen. Here the girl gave a shrill whistle, and the door opened. Still preceded by their elfish guide, Calton and the detective stepped through the doorway. A curious scene was before them. A small square room, with a low roof, from which the paper mildewed and torn hung in shreds; on the left hand, at the far end, was a kind of low stretcher, upon which a woman, almost naked, lay, amid a heap of greasy clothes. She appeared to be ill, for she kept tossing her head from side to side restlessly, and every now and then sang snatches of song in a cracked voice. In the centre of the room was a rough deal table, upon which stood a guttering tallow candle, which but faintly illuminated the scene, and a half empty rectangular bottle of Schnapps, with a broken cup beside it. In front of these signs of festivity sat an old woman with a pack of cards spread out before her, and from which she had evidently been telling the fortune of a villainous- looking young man who had opened the door, and who stood looking at the detective with no very friendly expression of countenance. He wore a greasy brown velvet coat, much patched, and a black wide-awake hat, pulled down over his eyes. From his expression — so scowling and vindictive was it — the barrister judged his ultimate destiny to lie between Pentridge and the gallows.

   As they entered, the fortune-teller raised her head, and, shading her eyes with one skinny hand, looked curiously at the new comers. Calton thought he had never seen such a repulsive-looking old crone; and, in truth, her ugliness was, in its very grotesqueness well worthy the pencil of a Doré. Her face was seamed and lined with innumerable wrinkles, clearly defined by the dirt which was in them; bushy grey eyebrows, drawn frowningly over two piercing black eyes, whose light was undimmed by age; a hook nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and a thin-lipped mouth devoid of teeth. Her hair was very luxurious and almost white, and was tied up in a great bunch by a greasy bit of black ribbon. As to her chin, Calton, when he saw it wagging to and fro, involuntarily quoted Macbeth's lines —

"Ye should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That ye are so."

She was no bad representative of the weird sisters.

   As they entered she eyed them viciously, demanding,

   "What the blazes they wanted."

   "Want your booze," cried the child, with an elfish laugh, as she shook back her tangled hair.

   "Get out, you whelp," croaked the old hag, shaking one skinny fist at her, "or I'll tear yer 'eart out."

   "Yes, she can go," said Kilsip, nodding to the girl, "and you can clear, too," he added, sharply, turning to the young man, who stood still holding the door open.

   At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective's order, but ultimately obeyed him, muttering, as he went out, something about "the blooming cheek of showin' swells cove's cribs." The child followed him out, her exit being accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a rapidity only attained by long practice, seized the shoe from one of her feet, and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.

   "Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer," she shrieked, with a volley of oaths, "I'll break yer 'ead for ye!"

   Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanished through the shaky door, which she closed after her.

   When she had disappeared Mother Guttersnipe took a drink from the broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in a business-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with a suggestive leer.

   "It's the future ye want unveiled, dearie?" she croaked, rapidly shuffling the cards; "an' old mother 'ull tell ——"

   "No she won't," interrupted the detective, sharply. "I've come on business."

   The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her bushy eyebrows.

   "What 'av the boys been up to now?" she asked, harshly. "There ain't no swag 'ere this time."

   Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of "Barbara Allen" —

   "Shut up, cuss you!" yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, "or I'll knock yer bloomin' 'ead orf," and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.

   "The woman seems ill," said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the stretcher.

   "So she are," growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily. "She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin' 'ere an' singin' them beastly things, which makes my blood run cold. Just 'ear 'er," she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more —

   "Yah!" said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the cup. "She's allays a-talkin' of dyin' an' gallers, as if they were nice things to jawr about."

   "Who was that woman who died here three or four weeks ago?" asked Kilsip, sharply.

   "'Ow should I know?" retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly. "I didn't kill 'er, did I? It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin', cuss her."

   "Do you remember the night she died?"

   "No, I don't," answered the beldame, frankly. "I were drunk — blind, bloomin', blazin' drunk — s'elp me."

   "You're always drunk," said Kilsip.

   "What if I am?" snarled the woman, seizing her bottle. "You don't pay fur it. Yes, I'm drunk. I'm allays drunk. I was drunk last night, an' the night before, an' I'm a-goin' to git drunk to-night" — with an impressive look at the bottle — "an' to-morrow night, an' I'll keep it up till I'm rottin' in the grave."

   Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed malignity was her voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.

   "More fool you," he said, briefly. "Come now, on the night the 'Queen,' as you call her, died, there was a gentleman came to see her?"

   "So she said," retorted Mother Guttersnipe; "but, lor, I dunno anythin', I were drunk."

   "Who said — the 'Queen?'"

   "No, my gran'darter, Sal. The 'Queen,' sent 'er to fetch the toff to see 'er cut 'er lucky. Wanted 'im to look at 'is work, I s'pose, cuss 'im; and Sal prigged some paper from my box," she shrieked, indignantly; "prigged it w'en I were too drunk to stop 'er?"

   The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with a gratified expression on his face. They were right as to the paper having been stolen from the Villa at Toorak.

   "You did not see the gentleman who came?" said Kilsip, turning again to the old hag.

   "Not I, cuss you," she retorted, politely. "'E came about 'arf-past one in the morning, an' you don't expects we can stop up all night, do ye?"

   "Half-past one o'clock," repeated Calton, quickly. "The very time. Is this true?"

   "Wish I may die if it ain't," said Mother Guttersnipe, graciously. "My gran'darter Sal kin tell ye."

   "Where is she?" asked Kilsip, sharply.

   At this the old woman threw back her head, and howled dismay.

   "She's 'ooked it," she wailed, drumming on the ground with her feet. "Gon' an' left 'er pore old gran' an' joined the Army, cuss 'em, a- comin' round an' a-spilin' business."

   Here the woman on the bed broke out again —

   "'Old yer jawr," yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising, and making a dart at the bed. "I'll choke the life out ye, s'elp me. D'y want me to murder ye, singin' 'em funeral things?"

   Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.

   "The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was here between one and two o'clock," he said, quickly, "is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I'll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for her."

   "I hope you'll find her," answered Calton, drawing a long breath. "A man's life hangs on her evidence."

   They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some loose silver, which she seized on with an avaricious clutch.

   "You'll drink it, I suppose?" said the barrister, shrinking back from her.

   "Werry likely," retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose. "I'm a forting to the public-'ouse, I am, an' it's the on'y pleasure I 'ave in my life, cuss it."

   The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs, as they went down, so that they should not break their heads. As they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, "The Last Rose of Summer."

   The street door was open, and, after groping their way along the dark passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.

   "Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!"

   "At all events, our journey has not been wasted," said the detective, as they walked along. "We've found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was on the night of the murder, so he will be safe."

   "That depends upon Sal Rawlins," answered Calton, gravely; "but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience of low life."

THE next day Kilsip called at Calton's office late in the afternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him. The detective's face, however, looked rather dismal, and Calton was not reassured.

   "Well!" he said, impatiently, when Kilsip had closed the door and taken his seat. "Where is she?"

   "That's just what I want to know," answered the detective, coolly; "I went to the Salvation Army headquarters and made enquiries about her. It appears that she had been in the Army as a hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in a week, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney. She carried on her old life of dissipation, but, ultimately, her friend got sick of her, and the last thing they heard about her was that she had taken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums. I telegraphed at once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of the name of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said they would make enquiries, and let me know the result."

   "Ah! she has, no doubt, changed her name," said Calton, thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I wonder why?"

   "Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect," answered Kilsip, drily. "The straying lamb did not care about being hunted back to the fold."

   "And when did she join the Army?"

   "The very day after the murder."

   "Rather sudden conversion?"

   "Yes, but she said the death of the woman on Thursday night had so startled her, that she went straight off to the Army to get her religion properly fixed up."

   "The effects of fright, no doubt," said Calton, dryly. "I've met a good many examples of these sudden conversions, but they never last long as a rule — it's a case of 'the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,' more than anything else. Good- looking?"

   "So-so, I believe," replied Kilsip, shrugging his shoulders. "Very ignorant — could neither read nor write."

   "That accounts for her not asking for Fitzgerald when she called at the Club — she probably did not know whom she had been sent for. It will resolve itself into a question of identification, I expect. However, if the police can't find her, we will put an advertisement in the papers offering a reward, and send out handbills to the same effect. She must be found. Brian Fitzgerald's life hangs on a thread, and that thread is Sal Rawlins."

   "Yes!" assented Kilsip, rubbing his hands together. "Even if Mr. Fitzgerald acknowledges that he was at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night in question, she will have to prove that he was there, as no one else saw him."

   "Are you sure of that?"

   "As sure as anyone can be in such a case. It was a late hour when he came, and everyone seems to have been asleep except the dying woman and Sal; and as one is dead, the other is the only person that can prove that he was there at the time when the murder was being committed in the hansom."

   "And Mother Guttersnipe?"

   "Was drunk, as she acknowledged last night. She thought that if a gentleman did call it must have been the other one."

   "The other one?" repeated Calton, in a puzzled voice. "What other one?"

   "Oliver Whyte."

   Calton arose from his seat with a blank air of astonishment.

   "Oliver Whyte!" he said, as soon as he could find his voice. "Was he in the habit of going there?"

   Kilsip curled himself up in his seat like a sleek cat, and pushing forward his head till his nose looked like the beak of a bird of prey, looked keenly at Calton.

   "Look here, sir," he said, in his low, purring voice, "there's a good deal in this case which don't seem plain — in fact, the further we go into it, — the more mixed up it seems to get. I went to see Mother Guttersnipe this morning, and she told me that Whyte had visited the 'Queen' several times while she lay ill, and that he seemed to be pretty well acquainted with her."

   "But who the deuce is this woman they call the 'Queen'?" said Calton, irritably. "She seems to be at the bottom of the whole affair — every path we take leads to her."

   "I know hardly anything about her," replied Kilsip, "except that she was a good-looking woman, of about forty-nine — she come out from England to Sydney a few months ago, then on here — how she got to Mother Guttersnipe's I can't find out, though I've tried to pump that old woman, but she's as close as wax, and it's my belief she knows more about this dead woman than she chooses to tell."

   "But what could she have told Fitzgerald to make him act in this silly manner? A stranger who comes from England, and dies in a Melbourne slum, can't possibly know anything about Miss Frettlby."

   "Not unless Miss Frettlby was secretly married to Whyte," suggested Kilsip, "and the 'Queen' knew it."

   "Nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply. "Why, she hated him and loves Fitzgerald; besides, why on earth should she marry secretly, and make a confidant of a woman in one of the lowest parts of Melbourne? At one time her father wanted her to marry Whyte, but she made such strong opposition, that he eventually gave his consent to her engagement with Fitzgerald."

   "And Whyte?"

   "Oh, he had a row with Mr. Frettlby, and left the house in a rage. He was murdered the same night, for the sake of some papers he carried."

   "Oh, that's Gorby's idea," said Kilsip, scornfully, with a vicious snarl.

   "And it's mine too," answered Calton, firmly. "Whyte had some valuable papers, which he always carried about with him. The woman who died evidently told Fitzgerald that he did so; I gathered as much from an accidental admission he made."

   Kilsip looked puzzled.

   "I must confess that it is a riddle," he said at length; "but if Mr. Fitzgerald would only speak, it would clear everything up."

   "Speak about what — the man who murdered Whyte?"

   "Well, if he did not go quite so far as that he might at least supply the motive for the crime."

   "Perhaps so," answered Calton, as the detective rose to go; "but it's no use. Fitzgerald for some reason or another, has evidently made up his mind not to speak, so our only hope in saving him lies in finding this girl."

   "If she's anywhere in Australia you may be sure she'll be found," answered Kilsip, confidently, as he took his departure. "Australia isn't so over-crowded as all that."

   But if Sal Rawlins was in Australia at all she certainly must have been in some very remote part. All efforts to find her proved futile. It was an open question if she was alive or dead; she seemed to have vanished completely. She was last seen in a Sydney den with a Chinaman whom afterwards she appears to have left. Since then, nothing whatever was known of her. Notices offering large rewards for her discovery were inserted in all the newspapers, Australian and New Zealand; but nothing came of them. As she herself was unable to read there seemed little chance of her knowing of them; and, if, as Calton surmised she had changed her name, no one would be likely to tell her of them. There was only the bare chance that she might hear of them casually, or that she might turn up of her own accord. If she returned to Melbourne she would certainly go to her grandmother's. She had no motive for not doing so. So Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, much to Mrs. Rawlins' disgust, for, with true English pride, she objected to this system of espionage.

   "Cuss 'im," she croaked over her evening drink, to an old crone, as withered and evil-looking as herself, "why can't 'e stop in 'is own bloomin' 'ouse, an' leave mine alone — a-comin' round 'ere a-pokin' and pryin' and a-perwenting people from earnin' their livin' an' a-gittin' drunk when they ain't well."

   "What do 'e want?" asked her friend, rubbing her weak old knees.

   "Wants? — 'e wants 'is throat cut," said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously. "An' s'elp me I'll do for 'im some night w'en 'e's a watchin' round 'ere as if it were Pentridge — 'e can git what he can out of that whelp as ran away, but I knows suthin' 'e don't know, cuss 'im."

   She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having taken advantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the broken cup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by the hair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against the wall.

   "I'll have the perlice in at yer," whimpered the assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as her rheumatics would allow her. "See if I don't."

   "Get out," retorted Mother Guttersnipe, indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup. "You come a-falutin' round 'ere agin priggin' my drinks, cuss you, an' I'll cut yer throat an' wring yer wicked old 'ead orf."

   The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasant proposal, and tottered out as quickly as possible, leaving Mother Guttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.

   Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used every argument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he either maintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered,

   "It would only break her heart."

   He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that he had been at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night of the murder. After he had left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, as the cabman — Royston — had stated, he had gone along Russell Street, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel. She had taken him to Mother Guttersnipe's, where he had seen the dying woman, who had told him something he could not reveal.

   "Well," said Mr. Calton, after hearing the admission, "you might have saved us all this trouble by admitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it may be. Had you done so, we might have got hold of Sal Rawlins before she left Melbourne; but now it's a mere chance whether she turns up or not."

   Brian did not answer to this; in fact, he seemed hardly to be thinking of what the lawyer was saying; but just as Calton was leaving, he asked —

   "How is Madge?"

   "How can you expect her to be?" said Calton, turning angrily on him. "She is very ill, owing to the worry she has had over this affair."

   "My darling! My darling!" cried Brian, in agony, clasping his hands above his head. "I did it only to save you."

   Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

   "My dear fellow," he said, gravely, "the confidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as those between priest and penitent. You must tell me this secret which concerns Miss Frettlby so deeply."

   "No," said Brian, firmly, "I will never repeat what that wretched woman told me. When I would not tell you before, in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now, when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling it."

   "I will never ask you again," said Calton, rather annoyed, as he walked to the door. "And as to this accusation of murder, if I can find this girl, you are safe."

   When the lawyer left the gaol, he went to the Detective Office to see Kilsip, and ascertain if there was any news of Sal Rawlins; but, as usual, there was none.

   "It is fighting against Fate," he said, sadly, as he went away; "his life hangs on a mere chance."

   The trial was fixed to come off in September, and, of course, there was great excitement in Melbourne as the time drew near. Great, therefore, was the disappointment when it was discovered that the prisoner's counsel had applied for an adjournment of the trial till October, on the ground that an important witness for the defence could not be found.

IN spite of the utmost 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. Frettlby, the much-desired Sal Rawlins still remained hidden. The millionaire had maintained a most friendly attitude towards Brian throughout the whole affair. He refused to believe him guilty, and when Calton told him of the defence of proving an alibi by means of Sal Rawlins, he immediately offered a large reward, which was in itself enough to set every person with any time on their hands hunting for the missing witness.

   All Australia and New Zealand rang with the extremely plebeian name of Sal Rawlins, 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 "D.W.D." Whisky. She had become famous without knowing it, unless, indeed, she had kept herself concealed purposely, 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 Rawlins 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. Frettlby 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 look steadily, though her face was very pale; "I must be there. I shall go 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 recognise 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. Frettlby.

   "I'm 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'm not coming," answered Frettlby, 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 sympathise with him. Good-day;" and with a curt nod he took his leave. 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 merest 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'm afraid Brian Fitzgerald is a doomed man."

   Madge fell on her knees, with a stifled cry.

   "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 a 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 Frettlby, 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 Rolleston 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.

   "Puts me in mind of the Coliseum and all that sort of thing, you know," he said, putting up his eye-glass and starting round. "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 an overpowering curiosity.

   "Ah, yes," he said lightly; "exactly. I daresay 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 in jest or earnest. Just as she was about to reply to the effect that she thought it wicked to make the Bible a 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 a 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 Crown 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 stare round, 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 Crown Prosecutor. He was not a great orator, 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 mall 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 Whyte was drunk on the night of the murder, and went along Russell Street, in the direction of Collins Street; the cabman Royston could 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 Powlett Street in East Melbourne, where he got out; and he would call the prisoner's landlady to prove that the prisoner resided in Powlett 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 Whyte. 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.

   CALTON: Do you then recognise 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 height and general appearance of the prisoner are the same.

   CALTON: 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: It 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 that 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 (hesitating): Well, I might have had a glass.

   CALTON: So you might; you might have had several.

   WITNESS (sulkily): 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 worse 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 at 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 on Friday morning, and driven him to Powlett 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 Powlett 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 moustache and his chin, but he carried himself the same as the prisoner, and his moustache 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 defence 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. Hableton, the landlady of the deceased, was then called, and deposed that Oliver Whyte had lodged with her for nearly two months. He seemed a quiet 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 July, the prisoner called to see Mr. Whyte, and they had a quarrel. She heard Whyte 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. Sampson, 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: 'Avin made a mistake once, by saying five minutes after two to the policeman as called hisself a insurance agent, which 'e put the words into my mouth, I ain't a goin' to do so again, it bein' five minutes afore two, as I can swear to.

   CROWN PROSECUTOR: You are sure your clock was right?

   WITNESS: It 'adn't bin, but my nevy bein' a watchmaker, called unbeknown to me, an' made it right on Thursday night, which it was Friday mornin' when Mr. Fitzgerald came 'ome.

   Mrs. Sampson 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 Powlett 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 Powlett 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 Powlett Street.

   The next witness was Dr. Chinston, who swore to the death of the deceased 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 Moreland, an intimate friend of the deceased, was next called. 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 Bourke Street. Whyte came in, and was greatly excited. He was in evening dress, and wore a 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. Whyte took off his light coat, saying he felt warm, and went out shortly afterwards, leaving witness asleep in the bar. He was awakened by the barman, who wanted him to leave the hotel. He saw that Whyte had left his coat behind him, and took it up with the intention of giving it to him. As he stood in the street some one 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 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 favour 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 Whyte, whereas the prisoner never wore rings.

   These were slender proofs of innocence to put against the overwhelming mass of evidence in favour of the prisoner's guilt. The opinions of all were pretty well divided, some being in favour 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 Rawlins!"

AND, indeed, such was the case. Sal Rawlins 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 Madge, he had gone down to his office, when his clerk entered with a telegram. The lawyer opened it hastily, and, with a silent look of pleasure on his face, handed the telegram to Madge.

   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 Rawlins' 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 Rawlins lives. You will know all to-morrow, but, meanwhile, you must go home and get some sleep."

   "And you will tell him?" she whispered, clasping her hands on Calton's arm.

   "At once," he answered promptly. "And I will see Sal Rawlins to-night, 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 had died in silence than she should have bequeathed me this legacy of sorrow."

   And the gaoler, seeing his haggard face the next morning, muttered to himself, "He war blest if the swell warn't sorry he war safe."

   So, while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the weary watches of the night, Madge, 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. Rawlins, familiarly known as Mother Guttersnipe. 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 sell 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 was 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 grandmother's."

   "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 Guttersnipe'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 Guttersnipe was seated in front of the deal table, with a broken cup and her favourite 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.

   "Oh, ye've come again, 'ave ye," she screeched, raising her skinny arms, "to take my gal away from 'er pore old gran'mother, as nussed 'er, cuss her, when 'er own mother had gone a-gallivantin' with swells. I'll 'ave the lawr of ye both, s'elp 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."

   "'Bout the 'Queen,' sir?" said Sal, in a low, hoarse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton. "If I'd only known as you was a-wantin' me I'd 'ave come afore."

   "Where were you?" asked Calton, in a pitying tone.

   "Noo South Wales," answered the girl with a shiver. "The cove as I went with t' Sydney left me — yes, left me to die like a dog in the gutter."

   "Cuss 'im!" croaked the old woman in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.

   "I tooked up with a Chinerman," went on her granddaughter, wearily, "an' lived with 'im for a bit — it's orful, ain't it?" she said with a dreary laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer's face. "But Chinermen ain't bad; they treat a pore girl a dashed sight better nor a white cove does. They don't beat the life out of 'em with their fists, nor drag 'em about the floor by the 'air."

   "Cuss 'em!" croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily, "I'll tear their 'earts out."

   "I think I must have gone mad, I must," said Sal, pushing her tangled hair off her forehead, "for arter I left the Chiner cove, I went on walkin' and walkin' right into the bush, a-tryin' to cool my 'ead, for it felt on fire like. I went into a river an' got wet, an' then I took my 'at an' boots orf an' lay down on the grass, an' then the rain comed on, an' I walked to a 'ouse as was near, where they tooked me in. Oh, sich kind people," she sobbed, stretching out her hands, "that didn't badger me 'bout my soul, but gave me good food to eat. I gave 'em a wrong name. I was so 'fraid of that Army a-findin' me. Then I got ill, an' knowd nothin' for weeks. They said I was orf my chump. An' then I came back 'ere to see gran'."

   "Cuss ye," said the old woman, but in such a tender tons that it sounded like a blessing.

   "And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder?" asked Calton.

   Sal shook her head.

   "No, it were a long way in the country, and they never knowd anythin', 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 'e?" asked Sal, puzzled.

   "Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for to the Melbourne Club."

   "Oh, 'im?" said Sal, a sudden light breaking over her wan face. "I never knowd his name afore."

   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 'is 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 orfil ill, an' I sat beside 'er while gran' was asleep."

   "I was drunk," broke in gran', fiercely, "none of yer lies; I was blazin' drunk."

   "An' ses she to me, she ses," went on the girl, indifferent to her grandmother's interruption, "'Get me some paper an' a pencil, an' I'll write a note to 'im, I will.' So I goes an' gits 'er what she arsks fur out of gran's box."

   "Stole it, cuss ye," shrieked the old hag, shaking her fist.

   "Hold your tongue," said Kilsip, in a peremptory tone.

   Mother Guttersnipe 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, "an' then arsked me to take it to the Melbourne Club an' give it to 'im. Ses I, 'Who's 'im?' Ses she, 'It's on the letter; don't you arsk no questions an' you won't 'ear no lies, but give it to 'im at the Club, an' wait for 'im at the corner of Bourke Street and Russell Street.' So out I goes, and gives it to a cove at the Club, an' then 'e comes along, an' ses 'e, 'Take me to 'er,' and I tooked 'im."

   "And what like was the gentleman?"

   "Oh, werry good lookin'," said Sal. "Werry tall, with yeller 'air an' moustache. He 'ad party clothes on, an' a masher coat, an' a soft 'at."

   "That's Fitzgerald right enough," muttered Calton. "And what did he do when he came?"

   "He goes right up to 'er, and she ses, 'Are you 'e?' and 'e ses, 'I am.' Then ses she, 'Do you know what I'm a-goin' to tell you?' an' 'e says, 'No.' Then she ses, 'It's about 'er;' and ses 'e, lookin' very white, ''Ow dare you 'ave 'er name on your vile lips?' an' she gits up an' screeches, 'Turn that gal out, an' I'll tell you;' an' 'e takes me by the arm, an' ses 'e, ''Ere git out,' an' I gits out, an' that's all I knows."

   "And how long was he with her?" asked Calton, who had been listening attentively.

   "'Bout arf-a-hour," answered Sal. "I takes 'im back to Russell Street 'bout twenty-five minutes to two, 'cause I looked at the clock on the Post Office, an' 'e gives me a sov., an' then he goes a-tearin' up the street like anything."

   "Take him about twenty minutes to walk to East Melbourne," said Calton to himself "So he must just have got in at the time Mrs. Sampson 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, "an' 'e couldn't 'ave got out unless I'd seen 'im."

   "Oh, it's all right," said Calton, nodding to Kilsip, "there won't be any difficulty in proving an alibi. But I say," he added, turning to Sal, "what were they talking about?"

   "I dunno," answered Sal. "I was at the door, an' they talks that quiet I couldn't 'ear 'em. Then he sings out, 'My G—, it's too horrible!' an' I 'ear 'er a larfin' like to bust, an' then 'e comes to me, and ses, quite wild like, 'Take me out of this 'ell!' an' I tooked 'im."

   "And when you came back?"

   "She was dead."

   "Dead?"

   "As a blessed door-nail," said Sal, cheerfully.

   "An' I never knowd I was in the room with a corpse," wailed Mother Guttersnipe, waking up. "Cuss 'er, she was allays a-doin' contrary things."

   "How do you know?" said Calton, sharply, as he rose to go.

   "I knowd 'er longer nor you," croaked the old woman, fixing one evil eye on the lawyer; "an' I know what you'd like to know; but ye shan't, ye shan't."

   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."

   "It's all true, s'elp me," said Sal, eagerly; "'e was 'ere all the time."

   Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, when Mother Guttersnipe rose.

   "Where's the money for finin' 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."

   "An' I'm to be done out of my 'ard earned tin, s'elp me?" howled the old fury. "Cuss ye, I'll 'ave the lawr of ye, and get ye put in quod."

   "You'll go there yourself if you don't take care," said Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones.

   "Yah!" shrieked Mother Guttersnipe, snapping her fingers at him. "What do I care about yer quod? Ain't I bin in Pentrig', an' it ain't 'urt me, it ain't? 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 and 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 Carmagnole." Mother Guttersnipe 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 hoarse voice, Mother Guttersnipe sank exhausted on the floor, and yelled for gin.

NEXT morning the Court was crowded, and numbers were unable to gain admission. The news that Sal Rawlins, 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 sympathising 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 Rawlins had turned the great tide of public feeling in favour of the prisoner, and many who had been loudest in their denunciations of Fitzgerald, were now more than half convinced of his innocence. Pious clergymen 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 Rolleston awoke, and found himself famous in a small way. Out of good-natured sympathy, and a spice 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 every one else in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolleston 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 Strephon in "Iolanthe," should go into Parliament, and with her money and his brains she might some day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolleston 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.

   "Knew he was innocent, don't you know," he said, with a complacent smile. "Fitzgerald's too jolly good-looking a fellow, and all that sort of thing, to commit murder."

   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 Iscariot and Nero were beauty-men.

   "Ah," said Calton, when he heard the sermon, "if this unique theory is a true one, what a truly 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 different 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, keenly, "and the man who did so is the murderer of Whyte."

   The judge having entered, and the Court being opened, Calton rose to make his speech, and stated in a few words the line of defence 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 Rolleston, a friend of the prisoner's, 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 Rawlins, and that the prisoner left the Club shortly before one o'clock on Friday morning. He would also call Sarah Rawlins, 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 conducted the prisoner to a slum off Little Bourke 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 defence to the charge brought against the prisoner, he would call Albert Dendy.

   Albert Dendy, duly sworn, stated —

   I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I remember Thursday, the 26th of July last. On the evening of that day I called at Powlett Street East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who is 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: Then she was still under the impression that it was ten minutes fast?

   WITNESS: Yes, I suppose so

   After Dendy had been cross-examined, Felix Rolleston was called, and deposed as follows:—

   I am an intimate friend of the prisoner. I have known him for five or six years, and I never saw him wearing a ring during that time. He has frequently told me 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 Rawlins was then placed in the witness-box, and, after having been sworn, deposed —

   I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter, addressed to him at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve o'clock on Thursday, 26th July. I did not know what his name was. He met me shortly after one, at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, where I had been told to wait for him. I took him to my grandmother's place, in a lane off Little Bourke 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 Bourke and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quarters 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 certin', s'elp me G—.

   CROWN PROSECUTOR: And he met you a few minutes past one o'clock?

   WITNESS: Yes, 'bout five minutes — I 'eard the clock a-strikin' one just afore he came down the street, and when I leaves 'im agin, it were about twenty-five to two, 'cause it took me ten minits to git 'ome, and I 'eard the clock go three-quarters, jest as I gits to the door.

   CROWN PROSECUTOR: How do you know it was exactly twenty-five to two when you left him?

   WITNESS: 'Cause I sawr the clocks — I left 'im at the, corner of Russell Street, and comes down Bourke Street, so I could see the Post Orffice clock as plain as day, an' when I gets into Swanston Street, I looks at the Town 'All premiscus 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, an' I was a-sittin' outside it, an' 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, 26th 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 defence, 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 defence. Not a single point escaped him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is still remembered and spoken of admiringly in the purlieus of Temple Court and Chancery 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 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 cabman, 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. At all events, 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 Whyte, 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 the 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 cabman, Royston, swore positively that the man who got out of his cab on the St. Kilda Road wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand, and the cabman, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who got out at Powlett 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 cabman Rankin had also sworn that the man who entered his cab on the St. Kilda Road alighted at Powlett 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 entered the house five minutes previously, and her evidence was further supported by that of the watchmaker, Dendy. Mrs. Sampson saw the hand of her 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, Dendy, 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 Powlett Street.

   These points in themselves were sufficient to show that the prisoner was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Rawlins 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 Rawlins 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 Rawlins swore that the prisoner met her at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, and had gone with her to one of the back slums, there to see the writer 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 Rawlins further proved that she left the prisoner at the corner of Bourke 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 Rawlins 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 Bourke 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 Hableton, 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 defence which the prisoner set up was that of an alibi, and the evidence of the witnesses for the defence 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 favour 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 lion and panther 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 on-looker. Suddenly, a woman, whose nerves were over-strung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence, every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury would re-issue 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 a silvery ring which startled everyone. Madge, 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 foreman 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 red in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court — his voice being inaudible, it 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 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 Hansom 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 Whyte, and had it not been for the timely appearance of the woman Rawlins who turned 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 unwearied 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 favour of the accused would have been sufficient to persuade the jury that he was an innocent man. The only points in favour of Mr. Fitzgerald were the inability of the cabman Royston to swear to him as the man who had got into the cab with Whyte, 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 cabman 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 Rawlins 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 Bourke 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. Calton, for the able speech he made for the defence, and also Mr. Fitzgerald, for his providential escape from a dishonourable 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 every one's mind, 'Who is the murderer of Oliver Whyte?' 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 for ever, from the time he alighted from Rankin's cab, at Powlett 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 blind-folded, 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 Whyte 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 a 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 Quincy'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 as 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 only 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 Whyte 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 Whyte as his 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. Rawlins' humble abode. Whyte 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 Whyte 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 Rawlins, 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. Whyte, 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 soon be 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 hansom cab tragedy will have to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes, and the assassin of Whyte will have no other punishment than that of the remorse of his own conscience."

A HOT December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazing down on the earth, clothed in all the beauty of summer garments. Such a description of snowy December sounds perchance 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 contrariety, 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 Phœnix, 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 wintry blasts; 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 may be in her dealings, the English race out in this great continent are much the same as in the old country — John Bull, Paddy, 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 revellers 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 Celt repairs to the doors of his "freends" with a bottle of whisky and a cheering verse of Auld Lang Syne.

   Still it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy; 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 light and airy 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 verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazing sun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, hanging 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-coloured 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 flashed like a mirror in the blinding light.

   The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long low house, with no upper-storey, and with a wide verandah 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. Frettlby'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 Whyte, she had been taken by her father up to the station, in the hope that 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 Whyte'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 Isis 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 realise the hard bitter fact of life in all its nakedness.

   Madge felt something of all this. She saw the world now, not as the fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful vale of tears through which we must all walk till we reach the "Promised Land."

   And Brian, he also had undergone a change, for there were a few white hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character, from being gay and bright, had become moody and irritable. 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 Frettlbys'. There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking ever the secret which the dead woman had told him, and which threatened to overshadow his life. Every now and then he rode 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 Yabba Yallook 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 Mr. Frettlby 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.

   Felix Rolleston, who a month since had joined the noble army of benedicts, was there with Mrs. Rolleston, née Miss 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. Frettlby. 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. Frettlby's heart in an undaunted manner.

   Dr. Chinston had come up for a little relaxation, and gave never a thought to his anxious patients or the many sick-rooms he was in the habit of visiting. A young English fellow, called Peterson, who amused himself by travelling; an old colonist, full of reminiscences of the old days, when, "by gad, sir, we hadn't a gas lamp in the whole of Melbourne," and several other people, completed the party. They had all gone off to the billiard-room, and left Madge in her comfortable chair, half-asleep.

   Suddenly she started, as she heard a step behind her, and turning, saw Sal Rawlins, 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. Frettlby 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 Guttersnipe objected at first, characterising the whole affair as "cussed 'umbug," but she, likewise, gave in, and Sal became maid to Miss Frettlby, 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, gaily. "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 a 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."

   Sal 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 grey 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, an' have a right to know. I will tell you all I know."

   "Then," 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' an' me found her one evenin' in Little Bourke Street," answered Sal, "just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, an' we took her home with us."

   "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!"

   "Anyone 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 came back she was huggin' and kissin' the woman."

   "She recognised her."

   "Yes, I s'pose so," replied Sal, "an' next mornin', when the lady got square, she made a grab at Gran', an' hollered out, 'I was comin' to see you.'"

   "And then?"

   "Gran' chucked me out of the room, an' they had a long jaw; and then, when I come back, Gran' tells me the lady is a-goin' to stay with us 'cause she was ill, and sent me for Mr. Whyte."

   "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 warn't no good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the mornin' she saw Mr. Fitzgerald."

   "I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?"

   "Lots," returned Sal; "but he always turned Gran' an' me out of the room afore he started."

   "And" — hesitating — "did you ever overhear one of these 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, an' she wouldn't. She said she'd die first; but at last he got 'em, and took 'em away with him."

   "Did you see them?" asked Madge, as the assertion of Gorby that Whyte had been murdered for certain papers flashed across her mind.

   "Rather," said Sal, "I was looking through a hole in the door, an' she takes 'em from under her piller, an' 'e takes 'em to the table, where the candle was, an' looks at 'em — they were in a large blue envelop, with writing on it in red ink — then he put 'em in his pocket, and she sings out: 'You'll lose 'em,' an' 'e says: 'No, I'll always 'ave 'em with me, an' if 'e wants 'em 'e'll have to kill me fust afore 'e gits 'em.'"

   "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 Whyte got the papers?"

   "About a week before he was murdered," said Sal, after a moment's thought. "An' after that he never turned up again. She kept watchin' for him night an' day, an' 'cause he didn't come, got mad at him. I hear her sayin', 'You think you've done with me, my gentleman, an' leaves me here to die, but I'll spoil your little game,' an' then she wrote that letter to Mr. Fitzgerald, an' 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, 'cause I thought the lawyer would be down on me for listening. The first thing I heard Mr. Fitzgerald sayin' was, 'You're mad — it ain't true,' an' she ses, 'S'elp me it is, Whyte's got the proof,' an' then he sings out, 'My poor girl,' and she ses, 'Will you marry her now?' and ses he, 'I will, I love her more than ever;' and then she makes a grab at him, and says, 'Spile his game if you can,' and says he, 'What's yer 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 Miss Frettlby 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 enquiring look at Brian, turned and walked slowly into the house.