AFTER Sal had gone, Brian sank into a chair beside Madge with a weary sigh. He was in riding dress, which became his stalwart figure well, and he looked remarkably handsome but ill and worried.

   "What on earth were you questioning that girl about?" he said abruptly, taking his hat off, and tossing it and his gloves on to the floor.

   Madge flushed crimson for a moment, and then taking Brian's two strong hands in her own, looked steadily into his frowning face.

   "Why don't you trust me?" she asked, in a quiet tone.

   "It is not necessary that I should," he answered moodily. "The secret that Rosanna Moore told me on her death-bed is nothing that would benefit you to know."

   "Is it about me?" she persisted.

   "It is, and it is not," he answered, epigrammatically.

   "I suppose that means that it is about a third person, and concerns me," she said calmly, releasing his hands.

   "Well, yes," impatiently striking his boot with his riding whip. "But it is nothing that can harm you so long as you do not know it; but God help you should anyone tell it to you, for it would embitter your life."

   "My life being so very sweet now," answered Madge, with a slight sneer. "You are trying to put out a fire by pouring oil on it, and what you say only makes me more determined to learn what it is."

   "Madge, I implore you not to persist in this foolish curiosity," he said, almost fiercely, "it will bring you only misery."

   "If it concerns me I have a right to know it," she answered curtly. "When I marry you how can we be happy together, with the shadow of a secret between us?"

   Brian rose, and leaned against the verandah post with a dark frown on his face.

   "Do you remember that verse of Browning's," he said, coolly —

Singularly applicable to our present conversation, I think."

   "Ah," she said, her pale face flushing with anger, "you want me to live in a fool's paradise, which may end at any moment."

   "That depends upon yourself," he answered coldly. "I never roused your curiosity by telling you that there was a secret, but betrayed it inadvertently to Calton's cross-questioning. I tell you candidly that I did learn something from Rosanna Moore, and it concerns you, though only indirectly through a third person. But it would do no good to reveal it, and would ruin both our lives."

   She did not answer, but looked straight before her into the glowing sunshine.

   Brian fell on his knees beside her, and stretched out his hands with an entreating gesture.

   "Oh, my darling," he cried sadly, "cannot you trust me? The love which has stood such a test as yours cannot fail like this. Let me bear the misery of knowing it alone, without blighting your young life with the knowledge of it. I would tell you if I could, but, God help me, I cannot — I cannot," and he buried his face in his hands.

   Madge closed her mouth firmly, and touched his comely head with her cool, white fingers. There was a struggle going on in her breast between her feminine curiosity and her love for the man at her feet — the latter conquered, and she bowed her head over his.

   "Brian," she whispered softly, "let it be as you wish. I will never again try to learn this secret, since you do not desire it."

   He arose to his feet, and caught her in his strong arms, with a glad smile.

   "My dearest," he said, kissing her passionately, and then for a few moments neither of them spoke. "We will begin a new life," he said, at length. "We will put the sad past away from us, and think of it only as a dream."

   "But this secret will still fret you," she murmured.

   "It will wear away with time and with change of scene," he answered sadly.

   "Change of scene!" she repeated in a startled tone. "Are you going away?"

   "Yes; I have sold my station, and intend leaving Australia for ever during the next three months."

   "And where are you going?" asked the girl, rather bewildered.

   "Anywhere," he said a little bitterly. "I am going to follow the example of Cain, and be a wanderer on the face of the earth!"

   "Alone!"

   "That is what I have come to see you about," said Brian, looking steadily at her. "I have come to ask you if you will marry me at once, and we will leave Australia together."

   She hesitated.

   "I know it is asking a great deal," he said, hurriedly, "to leave your friends, your position, and" — with hesitation — "your father; but think of my life without you — think how lonely I shall be, wandering round the world by myself; but you will not desert me now I have so much need of you — you will come with me and be my good angel in the future as you have been in the past?"

   She put her hand on his arm, and looking at him with her clear, grey eyes, said — "Yes!"

   "Thank God for that," said Brian, reverently, and there was again a silence.

   Then they sat down and talked about their plans, and built castles in the air, after the fashion of lovers.

   "I wonder what papa will say?" observed Madge, idly twisting her engagement ring round and round.

   Brian frowned, and a dark look passed over his face.

   "I suppose I must speak to him about it?" he said at length, reluctantly.

   "Yes, of course!" she replied, lightly. "It is merely a formality; still, one that must be observed."

   "And where is Mr. Frettlby?" asked Fitzgerald, rising.

   "In the billiard-room," she answered, as she followed his example. "No!" she continued, as she saw her father step on to the verandah. "Here he is."

   Brian had not seen Mark Frettlby for some time, and was astonished at the change which had taken place in his appearance. Formerly, he had been as straight as an arrow, with a stern, fresh-coloured face; but now he had a slight stoop, and his face looked old and withered. His thick, black hair was streaked here and there with white. His eyes alone were unchanged. They were as keen and bright as ever. Brian knew full well how he himself had altered. He knew, too, that Madge was not the same, and now he could not but wonder whether the great change that was apparent in her father was attributable to the same source — to the murder of Oliver Whyte.

   Sad and thoughtful as Mr. Frettlby looked, as he came along, a smile broke over his face as he caught sight of his, daughter.

   "My dear Fitzgerald," he said, holding out his hand, "this is indeed a surprise! When did you come over?"

   "About half-an-hour ago," replied Brian, reluctantly, taking the extended hand of the millionaire. "I came to see Madge, and have a talk with you."

   "Ah! that's right," said the other, putting his arm round his daughter's waist. "So that's what has brought the roses to your face, young lady?" he went on, pinching her cheek playfully. "You will stay to dinner, of course, Fitzgerald?"

   "Thank you, no!" answered Brian, hastily, "my dress ——"

   "Nonsense," interrupted Frettlby, hospitably; "we are not in Melbourne, and I am sure Madge will excuse your dress. You must stay."

   "Yes, do," said Madge, in a beseeching tone, touching his hand lightly. "I don't see so much of you that I can let you off with half-an-hour's conversation."

   Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.

   "Very well," he said in a low voice; "I shall stay."

   "And now," said Frettlby, in a brisk tone, as he sat down; "the important question of dinner being settled, what is it you want to see me about? — Your station?"

   "No," answered Brian, leaning against the verandah post, while Madge slipped her hand through his arm. "I have sold it."

   "Sold it!" echoed Frettlby, aghast. "What for?"

   "I felt restless, and wanted a change."

   "Ah! a rolling stone," said the millionaire, shaking his head, "gathers no moss, you know."

   "Stones don't roll of their own accord," replied Brian, in a gloomy tone. "They are impelled by a force over which they have no control."

   "Oh, indeed!" said the millionaire, in a joking tone. "And may I ask what is your propelling force?"

   Brian looked at the man's face with such a steady gaze that the latter's eyes dropped after an uneasy attempt to return it.

   "Well," he said impatiently, looking at the two tall young people standing before him, "what do you want to see me about?"

   "Madge has agreed to marry me at once, and I want your consent."

   "Impossible!" said Frettlby, curtly.

   "There is no such a word as impossible," retorted Brian, coolly, thinking of the famous remark in Richelieu, "Why should you refuse? I am rich now."

   "Pshaw!" said Frettlby, rising impatiently. "It's not money I'm thinking about — I've got enough for both of you; but I cannot live without Madge."

   "Then come with us," said his daughter, kissing him.

   Her lover, however, did not second the invitation, but stood moodily twisting his tawny moustache, and staring out into the garden in an absent sort of manner.

   "What do you say, Fitzgerald?" said Frettlby, who was eyeing him keenly.

   "Oh, delighted, of course," answered Brian, confusedly.

   "In that case," returned the other, coolly, "I will tell you what we will do. I have bought a steam yacht, and she will be ready for sea about the end of January. You will marry my daughter at once, and go round New Zealand for your honeymoon. When you return, if I feel inclined, and you two turtle-doves don't object, I will join you, and we will make a tour of the world."

   "Oh, how delightful," cried Madge, clasping her hands. "I am so fond of the ocean — with a companion, of course," she added, with a saucy glance at her lover.

   Brian's face had brightened considerably, for he was a born sailor, and a pleasant yachting voyage in the blue waters of the Pacific, with Madge as his companion, was, to his mind, as near Paradise as any mortal could get.

   "And what is the name of the yacht?" he asked, with deep interest.

   "Her name?" repeated Mr. Frettlby, hastily. "Oh, a very ugly name, and one which I intend to change. At present she is called the 'Rosanna.'"

   "Rosanna!"

   Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the former stared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidence between the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in the Melbourne slum.

   Mr. Frettlby flushed a little when he saw Brian's eye fixed on him with such an enquiring gaze, and rose with an embarrassed laugh.

   "You are a pair of moon-struck lovers," he said, gaily, taking an arm of each, and leading them into the house "but you forget dinner will soon be ready."

MOORE, sweetest of bards, sings —

But he made this assertion in his callow days, before he had learned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth, love's young dream is, no doubt, very charming, lovers, as a rule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world, and drunk deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. "A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy." So said Talleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art of love — Brillat Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, I warrant you, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four the hour when, seated at an artistically-laid table, with delicately- cooked viands, good wines, and pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a delightful sense of absolute enjoyment? Dinner with the English people is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred rite. But there are men — alas! few and far between — who possess the rare art of giving good dinners — good in the sense of sociality as well as in that of cookery.

   Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals — he had an innate genius for getting pleasant people together — people, who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of a pink-shaded lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation.

   On one side of the dining-room were the French windows opening on to the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the dazzling colours of the flowers, somewhat tempered by the soft hazy glow of the twilight.

   Brian had made himself as respectable as possible under the odd circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge, contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter which was going on around him.

   Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the more so as Mrs. Rolleston was at the further end of the table, hidden from his view.

   Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him so persistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumb devil.

   Dr. Chinston and Peterson were seated on the other side of the table, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post of honour, on Mr. Frettlby's right hand.

   The conversation had turned on to the subject, ever green and fascinating, of politics, and Mr. Rolleston thought it a good opportunity to air his views as to the Government of the Colony, and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish, and become a power in the political world.

   "By Jove, you know," he said, with a wave of his hand, as though he were addressing the House; "the country is going to the dogs, and all that sort of thing. What we want is a man like Beaconsfield."

   "Ah! but you can't pick up a man like that every day," said Frettlby, who was listening with an amused smile to Rolleston's disquisitions.

   "Rather a good thing, too," observed Dr. Chinston, dryly. "Genius would become too common."

   "Well, when I am elected," said Felix, who had his own views, which modesty forbade him to publish, on the subject of the coming colonial Disraeli, "I probably shall form a party."

   "To advocate what?" asked Peterson, curiously.

   "Oh, well, you see," hesitated Felix, "I haven't drawn up a programme yet, so can't say at present."

   "Yes, you can hardly give a performance without a programme," said the doctor, taking a sip of wine, and then everybody laughed.

   "And on what are your political opinions founded?" asked Mr. Frettlby, absently, without looking at Felix.

   "Oh, you see, I've read the Parliamentary reports and Constitutional history, and — and Vivian Grey," said Felix, who began to feel himself somewhat at sea.

   "The last of which is what the author called it, a lusus naturæ," observed Chinston. "Don't erect your political schemes on such bubble foundations as are in that novel, for you won't find a Marquis Carabas out here."

   "Unfortunately, no!" observed Felix, mournfully; "but we may find a Vivian Grey."

   Every one smothered a smile, the allusion was so patent.

   "Well, he didn't succeed in the end," cried Peterson.

   "Of course he didn't," retorted Felix, disdainfully; "he made an enemy of a woman, and a man who is such a fool as to do that deserves to fall."

   "You have an excellent opinion of our sex, Mr. Rolleston," said Madge, with a wicked glance at the wife of that gentleman, who was listening complacently to her husband's aimless chatter.

   "No better than they deserve," replied Rolleston, gallantly.

   "But you have never gone in for politics, Mr. Frettlby?"

   "Who? — I — no," said the host, rousing himself out of the brown study into which he had fallen. "I'm afraid I'm not sufficiently patriotic, and my business did not permit me."

   "And now?"

   "Now," echoed Mr. Frettlby, glancing at his daughter, "I intend to travel."

   "The jolliest thing out," said Peterson, eagerly. "One never gets tired of seeing the queer things that are in the world."

   "I've seen queer enough things in Melbourne in the early days," said the old colonist, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

   "Oh!" cried Julia, putting her hands up to her ears, "don't tell me them, for I'm sure they're naughty."

   "We weren't saints then," said old Valpy, with a senile chuckle.

   "Ah, then, we haven't changed much in that respect," retorted Frettlby, drily.

   "You talk of your theatres now," went on Valpy, with the garrulousness of old age; "why, you haven't got a dancer like Rosanna."

   Brian started on hearing this name again, and he felt Madge's cold hand touch his.

   "And who was Rosanna?" asked Felix, curiously, looking up.

   "A dancer and burlesque actress," replied Valpy, vivaciously, nodding his old head. "Such a beauty; we were all mad about her — such hair and eyes. You remember her, Frettlby?"

   "Yes," answered the host, in a curiously dry voice.

   But before Mr. Valpy had the opportunity to wax more eloquent, Madge rose from the table, and the other ladies followed. The ever polite Felix held the door open for them, and received a bright smile from his wife for, what she considered, his brilliant talk at the dinner table.

   Brian sat still, and wondered why Frettlby changed colour on hearing the name — he supposed that the millionaire had been mixed up with the actress, and did not care about being reminded of his early indiscretions — and, after all, who does?

   "She was as light as a fairy," continued Valpy, with wicked chuckle.

   "What became of her?" asked Brian, abruptly.

   Mark Frettlby looked up suddenly, as Fitzgerald asked this question.

   "She went to England in 1858," said the aged one. "I'm not quite sure if it was July or August, but it was in 1858."

   "You will excuse me, Valpy, but I hardly think that these reminiscences of a ballet-dancer are amusing," said Frettlby, curtly, pouring himself out a glass of wine. "Let us change the subject."

   Notwithstanding the plainly-expressed wish of his host Brian felt strongly inclined to pursue the conversation. Politeness, however, forbade such a thing, and he consoled himself with the reflection that, after dinner, he would ask old Valpy about the ballet-dancer whose name caused Mark Frettlby to exhibit such strong emotion. But, to his annoyance, when the gentlemen went into the drawing-room, Frettlby took the old colonist off to his study, where he sat with him the whole evening talking over old times.

   Fitzgerald found Madge seated at the piano in the drawing-room playing one of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words.

   "What a dismal thing that is you are playing, Madge," he said lightly, as he sank into a seat beside her. "It is more like a funeral march than anything else."

   "Gad, so it is," said Felix, who came up at this moment. "I don't care myself about 'Op. 84' and all that classical humbug. Give me something light — 'Belle Helene,' with Emelie Melville, and all that sort of thing."

   "Felix!" said his wife, in a stern tone.

   "My dear," he answered recklessly, rendered bold by the champagne he had taken, "you observed ——"

   "Nothing particular," answered Mrs. Rolleston, glancing at him with a stony eye, "except that I consider Offenbach low."

   "I don't," said Felix, sitting down to the piano, from which Madge had just risen, "and to prove he ain't, here goes."

   He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and dashed into a brilliant Offenbach galop, which had the effect of waking up the people in the drawing-room, who felt sleepy after dinner, and sent the blood tingling through their veins. When they were thoroughly roused, Felix, now that he had an appreciative audience, for he was by no means an individual who believed in wasting his sweetness on the desert air, prepared to amuse them.

   "You haven't heard the last new song by Frosti, have you?" he asked, after he had brought his galop to a conclusion.

   "Is that the composer of 'Inasmuch' and 'How so?'" asked Julia, clasping her hands. "I do love his music, and the words are so sweetly pretty."

   "Infernally stupid, she means," whispered Peterson to Brian. "They've no more meaning in them than the titles."

   "Sing us the new song, Felix," commanded his wife, and her obedient husband obeyed her.

   It was entitled, "Somewhere," words by Vashti, music by Paola Frosti, and was one of those extraordinary compositions which may mean anything — that is, if the meaning can be discovered. Felix had a pleasant voice, though it was not very strong, and the music was pretty, while the words were mystical. The first verse was as follows:—

   The second verse was very similar to the first, and when Felix finished a murmur of applause broke from every one of the ladies.

   "How sweetly pretty," sighed Julia. "Such a lot in it."

   "But what is its meaning?" asked Brian, rather bewildered.

   "It hasn't got one," replied Felix, complacently. "Surely you don't want every song to have a moral, like a book of Æsop's Fables?"

   Brian shrugged his shoulders, and turned away with Madge.

   "I must say I agree with Fitzgerald," said the doctor, quickly. "I like as song with some meaning in it. The poetry of the one you sang is as mystical as Browning, without any of his genius to redeem it."

   "Philistine," murmured Felix, under his breath, and then vacated his seat at the piano in favour of Julia, who was about to sing a ballad called, "Going Down the Hill," which had been the rage in Melbourne musical circles during the last two months.

   Meanwhile Madge and Brian were walking up and down in the moonlight. It was an exquisite night, with a cloudless blue sky glittering with the stars, and a great yellow moon in the west. Madge seated herself on the side of the marble ledge which girdled the still pool of water in front of the house, and dipped her hand into the cool water. Brian leaned against the trunk of a great magnolia tree, whose glossy green leaves and great creamy blossoms looked fantastic in the moonlight. In front of them was the house, with the ruddy lamplight streaming through the wide windows, and they could see the guests within, excited by the music, waltzing to Rolleston's playing, and their dark figures kept passing and re-passing the windows while the charming music of the waltz mingled with their merry laughter.

   "Looks like a haunted house," said Brian, thinking of Poe's weird poem; "but such a thing is impossible out here."

   "I don't know so much about that," said Madge, gravely, lifting up some water in the palm of her hand, and letting it stream back like diamonds in the moonlight. "I knew a house in St. Kilda which was haunted."

   "By what?" asked Brian, sceptically.

   "Noises!" she answered, solemnly.

   Brian burst out laughing and startled a bat, which flew round and round in the silver moonlight, and whirred away into the shelter of a witch elm.

   "Rats and mice are more common here than ghosts," he said, lightly. "I'm afraid the inhabitants of your haunted house were fanciful."

   "So you don't believe in ghosts?"

   "There's a Banshee in our family," said Brian, with a gay smile, "who is supposed to cheer our death beds with her howlings; but as I've never seen the lady myself, I'm afraid she's a Mrs. Harris."

   "It's aristocratic to have a ghost in a family, I believe," said Madge; "that is the reason we colonials have none."

   "Ah, but you will have," he answered with a careless laugh. "There are, no doubt, democratic as well as aristocratic ghosts; but, pshaw!" he went on, impatiently, "what nonsense I talk. There are no ghosts, except of a man's own raising. The ghosts of a dead youth — the ghosts of past follies — the ghosts of what might have been — these are the spectres which are more to be feared than those of the churchyard."

   Madge looked at him in silence, for she understood the meaning of that passionate outburst — the secret which the dead woman had told him, and which hung like a shadow over his life. She arose quietly and took his arm. The light touch roused him, and a faint wind sent an eerie rustle through the still leaves of the magnolia, as they walked back in silence to the house.

NOTWITHSTANDING the hospitable invitation of Mr. Frettlby, Brian refused to stay at Yabba Yallook that night, but after saying good-bye to Madge, mounted his horse and rode slowly away in the moonlight. He felt very happy, and letting the reins lie on his horse's neck, he gave himself up unreservedly to his thoughts. Atra Cura certainly did not sit behind the horseman on this night; and Brian, to his surprise, found himself singing "Kitty of Coleraine," as he rode along in the silver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the future seemed so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes! they would live on the ocean, and she would find how much pleasanter it was on the restless waters, with their solemn sense of mystery, than on the crowded land.

   Moore was perfectly right. She would learn that when with a fair wind, and all sail set, they were flying over the blue Pacific waters.

   And then they would go home to Ireland to the ancestral home of the Fitzgeralds, where he would lead her in under the arch, with "Cead mille failthe" on it, and everyone would bless the fair young bride. Why should he trouble himself about the crime of another? No! He had made a resolve, and intended to keep it; he would put this secret with which he had been entrusted behind his back, and would wander about the world with Madge and — her father. He felt a sudden chill come over him as he murmured the last words to himself "her father."

   "I'm a fool," he said, impatiently, as he gathered up the reins, and spurred his horse into a canter. "It can make no difference to me so long as Madge remains ignorant; but to sit beside him, to eat with him, to have him always present like a skeleton at a feast — God help me!"

   He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he rushed over the turf, with the fresh, cool night wind blowing keenly against his face, he felt a sense of relief, as though he were leaving some dark spectre behind. On he galloped, with the blood throbbing in his young veins, over miles of plain, with the dark- blue, star-studded sky above, and the pale moon shining down on him — past a silent shepherd's hut, which stood near a wide creek; splashing through the cool water, which wound through the dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight — then, again, the wide, grassy plain, dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheep skurrying away like fantastic spectres — on — on — ever on, until his own homestead appears, and he sees the star-like light shining brightly in the distance — a long avenue of tall trees, over whose wavering shadows his horse thundered, and then the wide grassy space in front of the house, with the clamorous barking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hoofs up the avenue, comes round the side of the house, and Brian leaps off his horse, and flinging the reins to the man, walks into his own room. There he finds a lighted lamp, brandy and soda on the table, and a packet of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa, and opened the window and door, so as to let in the cool breeze; then mixing for himself a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up the lamp, and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up was from a lady. "Always a she correspondent for me," says Isaac Disraeli, "provided she does not cross." Brian's correspondence did not cross, but notwithstanding this, after reading half a page of small talk and scandal, he flung the letter on the table with an impatient ejaculation. The other letters were principally business ones, but the last one proved to be from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a sensation of pleasure. Calton was a capital letter- writer, and his epistles had done much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which succeeded his acquittal of Whyte's murder, when he was in danger of getting into a morbid state of mind. Brian, therefore, sipped his brandy and soda, and, lying back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself.

   "My dear Fitzgerald," wrote Calton his peculiarly clear handwriting, which was such an exception to the usual crabbed hieroglyphics of his brethren of the bar, "while you are enjoying the cool breezes and delightful freshness of the country, here am I, with numerous other poor devils, cooped up in this hot and dusty city. How I wish I were with you in the land of Goschen, by the rolling waters of the Murray, where everything is bright and green, and unsophisticated — the two latter terms are almost identical — instead of which my view is bounded by bricks and mortar, and the muddy waters of the Yarra have to do duty for your noble river. Ah! I too have lived in Arcadia, but I don't now: and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, I am not sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is a lotus-eating Paradise of blissful ignorance, and I love the world with its pomps, vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, oh Corydon — don't be afraid, I'm not going to quote Virgil — are studying Nature's book, I am deep in the musty leaves of Themis' volume, but I dare say that the great mother teaches you much better things than her artificial daughter does me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, 'When one is in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope,' so being in the legal profession, I must respect its muse. I suppose when you saw that this letter came from a law office, you wondered what the deuce a lawyer was writing to you for, and my handwriting, no doubt suggested a writ — pshaw! I am wrong there, you are past the age of writs — not that I hint that you are old; by no means — you are just at that appreciative age when a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by the experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the good things of this world, videlicet — love, wine, and friendship. I am afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law. On reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as Praed's Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and write sense. I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore entrusted you with — ah! you see I know her name, and why? — simply because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the Argus very cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of Whyte's murder, and the reason for it, is known to you, but you refuse, even in the interests of justice, to reveal it — why, I don't know; but we all have our little faults, and from an amiable though mistaken sense of — shall I say — duty? — you refuse to deliver up the man whose cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life. "After your departure from Melbourne every one said, 'The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer will never be discovered.' I ventured to disagree with the wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself, 'Who was this woman who died at Mother Guttersnipe's?' Receiving no satisfactory answer from myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney in the John Elder about a year ago as Mr. and Mrs. Whyte. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, coming from a city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, 'Find out the name and all about the woman who left England in the John Elder on the 21st day of August, 18—, as wife of Oliver Whyte.' Mirabile dictu, he found out all about her, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity London is, you must admit my friend was clever. It appears, however, that the task I set him was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs. Whyte was rather a notorious individual in her own way. She was a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and, being a very handsome woman, had been photographed innumerable times. Consequently, when she very foolishly went with Whyte to choose a berth on board the boat, she was recognised by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of the Frivolity. Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot tell you. With reference to men understanding women, I refer you to Balzac's remark anent the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St. John's Wood and champagne suppers, and longed for the purer air of her native land. Ah! you open your eyes at this latter statement — you are surprised — no, on second thoughts you are not, because she told you herself that she was a native of Sydney, and had gone home in 1858, after a triumphant career of acting in Melbourne. And why did she leave the applauding Melbourne public and the flesh-pots of Egypt? You know this also. She ran away with a rich young squatter, with more money than morals, who happened to be in Melbourne at the time. She seems to have had a weakness for running away. But why she chose Whyte to go with this time puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly good-looking, had no position, and a bad temper. How do I know all these traits of Mr. Whyte's character, morally and socially? Easily enough; my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr. Oliver Whyte was the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off, retired into a private life, and ultimately went the way of all flesh. His son, finding himself with a capital income, and a pretty taste for amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent, found out that his family had come over with the Conqueror — Glanville de Whyte helped to sew the Bayeux tapestry, I suppose — and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day, he worshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess, pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran off with fortunate Mr. Whyte. So far as this goes there is nothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the sake of light o' loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched youth embezzles money to buy jewellery for his divinity. The career of Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the demi-monde, and, as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far so good; the motive of the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his money in England, and, consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney with comparatively very little cash. However, with an Epicurean-like philosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common one — drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it. Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne, and finding that a new generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph — I mean Musette — she drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel with Mr. Whyte, to view Melbourne by night — a familiar scene to her, no doubt. What took her to Little Bourke Street I don't know. Perhaps she got lost — perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days; at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavoury locality, by Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan — took her to the squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady's story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel. Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer of this letter has a theory — a fanciful one, if you will — that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte's death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not — well, I shall find out without you. I have taken, and still take, a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later to discover the secret which led to Whyte's murder. If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps, will come round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands. So think over what I have said; if I do not hear from you within the next week, I shall regard your decision as final, and pursue the search myself.

   "I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to her father. With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly,

"DUNCAN CALTON."   

   When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back in his chair, stared blankly into the dawning light outside. He arose after a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it quickly. Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the marvellous breaking of the dawn. He stood staring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton's letter.

   "I can do no more," he said bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house. "There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all. My poor Madge! My poor Madge!"

   A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and, turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire- worshipper.

   "I accept the omen of the dawn," he cried, "for her life and for mine."

HIS resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intended departure.

   The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and, guided by the sound of merry voices, and the laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn-tennis ground. Madge and her guests were there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Frettlby was not present. He was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.

   "How good of you to come," she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, "and on such a hot day."

   "Yes, it's something fearful in the shade," said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade.

   "Pardon me if I think the contrary," replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.

   Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head.

   "Ah! it's easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald," she observed, as she resumed her seat. "You are making Madge jealous."

   "So he is," answered Madge, with a gay laugh. "I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks."

   "Here he comes, then," said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief.

   "Thank goodness it's over, and that I have won," he said, wiping his heated brow; "galley slaves couldn't have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat sub tegmine fagi."

   "Which means?" asked his wife, lazily.

   "That onlookers see most of the game," answered her husband, impudently.

   "I suppose that's what you call a free and easy translation," said Peterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil."

   "Let it be iced then," retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. "I always like my 'something' iced."

   "It's a way you've got," said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.

   "He's not the only one who's got that way," said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.

   "And so say all of us," finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; "I'll have another, please. Whew, it is hot."

   "What, the drink?" asked Julia, with a giggle.

   "No — the day," answered Felix, making a face at her. "It's the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith's advice, by getting out of one's skin, and letting the wind whistle through one's bones."

   "With such a hot wind blowing," said Peterson, gravely, "I'm afraid they'd soon be broiled bones."

   "Go, giddy one," retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, "or I'll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game."

   "Not I," replied Peterson, coolly. "Not being a salamander, I'm hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;" and turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.

   Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, though not of his reasons for it.

   "I received a letter last night," he said, turning his face away from her; "and, as it's about some important business, I must start at once."

   "I don't think it will be long before we follow," answered Madge, thoughtfully. "Papa leaves here at the end of the week."

   "Why?"

   "I'm sure I don't know," said Madge, petulantly; "he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing: but wander all over the world."

   There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald's mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby — "A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth."

   "Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later," he said, idly. "In fact," with an uneasy laugh, "I believe I'm in one myself."

   "That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday," she said. "This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians."

   "Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place," said Brian, absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, "but we all lose our way to it late in life."

   "At that rate we won't lose our way to it for some time," she said laughing, as they stepped into the drawing-room, so cool and shady, after the heat and glare outside.

   As they entered Mr. Frettlby rose from a chair near the window. He appeared to have been reading, for he held a book in his hand.

   "What! Fitzgerald," he exclaimed, in a hearty tone, as he held out his hand; "I am glad to see you."

   "I let you know I am living, don't I?" replied Brian, his face flushing as he reluctantly took the proffered hand. "But the fact is I have come to say good-bye for a few days."

   "Ah! going back to town, I suppose," said Mr. Frettlby, lying back in his chair, and playing with his watch chain. "I don't know that you are wise, exchanging the clear air of the country for the dusty atmosphere of Melbourne."

   "Yet Madge tells me you are going back," said Brian, idly toying with a vase of flowers on the table.

   "Depends upon circumstances," replied the other carelessly. "I may and I may not. You go on business, I presume?"

   "Well, the fact is Calton ——" Here Brian stopped suddenly, and bit his lip with vexation, for he had not intended to mention the lawyer's name.

   "Yes?" said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sitting up quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.

   "Wants to see me on business," he finished, awkwardly.

   "Connected with the sale of your station, I suppose," said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the young man's face. "Can't have a better man. Calton's an excellent man of business."

   "A little too excellent," replied Fitzgerald, ruefully, "he's a man who can't leave well alone."

   "A propôs of what?"

   "Oh, nothing," answered Fitzgerald, hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time a single name flashed through their brains — the name of Rosanna Moore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes, and break the spell.

   "Ah, well," he said, lightly, as he rose from his chair and held out his hand, "if you are two weeks in town, call at St. Kilda, and it's more than likely you will find us there."

   Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat, and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hot sunshine.

   "He knows," he muttered involuntarily.

   "Knows what, sir?" said Madge, who came silently behind him, and slipped her arm through his. "That you are hungry, and want something to eat before you leave us?"

   "I don't feel hungry," said Brian, as they walked towards the door.

   "Nonsense," answered Madge, merrily, who, like Eve, was on hospitable thoughts intent. "I'm not going to have you appear in Melbourne a pale, fond lover, as though I were treating you badly. Come, sir — no," she continued, putting up her hand as he tried to kiss her, "business first, pleasure afterwards," and they went into the dining-room laughing.

   Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn-tennis ground, thinking of the look he had seen in Brian's eyes. He shivered for a moment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenly chill.

   "Someone stepping across my grave," he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile. "Bah! how superstitious I am, and yet — he knows, he knows!"

   "Come on, sir," cried Felix, who had just caught sight of him, "a racket awaits you."

   Frettlby awoke with a start, and found himself near the lawn-tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking a cigarette.

   He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young man lightly on the shoulder.

   "What?" he said with a forced laugh, "do you really expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day? You are mad."

   "I am hot, you mean," retorted the imperturbable Rolleston, blowing a wreath of smoke.

   "That's a foregone conclusion," said Dr. Chinston, who came up at that moment.

   "Such a charming novel," cried Julia, who had just caught the last remark.

   "What is?" asked Peterson, rather puzzled.

   "Howell's book, 'A Foregone Conclusion,'" said Julia, also looking puzzled. "Weren't you talking about it?"

   "I'm afraid this talk is getting slightly incoherent," said Felix, with a sigh. "We all seem madder than usual to-day."

   "Speak for yourself," said Chinston, indignantly, "I'm as sane as any man in the world."

   "Exactly," retorted the other coolly, "that's what I say, and you, being a doctor, ought to know that every man and woman in the world is more or less mad."

   "Where are your facts?" asked Chinston, smiling.

   "My facts are all visible ones," said Felix, gravely pointing to the company. "They're all crooked on some point or another."

   There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then every one burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr. Rolleston was arguing.

   "If you go on like that in the House," said Frettlby, amused, "you will, at all events, have an entertaining Parliament."

   "Ah! they'll never have an entertaining Parliament till they admit ladies," observed Peterson, with a quizzical glance at Julia.

   "It will be a Parliament of love then," retorted the doctor, dryly, "and not mediæval either."

   Frettlby took the doctor's arm, and walked away with him. "I want you to come up to my study, doctor," he said, as they strolled towards the house, "and examine me."

   "Why, don't you feel well?" said Chinston, as they entered the house.

   "Not lately," replied Frettlby. "I'm afraid I've got heart disease."

   The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.

   "Nonsense," he said, cheerfully, "it's a common delusion with people that they have heart disease, and in nine cases, out of ten it's all imagination; unless, indeed," he added waggishly, "the patient happens to be a young man."

   "Ah! I suppose you think I'm safe as far as that goes," said Frettlby, as they entered the study; "and what did you think of Rolleston's argument about people being mad?"

   "It was amusing," replied Chinston, taking a seat, Frettlby doing the same. "That's all I can say about it, though, mind you, I think there are more mad people at large than the world is aware of."

   "Indeed!"

   "Yes; do you remember that horrible story of Dickens', in the 'Pickwick Papers,' about the man who was mad, and knew it, yet successfully concealed it for years? Well, I believe there are many people like that in the world, people whose lives are one long struggle against insanity, and yet who eat, drink, talk, and walk with the rest of their fellow-men, apparently as gay and light-hearted as they are."

   "How extraordinary."

   "Half the murders and suicides are done in temporary fits of insanity," went on Chinston, "and if a person broods over anything, his incipient madness is sure to break out sooner or later; but, of course, there are cases where a perfectly sane person may commit a murder on the impulse of the moment, but I regard such persons as mad for the time being; but, again, a murder may be planned and executed in the most cold-blooded manner."

   "And in the latter case," said Frettlby, without looking at the doctor, and playing with a paper knife, "do you regard the murderer as mad?"

   "Yes, I do," answered the doctor, bluntly. "He is as mad as a person who kills another because he supposes he has been told by God to do so — only there is method in his madness. For instance, I believe that hansom cab murder, in which you were mixed up ——"

   "I wasn't mixed up in it," interrupted Frettlby, pale with anger.

   "Beg pardon," said Chinston, coolly, "a slip of the tongue; I was thinking of Fitzgerald. Well, I believe that crime to have been premeditated, and that the man who committed it was mad. He is, no doubt, at large now, walking about and conducting himself as sanely as you or I, yet the germ of insanity is there, and sooner or later he will commit another crime."

   "How do you know it was premeditated?" asked Frettlby, abruptly.

   "Any one can see that," answered the other. "Whyte was watched on that night, and when Fitzgerald went away the other was ready to take his place, dressed the same."

   "That's nothing," retorted Frettlby, looking at his companion sharply. "There are dozens of men in Melbourne who wear evening dress, light coats, and soft hats — in fact, I generally wear them myself."

   "Well, that might have been a coincidence," said the doctor, rather disconcerted; "but the use of chloroform puts the question beyond a doubt; people don't usually carry chloroform about with them."

   "I suppose not," answered the other, and then the matter dropped. Chinston made an examination of Mark Frettlby, and when he had finished, his face was very grave, though he laughed at the millionaire's fears.

   "You are all right," he said, gaily. "Action of the heart a little weak, that's all — only," impressively, "avoid excitement — avoid excitement."

   Just as Frettlby was putting on his coat, a knock came to the door, and Madge entered.

   "Brian is gone," she began. "Oh, I beg your pardon, doctor — but is papa ill?" she asked with sudden fear.

   "No, child, no," said Frettlby, hastily, "I'm all right; I thought my heart was affected, but it isn't."

   "Not a bit of it," answered Chinston, reassuringly. "All right — only avoid excitement."

   But when Frettlby turned to go to the door, Madge, who had her eyes fixed on the doctor's face, saw how grave it was.

   "There is danger?" she said, touching his arm as they paused for a moment at the door.

   "No! No!" he answered, hastily.

   "Yes, there is," she persisted. "Tell me the worst, it is best for me to know."

   The doctor looked at her in some doubt for a few moments, and then placed his hand on her shoulder.

   "My dear young lady," he said gravely, "I will tell you what I have not dared to tell your father."

   "What?" she asked in a low voice, her face growing pale.

   "His heart is affected."

   "And there is great danger?"

   "Yes, great danger. In the event of any sudden shock ——" he hesitated.

   "Yes ——"

   "He would probably drop down dead."

   "My God!"

MR. CALTON sat in his office reading a letter he had just received from Fitzgerald, and judging from the complacent smile upon his face it seemed to give him the greatest satisfaction.

   "I know," wrote Brian, "that now you have taken up the affair, you will not stop until you find out everything, so, as I want the matter to rest as at present, I will anticipate you, and reveal all. You were right in your conjecture that I knew something likely to lead to the detection of Whyte's murderer; but when I tell you my reasons for keeping such a thing secret, I am sure you will not blame me. Mind you, I do not say that I know who committed the murder; but I have suspicions — very strong suspicions — and I wish to God Rosanna Moore had died before she told me what she did. However, I will tell you all, and leave you to judge as to whether I was justified in concealing what I was told. I will call at your office some time next week, and then you will learn everything that Rosanna Moore told me; but once that you are possessed of the knowledge you will pity me."

   "Most extraordinary," mused Calton, leaning back in his chair, as he laid down the letter. "I wonder if he's about to tell me that he killed Whyte after all, and that Sal Rawlins perjured herself to save him! No, that's nonsense, or she'd have turned up in better time, and wouldn't have risked his neck up to the last moment. Though I make it a rule never to be surprised at anything, I expect what Brian Fitzgerald has to tell me will startle me considerably. I've never met with such an extraordinary case, and from all appearances the end isn't reached yet. After all," said Mr. Calton, thoughtfully, "truth is stranger than fiction."

   Here a knock came to the door, and in answer to an invitation to enter, it opened, and Kilsip glided into the room.

   "You're not engaged, sir?" he said, in his soft, low voice.

   "Oh, dear, no," answered Calton, carelessly; "come in — come in!"

   Kilsip closed the door softly, and gliding along in his usual velvet-footed manner, sat down in a chair near Calton's, and placing his hat on the ground, looked keenly at the barrister.

   "Well, Kilsip," said Calton, with a yawn, playing with his, watch chain, "any good news to tell me?"

   "Well, nothing particularly new," purred the detective, rubbing his hands together.

   "Nothing new, and nothing true, and no matter," said Calton, quoting Emerson. "And what have you come to see me about?"

   "The Hansom Cab Murder," replied the other quietly.

   "The deuce!" cried Calton, startled out of his professional dignity. "And have you found out who did it?"

   "No!" answered Kilsip, rather dismally; "but I have, an idea."

   "So had Gorby," retorted Calton, dryly, "an idea that ended in smoke. Have you any practical proofs?"

   "Not yet."

   "That means you are going to get some?"

   "If possible."

   "Much virtue in 'if,'" quoted Calton, picking up a pencil, and scribbling idly on his blotting paper. "And to whom does your suspicion point?"

   "Aha!" said Mr. Kilsip, cautiously.

   "Don't know him," answered the other, coolly; "family name Humbug, I presume. Bosh! Whom do you suspect?"

   Kilsip looked round cautiously, as if to make sure they were alone, and then said, in a stage whisper —

   "Roger Moreland!"

   "That was the young man that gave evidence as to how Whyte got drunk?"

   Kilsip nodded.

   "Well, and how do you connect him with the murder?"

   "Do you remember in the evidence given by the cabmen, Royston and Rankin, they both swore that the man who was with Whyte on that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand?"

   "What of that? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wears a diamond ring?"

   "But not on the forefinger of the right hand."

   "Oh! And Moreland wears a ring in that way?"

   "Yes!"

   "Merely a coincidence. Is that all your proof?"

   "All I can obtain at present."

   "It's very weak," said Calton, scornfully.

   "The weakest proofs may form a chain to hang a man," observed Kilsip, sententiously.

   "Moreland gave his evidence clearly enough," said Calton, rising, and pacing the room. "He met Whyte; they got drunk together. Whyte went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwards Moreland followed with the coat, which was left behind by Whyte, and then someone snatched it from him."

   "Ah, did they?" interrupted Kilsip, quickly.

   "So Moreland says," said Calton, stopping short. "I understand; you think Moreland was not so drunk as he would make out, and that after following Whyte outside, he put on his coat, and got into the cab with him."

   "That is my theory."

   "It's ingenious enough," said the barrister; "but why should Moreland murder Whyte? What motive had he?"

   "Those papers ——"

   "Pshaw! another idea of Gorby's," said Calton, angrily. "How do you know there were any papers?"

   The fact is, Calton did not intend Kilsip to know that Whyte really had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tell him.

   "And another thing," said Calton, resuming his walk, "if your theory is correct, which I don't think it is, what became of Whyte's coat? Has Moreland got it?"

   "No, he has not," answered the detective, decisively.

   "You seem very positive about it," said the lawyer, after a moment's pause. "Did you ask Moreland about it?"

   A reproachful look came into Kilsip's white face.

   "Not quite so green," he said, forcing a smile. "I thought you'd a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton. Ask him? — no."

   "Then how did you find out?"

   "The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel."

   "A barman!" echoed Calton; "and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman — pshaw! the idea is absurd."

   "Well, you may be right about the matter," said Kilsip, rather angrily; "and if Gorby makes mistakes I don't pretend to be infallible. But, at all events, when I saw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand."

   "Silver isn't a diamond."

   "No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on. When I saw that, I determined to search his room. I managed to do so while he was out, and found ——"

   "A mare's nest?"

   Kilsip nodded.

   "And so your castle of cards falls to the ground," said Calton, jestingly. "Your idea is absurd. Moreland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything."

   "Humph — so he says."

   "Well, men don't calumniate themselves for nothing."

   "It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one," replied Kilsip, coolly. "I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out."

   "Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?"

   "I shall start looking for the coat first."

   "Ah I you think he has hidden it?"

   "I am sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett Street ——"

   "But he didn't," interrupted Calton, angrily.

   "Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did," said Kilsip, quietly. "I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett Street, turned to the left down George Street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy Gardens, then, knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away, or rather, hid it, and walked out of the Gardens through the town ——"

   "In evening dress — more noticeable than the coat."

   "He wasn't in evening dress," said Kilsip, quietly.

   "No, neither was he," observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial. "Another blow to your theory. The murderer was in evening dress — the cabman said so."

   "Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte."

   "Well, what of that?"

   "If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moreland wore dark trousers — at least, I suppose so — and, with the coat buttoned up, it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr. Fitzgerald."

   "That sounds better," said Calton, thoughtfully. "And what are you going to do?"

   "Look for the coat in the Fitzroy Gardens."

   "Pshaw! a wild goose chase."

   "Possibly," said Kilsip, as he arose to go.

   "And when shall I see you again?" said Calton.

   "Oh, to-night," said Kilsip, pausing at, the door. "I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you."

   "Why? What's up?"

   "She's dying, and wants to tell you some secret."

   "Rosanna Moore, by Jove!" said Calton. "She'll tell me something about her. I'll get to the bottom of this yet. All right, I'll be here at eight o'clock."

   "Very well, sir!" and the detective glided out.

   "I wonder if that old woman knows anything?" said Calton to himself, as he, resumed his seat. "She may have overheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, and intends to divulge it. Well, I'm afraid when Fitzgerald does confess, I shall know all about it beforehand."

PUNCTUAL to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton's office at eight o'clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums. He found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm this belief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times before Calton had been on the point of going to her and trying to get the secret out of her — that is, if she knew it; but now fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be true than one dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips.

   By the time Kilsip made his appearance Calton was in a high state of excitement.

   "I suppose we'd better go at once," he said to Kilsip, as he lit a cigar. "That old hag may go off at any moment."

   "She might," assented Kilsip, doubtfully; "but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine lives like a cat."

   "Not improbable," retorted Calton, as they passed into the brilliantly-lighted street; "her nature seemed to me to be essentially feline. But tell me," he went on, "what's the matter with her — old age?"

   "Partly; drink also, I think," answered Kilsip. "Besides, her surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have pretty well settled her."

   "It isn't anything catching, I hope," cried the barrister, with a shudder, as they passed into the crowd of Bourke Street.

   "Don't know, sir, not being a doctor," answered the detective, stolidly.

   "Oh!" ejaculated Calton, in dismay.

   "It will be all right, sir," said Kilsip, reassuringly; "I've been there dozens of times, and I'm all right."

   "I dare say," retorted the barrister; "but I may go there once and catch it, whatever it is."

   "Take my word, sir, it's nothing worse than old age and drink."

   "Has she a doctor?"

   "Won't let one come near her — prescribes for herself."

   "Gin, I suppose? Humph! Much more unpleasant than the usual run of medicines."

   In a short time they found themselves in Little Bourke Street, and after traversing a few dark and narrow lanes — by this time they were more or less familiar to Calton — they found themselves before Mother Guttersnipe's den.

   They climbed the rickety stairs, which groaned and creaked beneath their weight, and found Mother Guttersnipe lying on the bed in the corner. The elfish black-haired child was playing cards with a slatternly-looking girl at a deal table by the faint light of a tallow candle.

   They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and the elfish child pushed a broken chair in a sullen manner towards Mr. Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of the room, and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entry awoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen. Sitting up in bed, she huddled the clothes round her. She presented such a gruesome spectacle that involuntarily Calton recoiled. Her white hair was unbound, and hung in tangled masses over her shoulders in snowy profusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, with the hooked nose, and beady black eyes, like those of a mouse, was poked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, were waving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with her claw-like hands. The square bottle and the broken cup lay beside her, and filling herself a dram, she lapped it up greedily.

   The irritant brought on a paroxysm of coughing which lasted until the elfish child shook her well, and took the cup from her.

   "Greedy old beast," muttered this amiable infant, peering into the cup, "ye'd drink the Yarrer dry, I b'lieve."

   "Yah!" muttered the old woman feebly. "Who's they, Lizer?" she said, shading her eyes with one trembling hand, while she looked at Calton and the detective.

   "The perlice cove an' the swell," said Lizer, suddenly. "Come to see yer turn up your toes."

   "I ain't dead yet, ye whelp," snarled the hag with sudden energy; "an' if I gits up I'll turn up yer toes, cuss ye."

   Lizer gave a shrill laugh of disdain, and Kilsip stepped forward.

   "None of this," he said, sharply, taking Lizer by one thin shoulder, and pushing her over to where the other girl was crouching; "stop there till I tell you to move."

   Lizer tossed back her tangled black hair, and was about to make some impudent reply, when the other girl, who was older and wiser, put out her hand, and pulled her down beside her.

   Meanwhile, Calton was addressing himself to the old woman in the corner.

   "You wanted to see me?" he said gently, for, notwithstanding his repugnance to her, she was, after all, a woman, and dying.

   "Yes, cuss ye," croaked Mother Guttersnipe, lying down, and pulling the greasy bedclothes up to her neck. "You ain't a parson?" with sudden suspicion.

   "No, I am a lawyer."

   "I ain't a-goin' to have the cussed parsons a-prowlin' round 'ere," growled the old woman, viciously. "I ain't a-goin' to die yet, cuss ye; I'm goin' to get well an' strong, an' 'ave a good time of it."

   "I'm afraid you won't recover," said Calton, gently. "You had better let me send for a doctor."

   "No, I shan't," retorted the hag, aiming a blow at him with all her feeble strength. "I ain't a-goin' to have my inside spil'd with salts and senner. I don't want neither parsons nor doctors, I don't. I wouldn't 'ave a lawyer, only I'm a-thinkin' of makin' my will, I am."

   "Mind I gits the watch," yelled Lizer, from the corner. "If you gives it to Sal I'll tear her eyes out."

   "Silence!" said Kilsip, sharply, and, with a muttered curse, Lizer sat back in her corner.

   "Sharper than a serpent's tooth, she are," whined the old woman, when quiet was once more restored. "That young devil 'ave fed at my 'ome, an' now she turns, cuss her."

   "Well — well," said Calton, rather impatiently, "what is it you wanted to see me about?"

   "Don't be in such a 'urry," said the hag, with a scowl, "or I'm blamed if I tell you anything, s'elp me."

   She was evidently growing very weak, so Calton turned to Kilsip and told him in a whisper to get a doctor. The detective scribbled a note on some paper, and, giving it to Lizer, ordered her to take it. At this, the other girl arose, and, putting her arm in that of the child's, they left together.

   "Them two young 'usseys gone?" said Mother Guttersnipe. "Right you are, for I don't want what I've got to tell to git into the noospaper, I don't."

   "And what is it?" asked Calton, bending forward.

   The old woman took another drink of gin, and it seemed to put life into her, for she sat up in the bed, and commenced to talk rapidly, as though she were afraid of dying before her secret was told.

   "You've been 'ere afore?" she said, pointing one skinny finger at Calton, "and you wanted to find out all about 'er; but you didn't. She wouldn't let me tell, for she was always a proud jade, a-flouncin' round while 'er pore mother was a-starvin'."

   "Her mother! Are you Rosanna Moore's mother?" cried Calton, considerably astonished.

   "May I die if I ain't," croaked the hag. "'Er pore father died of drink, cuss 'im, an' I'm a-follerin' 'im to the same place in the same way. You weren't about town in the old days, or you'd a-bin after her, cuss ye."

   "After Rosanna?"

   "The werry girl," answered Mother Guttersnipe. "She were on the stage, she were, an' my eye, what a swell she were, with all the coves a-dyin' for 'er, an' she dancin' over their black 'earts, cuss 'em; but she was allays good to me till 'e came."

   "Who came?"

   "'E!" yelled the old woman, raising herself on her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury. "'E, a-comin' round with di'monds and gold, and a-ruinin' my pore girl; an' how 'e's 'eld 'is bloomin' 'ead up all these years as if he were a saint, cuss 'im — cuss 'im."

   "Whom does she mean?" whispered Calton to Kilsip.

   "Mean!" screamed Mother Guttersnipe, whose sharp ears had caught the muttered question. "Why, Mark Frettlby!"

   "Good God!" Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise.

   "Aye, 'e were a swell in them days," pursued Mother Guttersnipe, "and 'e comes a-philanderin' round my gal, cuss 'im, an' ruins 'er, and leaves 'er an' the child to starve, like a black-'earted villain as 'e were."

   "The child! Her name?"

   "Bah," retorted the hag, with scorn, "as if you didn't know my gran'daughter Sal."

   "Sal, Mark Frettlby's child?"

   "Yes, an' as pretty a girl as the other, tho' she 'appened to be born on the wrong side of the 'edge. Oh, I've seen 'er a-sweepin' along in 'er silks an' satins as tho' we were dirt — an' Sal 'er 'alf sister — cuss 'er."

   Exhausted by the efforts she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat dazed, thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Frettlby's mistress he hardly wondered at; after all, the millionaire was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty, and was evidently one of those women who — rakes at heart — prefer the untrammelled freedom of being a mistress, to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality, so many people live in glass houses, that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones. Calton did not think any the worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what did surprise him was that Frettlby should be so heartless, as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Guttersnipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man, that he was inclined to think that the old woman was playing him a trick.

   "Did Mr. Frettlby know Sal was his child?" he asked.

   "Not 'e," snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in an exultant tone. "'E thought she was dead, 'e did, arter Rosanner gave him the go-by."

   "And why did you not tell him?"

   "'Cause I wanted to break 'is 'eart, if 'e 'ad any," said the old beldame, vindictively. "Sal was a-goin' wrong as fast as she could till she was tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I'd 'ave gone to 'im, and said, 'Look at yer darter! 'Ow I've ruined her as you did mine.'"

   "You wicked woman," said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. "You sacrificed an innocent girl for this."

   "None of yer preachin'," retorted the hag sullenly; "I ain't bin brought up for a saint, I ain't — an' I wanted to pay 'im out — 'e paid me well to 'old my tongue about my darter, an' I've got it 'ere," laying her hand on the pillow, "all gold, good gold — an' mine, cuss me."

   Calton rose, he felt quite sick at this exhibition of human depravity, and longed to be away. As he was putting on his hat, however, the two girls entered with the doctor, who nodded to Kilsip, cast a sharp scrutinising glance at Calton, and then walked over to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, and waited in silence for the end. Mother Guttersnipe had fallen back in the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if to protect her beloved gold, and over her face a deadly paleness was spreading, which told the practised eye of the doctor that the end was near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding the candle to the dying woman's face. She opened her eyes, and muttered drowsily —

   "Who's you? get out," but then she seemed to grasp the situation again, and she started up with a shrill yell, which made the hearers shudder, it was so weird and eerie.

   "My money!" she yelled, clasping the pillow in her skinny arms. "It's all mine, ye shan't have it — cuss ye."

   The doctor arose from his knees, and shrugged his shoulders.

   "Not worth while doing anything," he said coolly, "she'll be dead soon."

   The old woman, mumbling over her pillow, caught the word, and burst into tears.

   "Dead! dead! my poor Rosanna, with 'er golden 'air, always lovin' 'er pore mother till 'e took 'er away, an' she came back to die — die — ooh!"

   Her voice died away in a long melancholy wail, that made the two girls in the corner shiver, and put their fingers in their ears.

   "My good woman," said the doctor, bending over the bed, "would you not like to see a minister?"

   She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper — "Why?"

   "Because you have only a short time to live," said the doctor, gently. "You are dying."

   Mother Guttersnipe sprang up, and seized his arm with a scream of terror.

   "Dyin', dyin' — no! no!" she wailed, clawing his sleeve. "I ain't fit to die — cuss me; save me — save me; I don't know where I'd go to, s'elp me — save me."

   The doctor tried to remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful tenacity.

   "It is impossible," he said briefly.

   The hag fell back in her bed.

   "I'll give you money to save me," she shrieked; "good money — all mine — all mine. See — see — 'ere — suverains," and tearing her pillow open, she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a gleaming stream of gold. Gold — gold — it rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchained were they by the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life. She clutched some of the shining pieces, and held them up to the three men as they stood silently beside the bed, but her hands trembled so that sovereigns kept falling from them on the floor with metallic clinks.

   "All mine — all mine," she shrieked, loudly. "Give me my life — gold — money — cuss ye — I sold my soul for it — save me — give me my life," and, with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them. They said no word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two girls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.

   "Don't look at me — don't," cried the hag, falling down again amid the shining gold. "Ye want me to die, — I shan't — I shan't — give me my gold," clawing at the scattered sovereigns. "I'll take it with me — I shan't die — G— — G—" whimpering. "I ain't done nothin' — let me live — give me a Bible — save me, G— cuss it — G—, G—." She fell back on the bed, a corpse.

   The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and on the dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the three men, sick at heart, turned away in silence to seek assistance, with that wild cry still ringing in their ears — "G— save me, G—!"

ACCORDING to the copy books of our youth, "Procrastination is the thief of time." Now, Brian found the truth of this. He had been in town almost a week, but he had not yet been to see Calton. Each morning — or something very near it — he set out, determined to go direct to Chancery Lane, but he never arrived there. He had returned to his lodgings in East Melbourne, and had passed his time either in the house or in the garden. When perhaps business connected with the sale of his station compelled his presence in town, he drove straight there and back. Curiously enough he shrank from meeting any of his friends. He felt keenly his recent position in the prisoner's dock. And even when walking by the Yarra, as he frequently did, he was conscious of an uneasy feeling — a feeling that he was an object of curiosity, and that people turned to look at him out of a morbid desire to see one who had been so nearly hanged for murder.

   As soon as his station should be sold and he married to Madge he determined to leave Australia, and never set foot on it again. But until he could leave the place he would see no one, nor would he mix with his former friends, so great was his dread of being stared at. Mrs. Sampson, who had welcomed him back with shrill exclamations of delight, was loud in her expressions of disapproval as to the way he was shutting himself up.

   "Your eyes bein' 'ollow," said the sympathising cricket, "it is nat'ral as it's want of air, which my 'usband's uncle, being a druggist, an' well-to-do, in Collingwood, ses as 'ow a want of ox-eye-gent, being a French name, as 'e called the atmispeare, were fearful for pullin' people down, an' makin' 'em go off their food, which you hardly eats anythin', an' not bein' a butterfly it's expected as your appetite would be larger."

   "Oh, I'm all right," said Brian, absently, lighting a cigarette, and only half listening to his landlady's garrulous chatter, "but if anyone calls tell them I'm not in. I don't want to be bothered by visitors."

   "Bein' as wise a thing as Solomon ever said," answered Mrs. Sampson, energetically, "which, no doubt, 'e was in good 'ealth when seein' the Queen of Sheber, as is necessary when anyone calls, and not feelin' disposed to speak, which I'm often that way myself on occasions, my sperits bein' low, as I've 'eard tell soder water 'ave that effect on 'em, which you takes it with a dash of brandy, tho' to be sure that might be the cause of your want of life, and — drat that bell," she finished, hurrying out of the room as the front-door bell sounded, "which my legs is a-givin' way under me thro' bein' overworked."

   Meanwhile, Brian sat and smoked contentedly, much relieved by the departure of Mrs. Sampson, with her constant chatter, but he soon heard her mount the stairs again, and she entered the room with a telegram, which she handed to her lodger.

   "'Opin' it don't contain bad noose," she said as she retreated to the door again, "which I don't like 'em 'avin' had a shock in early life thro' one 'avin' come unexpected, as my uncle's grandfather were dead, 'avin' perished of consumption, our family all being disposed to the disease — and now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll get to my dinner, bein' in the 'abit of takin' my meals reg'lar, and I studies my inside carefully, bein' easily upset, thro' which I never could be a sailor."

   Mrs. Sampson, having at last exhausted herself, went out of the room, and crackled loudly down the stairs, leaving Brian to read his telegram. He tore open the envelope and found the message was from Madge, to say that they had returned, and to ask him to dine with them that evening. Fitzgerald folded up the telegram, then rising from his seat, he walked moodily up and down the room with his hands in his pockets.

   "So he is there," said the young man aloud; "and I shall have to meet him and shake hands with him, knowing all the time what he is. If it were not for Madge I'd leave this place at once, but after the way she stood by me in my trouble, I should be a coward if I did so."

   It was as Madge had predicted — her father was unable to stay long in one place, and had come back to Melbourne a week after Brian had arrived. The pleasant party at the station was broken up, and, like the graves of a household, the guests were scattered far and wide. Peterson had left for New Zealand en route for the wonders of the Hot Lakes, and the old colonist was about to start for England in order to refresh his boyish memories. Mr. and Mrs. Rolleston had come back to Melbourne, where the wretched Felix was compelled once more to plunge into politics; and Dr. Chinston had resumed his usual routine of fees and patients.

   Madge was glad to be back in Melbourne again, as now that her health was restored she craved for the excitement of town life It was now more than three months since the murder, and the nine days' wonder was a thing of the past. The possibility of a war with Russia was the one absorbing topic of the hour, and the colonists were busy preparing for the attack of a possible enemy. As the Spanish Kings had drawn their treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the White Czar lay violent hands on the golden stores of Australia; but here there were no uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the midst of stormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was quite forgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detective office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver Whyte would remain a free man. There were only two people in Melbourne who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip. Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck his cowardly blow in the dark, and though there seemed no possible chance of success, yet they worked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them. The barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the death-bed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on the subject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer would soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be found that would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at the time of Mark Frettlby's return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for Fitzgerald's confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked stealthily in the dark, searching for evidence against Moreland.

   On receiving Madge's telegram, Brian determined to go down in the evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge to that effect. He did not want to meet Mark Frettlby, but did not of course, tell this to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself, as her father had gone to his club, and the time of his return was uncertain. After dinner, she wrapped a light cloak round her, and repaired to the verandah to wait for her lover. The garden looked charming in the moonlight, with the black, dense cypress trees standing up against the sky, and the great fountain splashing cool and silvery. There was a heavily- foliaged oak by the gate, and she strolled down the path, and stood under it in the shadow, listening to the whisper and rustle of its multitudinous leaves. It is curious the unearthly glamour which moonlight seems to throw over everything, and though Madge knew every flower, tree, and shrub in the garden, yet they all looked weird and fantastical in the cold, white light. She went up to the fountain, and seating herself on the edge, amused herself by dipping her hand into the chilly water, and letting it fall, like silver rain, back into the basin. Then she heard the iron gate open and shut with a clash, and springing to her feet, saw someone coming up the path in a light coat and soft wide-awake hat.

   "Oh, it's you at last, Brian?" she cried, as she ran down the path to meet him. "Why did you not come before?"

   "Not being Brian, I can't say," answered her father's voice. Madge burst out laughing.

   "What an absurd mistake," she cried. "Why, I thought you were Brian."

   "Indeed!"

   "Yes; in that hat and coat I couldn't tell the difference in the moonlight."

   "Oh," said her father, with a laugh, pushing his hat back, "moonlight is necessary to complete the spell, I suppose?"

   "Of course," answered his daughter. "If there were no moonlight, alas, for lovers!"

   "Alas, indeed!" echoed her father. "They would become as extinct as the moa; but where are your eyes, Puss, when you take an old man like me for your gay young Lochinvar?"

   "Well, really, papa," answered Madge, deprecatingly, "you do look so like him in that coat and hat that I could not tell the difference, till you spoke."

   "Nonsense, child," said Frettlby, roughly, "you are fanciful;" and turning on his heel, he walked rapidly towards the house, leaving Madge staring after him in astonishment, as well she might, for her father had never spoken to her so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of his sudden anger, she stood spell-bound, until there came a step behind her, and a soft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian smiling at her.

   "Oh, it's you," she said, with a pout, as he caught her in his arms and kissed her.

   "Only me," said Brian, ungrammatically; "disappointing, isn't it?"

   "Oh, fearfully," answered the girl, with a gay laugh, as arm-in-arm they walked towards the house. "But do you know I made such a curious mistake just now; I thought papa was you."

   "How strange," said Brian, absently, for indeed he was admiring her charming face, which looked so pure and sweet in the moonlight.

   "Yes, wasn't it?" she replied. "He had on a light coat and a soft hat, just like you wear sometimes, and as you are both the same height, I took you for one another."

   Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heart as he saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed, for just at that moment there came into his mind the curious coincidence of the man who got into the hansom cab being dressed similarly to himself. What if — "Nonsense," he said, aloud, rousing himself out of the train of thought the resemblance had suggested.

   "I'm sure it isn't," said Madge, who had been talking about something else for the last five minutes. "You are a very rude young man."

   "I beg your pardon," said Brian, waking up. "You were saying ——"

   "That the horse is the most noble of all animals — Exactly."

   "I don't understand ——" began Brian, rather puzzled.

   "Of course you don't," interrupted Madge, petulantly; "considering I've been wasting my eloquence on a deaf man for the last ten minutes; and very likely lame as well as deaf."

   And to prove the truth of the remark, she ran up the path with Brian after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimble and better acquainted with the garden than he was but at last he caught her just as she was running up the steps into the house, and then — history repeats itself.

   They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Frettlby had gone up to his study, and did not want to be disturbed. Madge sat down to the piano, but before she struck a note, Brian took both her hands prisoners.

   "Madge," he said, gravely, as she turned round, "what did your father say when you made that mistake?"

   "He was very angry," she answered. "Quite cross; I'm sure I don't know why."

   Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the visitor's bell sounded, they heard the servant answer it, and then someone was taken upstairs to Mr. Frettlby's study.

   When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that had come to the door.

   "I don't know, miss," he answered; "he said he wanted to see Mr. Frettlby particularly, so I took him up to the study."

   "But I thought that papa said he was not to be disturbed?"

   "Yes, miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him."

   "Poor papa," sighed Madge, turning again to the piano. "He has always got such a lot to do."

   Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldteufel's last new valse, a dreamy, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian, lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang a gay little French song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mocking refrain, which made Brian laugh.

   "A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and coming over to the piano. "We certainly can't approach the French in writing these airy trifles."

   "They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge, running her fingers over the keys; "they mean nothing."

   "Of course not," he replied, "but don't you remember that De Quincy says there is no moral either big or little in the Iliad."

   "Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allan than all those frothy things," said Madge, with fine scorn. "Come and sing it."

   "A five-act funeral, it is," groaned Brian, as he rose to obey; "let's have Garry Owen instead."

   Nothing else however would suit the capricious young person at the piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint old ditty of cruel Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with such disdain.

   "Sir John Graham was an ass," said Brian, when he had finished; "or, instead of dying in such a silly manner, he'd have married her right off, without asking her permission."

   "I don't think she was worth marrying," replied Madge, opening a book of Mendelssohn's duets; "or she wouldn't have made such a fuss over her health not being drunk."

   "Depend upon it, she was a plain woman," remarked Brian, gravely, "and was angry because she wasn't toasted among the rest of the country belles. I think the young man had a narrow escape — she'd always have reminded him about that unfortunate oversight."

   "You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well," said Madge, a little dryly; "however, we'll leave the failings of Barbara Allan alone, and sing this."

   This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, "Would that my Love," which was a great favourite of Brian's. They were in the middle of it when suddenly Madge stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her father's study. Recollecting Dr. Chinston's warning, she ran out of the room, and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much importance to it.

   Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it was locked.

   "Who's there?" asked her father, sharply, from inside.

   "Only me, papa," she answered. "I thought you were ——"

   "No! No — I'm all right," replied her father, quickly. "Go down stairs, I'll join you shortly."

   Madge went back to the drawing-room only half satisfied with the explanation. She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather an anxious face.

   "What's the matter?" he asked, as she paused a moment at the foot of the stairs.

   "Papa says nothing," she replied, "but I am sure he must have been startled, or he would not have cried out like that."

   She told him what Dr. Chinston had said about the state of her father's heart, a recital which shocked Brian greatly. They did not return to the drawing-room, but went out on the verandah, where, after wrapping a cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. They sat down at the far end of the verandah somewhat in the shadow, and could see the hall door wide open, and a warm flood of mellow light pouring therefrom, and beyond the cold, white moonshine. After about a quarter of an hour, Madge's alarm about her father having somewhat subsided, they were chatting on indifferent subjects, when a man came out of the hall door, and paused for a moment on the steps of the verandah. He was dressed in rather a fashionable suit of clothes, but, in spite of the heat of the night, he had a thick white silk scarf round his throat.

   "That's rather a cool individual," said Brian, removing his cigarette from between his lips. "I wonder what — Good God!" he cried, rising to his feet as the stranger turned round to look at the house, and took off his hat for a moment — "Roger Moreland."

   The man started, and looked quickly round into the dark shadow of the verandah where they were seated, then, putting on his hat, he ran quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang after him.

   Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian's face, as revealed by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it.

   "Who is Roger Moreland?" she asked, touching his arm — "Ah! I remember," with sudden horror, "Oliver Whyte's friend."

   "Yes," in a hoarse whisper, "and one of the witnesses at the trial.