THERE was not much sleep for Brian that night. He left Madge almost immediately, and went home, but he Aid not go to bed. He felt too anxious and ill at ease to sleep, and passed the greater part of the night walking up and down his room, occupied with his own sad thoughts. He was wondering in his own mind what could be the meaning of Roger Moreland's visit to Mark Frettlby. All the evidence that he had given at the trial was that he had met Whyte, and had been drinking with him during the evening. Whyte then went out, and that was the last Moreland had seen of him. Now, the question was, "What did he go to see Mark Frettlby for?" He had no acquaintance with him, and yet he called by appointment. It is true he might have been in poverty, and the millionaire being well-known as an extremely generous man, Moreland might have called on him for money. But then the cry which Frettlby had given after the interview had lasted a short time proved that he had been startled. Madge had gone upstairs and found the door locked, her father refusing her admission. Now, why was he so anxious Moreland should not be seen by any one? That he had made some startling revelation was certain, and Fitzgerald felt sure that it was in connection with the hansom cab murder case. He wearied himself with conjectures about the matter, and towards daybreak threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed, and slept heavily till twelve o'clock the next day. When he arose and looked at himself in the glass, he was startled at the haggard and worn appearance of his face. The moment he was awake his mind went back to Mark Frettlby and the visit of Roger Moreland.

   "The net is closing round him," he murmured to himself. "I don't see how he can escape. Oh! Madge! Madge! if only I could spare you the bitterness of knowing what you must know, sooner or later, and that other unhappy girl — the sins of the fathers will be visited on the children — God help them."

   He took his bath, and, after dressing himself, went into his sitting-room, where he had a cup of tea, which refreshed him considerably. Mrs. Sampson came crackling merrily upstairs with a letter, and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, on seeing his altered appearance.

   "Lor, sir!" she exclaimed, "what 'ave you bin a-doin' — me knowin' your 'abits know'd as you'd gone to bed, not to say as it's very temptin' in this 'ot weather, but with excuses, sir, you looks as if you 'adn't slept a blessed wink."

   "No, more I have," said Brian, listlessly holding out his hand for the letter. "I was walking up and down my room all last night — I must have walked miles."

   "Ah! 'ow that puts me in mind of my pore 'usband," chirped the cricket; "bein' a printer, and accustomed like a howl to the darkness, when 'e was 'ome for the night 'e walked up and down till 'e wore out the carpet, bein' an expensive one, as I 'ad on my marriage, an' the only way I could stop 'im was by givin' 'im something soothin', which you, sir, ought to try — whisky 'ot, with lemon and sugar — but I've 'eard tell as chloroform ——"

   "No, d—— it," said Brian, hastily, startled out of his politeness, "I've had enough of that."

   "Achin' teeth, no doubt," said the landlady, going to the door, "which I'm often taken that way myself, decayed teeth runnin' in the family, tho', to be sure, mine are stronger than former, a lodger of mine 'avin' bin a dentist, an' doin' them beautiful, instead of payin' rent, not avin' ready cash, his boxes bein' filled with bricks on 'is departure from the 'ouse."

   As Brian did not appear particularly interested in these domestic reminiscences, and seemed as if he wanted to be left alone, Mrs. Sampson, with a final crackle, went down stairs and talked with a neighbour in the kitchen, as to the desirability of drawing her money out of the Savings Bank, in case the Russians should surprise and capture Melbourne. Brian, left alone, stared out of the window at the dusty road and the black shadows cast by the tall poplars in front of the house.

   "I must leave this place," he said to himself; "every chance remark seems to bear on the murder, and I'm not anxious to have it constantly by my side like the skeleton at the feast."

   Suddenly he recollected the letter which he held in his hand, and which he now looked at for the first time. It proved to be from Madge, and tearing it open hastily, he read it.

   "I cannot understand what is the matter with papa," she wrote. "Ever since that man Moreland left last night, he has shut himself up in his study, and is writing there hour after hour. I went up this morning, but he would not let me in. He did not come down to breakfast, and I am getting seriously alarmed. Come down to-morrow and see me, for I am anxious about his state of health, and I am sure that Moreland told him something which has upset him."

   "Writing," said Brian, as he put the letter in his pocket, "what about, I wonder? Perhaps he is thinking of committing suicide! if so, I for one will not stop him. It is a horrible thing to do, but it would be acting for the best under the circumstances."

   In spite of his determination to see Calton and tell all, Fitzgerald did not go near him that day. He felt ill and weary, the want of sleep, and mental worry, telling on him terribly, and he looked ten years older than he did before the murder of Whyte. It is trouble which draws lines on the smooth forehead and furrows round the mouth. If a man has any mental worry, his life becomes a positive agony to him. Mental tortures are quite as bad as physical ones, if not worse. The last thing before dropping off to sleep is the thought of trouble, and with the first faint light of dawn, it returns and hammers all day at the weary brain. But while a man can sleep, life is rendered at least endurable; and of all the blessings which Providence has bestowed, there is none so precious as that same sleep, which, as wise Sancho Panza says, "Wraps every man like a cloak." Brian felt the need of rest, so sending a telegram to Calton to call on him in the morning, and another to Madge, that he would be down to luncheon next day, he stayed indoors all day, and amused himself with smoking and reading. He went to bed early, and succeeded in having a sound sleep, so when he awoke next morning, he felt considerably refreshed and invigorated.

   He was having his breakfast at half-past eight, when he heard the sound of wheels, and immediately afterwards a ring at the bell. He went to the window, and saw Calton's trap was at the door. The owner was shortly afterwards shown into the room.

   "Well, you are a nice fellow," cried Calton, after greetings were over. "Here I've been waiting for you with all the patience of Job, thinking you were still up country."

   "Will you have some breakfast?" asked Brian, laughing at his indignation.

   "What have you got?" said Calton, looking over the table. "Ham and eggs. Humph! Your landlady's culinary ideas are very limited."

   "Most landladies' ideas are," retorted Fitzgerald, resuming his breakfast. "Unless Heaven invents some new animal, lodgers will go on getting beef and mutton, alternated with hash, until the end of the world."

   "When one is in Rome, one musn't speak ill of the Pope," answered Calton, with a grimace. "Do you think your landlady could supply me with brandy and soda?"

   "I think so," answered Fitzgerald, rising, and ringing the bell; "but isn't it rather early for that sort of thing?"

   "There's a proverb about glass houses," said Calton, severely, "which applies to you in this particular instance."

   Whereupon Fitzgerald laughed, and Calton having been supplied with what he required, prepared to talk business.

   "I need hardly tell you how anxious I am to hear what you've got to say," he said, leaning back in his chair, "but I may as well tell you that I am satisfied that I know half your secret already."

   "Indeed!" Fitzgerald looked astonished. "In that case, I need not ——"

   "Yes, you need," retorted Calton. "I told you I only know half."

   "Which half?"

   "Hum — rather difficult to answer — however, I'll tell you what I know, and you can supply all deficiencies. I am quite ready — go on — stop ——" he arose and closed the door carefully.

   "Well," resuming his seat, "Mother Guttersnipe died the other night."

   "Is she dead?"

   "As a door nail," answered Calton calmly. "And a horrible death-bed it was — her screams ring in my ears yet — but before she died she sent for me, and said ——"

   "What?"

   "That she was the mother of Rosanna Moore."

   "Yes!"

   "And that Sal Rawlins was Rosanna's child."

   "And the father?" said Brian, in a low voice.

   "Was Mark Frettlby."

   "Ah!"

   "And now what have you to tell me?"

   "Nothing!"

   "Nothing," echoed Calton, surprised, "then this is what Rosanna Moore told you when she died?"

   "Yes!"

   "Then why have you made such a mystery about it?"

   "You ask that?" said Fitzgerald, looking up, in surprise. "If I had told it, don't you see what difference it would have made to Madge?"

   "I'm sure I don't," retorted the barrister, completely mystified. "I suppose you mean Frettlby's connection with Rosanna Moore; well, of course, it was not a very creditable thing for her to have been Frettlby's mistress, but still ——"

   "His mistress?" said Fitzgerald, looking up sharply "then you don't know all."

   "What do you mean — was she not his mistress?"

   "No — his wife!"

   Calton sprang to his feet, and gave a cry of surprise.

   "His wife!"

   Fitzgerald nodded.

   "Why, Mother Guttersnipe did not know this — she thought Rosanna was his mistress."

   "He kept his marriage secret," answered Brian, "and as his wife ran away with someone else shortly afterwards, he never revealed it."

   "I understand now," said the barrister, slowly. "For if Mark Frettlby was lawfully married to Rosanna Moore — Madge is illegitimate."

   "Yes, and she now occupies the place which Sal Rawlins — or rather Sal Frettlby ought to."

   "Poor girl," said Calton, a little sadly. "But all this does not explain the mystery of Whyte's murder."

   "I will tell you that," said Fitzgerald, quickly. "When Rosanna left her husband, she ran away to England with some young fellow, and when he got tired of her she returned to the stage, and became famous as a burlesque actress, under the name of Musette. There she met Whyte, as your friend found out, and they came out here for the purpose of extorting money from Frettlby. When they arrived in Melbourne, Rosanna let Whyte do all the business, and kept herself quiet. She gave her marriage certificate to Whyte, and he had it on him the night he was murdered."

   "Then Gorby was right," interposed Calton, eagerly. "The man to whom those papers were valuable did murder Whyte!"

   "Can you doubt it? And that man was ——"

   "Not Mark Frettlby?" burst out Calton. "Surely not Mark Frettlby?"

   Brian nodded, "Yes, Mark Frettlby."

   There was a silence for a few moments, Calton being too much startled by the revelation to say anything.

   "When did you discover this?" he asked, after a pause.

   "At the time you first came to see me in prison," said Brian. "I had no suspicion till then; but when you said that Whyte was murdered for the sake of certain papers, I, knowing full well what they were and to whom they were of value — guessed immediately that Mark Frettlby had killed Whyte in order to obtain them and to keep his secret."

   "There can be no doubt of it," said the barrister, with a sigh. "So this is the reason Frettlby wanted Madge to marry Whyte — her hand was to be the price of his silence. When he withdrew his consent, Whyte threatened him with exposure. I remember he left the house in a very excited state on the night he was murdered. Frettlby must have followed him up to town, got into the cab with him, and after killing him with chloroform, must have taken the marriage certificate from his secret pocket, and escaped."

   Brian rose to his feet, and walked rapidly up and down the room.

   "Now you can understand what a hell my life has been for the last few months," he said, "knowing that he had committed the crime; and yet I had to sit with him, eat with him, and drink with him, with the knowledge that he was a murderer, and Madge — Madge, his daughter!"

   Just then a knock came to his door, and Mrs. Sampson entered with a telegram, which she handed to Brian. He tore it open as she withdrew, and glancing over it, gave a cry of horror, and let it flutter to his feet.

   Calton turned rapidly on hearing his cry, and seeing him fall into a chair with a white face, snatched up the telegram and read it. When he did so, his face grew as pale and startled as Fitzgerald's, and lifting his hand, he said solemnly —

   "It is the judgment of God!"

MEN, according to the old Greek, "are the sport of the gods," who, enthroned on high Olympus, put evil desires into the hearts of mortals; and when evil actions were the outcome of evil thoughts, amused themselves by watching the ineffectual efforts made by their victims to escape a relentless deity called Nemesis, who exacted a penalty for their evil deeds. It was no doubt very amusing — to the gods — but it is questionable if the men found it so. They had their revenge, however, for weary of plaguing puny mortals, who whimpered and cried when they saw they could not escape, the inevitable Nemesis turned her attention from actors to spectators, and made a clean sweep of the whole Olympian hierarchy. She smashed their altars, pulled down their statues, and after she had completed her malicious work, found that she had, vulgarly speaking, been cutting off her nose to spite her face, for she, too, became an object of derision and of disbelief, and was forced to retire to the same obscurity to which she had relegated the other deities. But men found out that she had not been altogether useless as a scapegoat upon which to lay the blame of their own shortcomings, so they created a new deity called Fate, and laid any misfortune which happened to them to her charge. Her worship is still very popular, especially among lazy and unlucky people, who never bestir themselves: on the ground that whether they do so or not their lives are already settled by Fate. After all, the true religion of Fate has been preached by George Eliot, when she says that our lives are the outcome of our actions. Set up any idol you please upon which to lay the blame of unhappy lives and baffled ambitions, but the true cause is to be found in men themselves. Every action, good or bad, which we do has its corresponding reward, and Mark Frettlby found it so, for the sins of his youth were now being punished in his old age. No doubt he had sinned gaily enough in that far-off time when life's cup was still brimming with wine, and no asp hid among the roses; but Nemesis had been an unseen spectator of all his thoughtless actions, and now she came to demand her just dues. He felt somewhat as Faust must have felt when Mephistopheles suggested a visit to Hades, in repayment of those years of magic youth and magic power. So long ago it seemed since he had married Rosanna Moore, that he almost persuaded himself that it had been only a dream — a pleasant dream, with a disagreeable awakening. When she had left him he had tried to forget her, recognising how unworthy she was of a good man's love. He heard that she had died in a London hospital, and with a passionate sigh for a perished love, he had dismissed her from his thoughts for ever. His second marriage had turned out a happy one, and he regretted the death of his wife deeply. Afterwards, all his love centred in his daughter, and he thought he would be able to spend his declining years in peace. This, however, was not to be, and he was thunderstruck when Whyte arrived from England with the information that his first wife still lived, and that the daughter of his second was illegitimate. Sooner than risk exposure, Frettlby agreed to anything; but Whyte's demands became too exorbitant, and he refused to comply with them. On Whyte's death he again breathed freely, when suddenly a second possessor of his fatal secret started up in the person of Roger Moreland. As the murder of Duncan had to be followed by that of Banquo, in order to render Macbeth safe, so he foresaw that while Roger Moreland lived his life would be one long misery. He knew that the friend of the murdered man would be his master, and would never leave him during his life, while after his death he would probably publish the whole ghastly story, and defame the memory of the widely-respected Mark Frettlby. What is it that Shakespeare says? —

   And after all these years of spotless living and generous use of his wealth, was he to be dragged down to the depths of infamy and degradation by a man like Moreland? Already, in fancy, he heard the jeering cries of his fellow-men, and saw the finger of scorn point at him — he, the great Mark Frettlby, famous throughout Australia for his honesty, integrity, and generosity. No, it could not be, and yet this would surely happen unless he took means to prevent it.

   The day after he had seen Moreland, and knew that his secret was no longer safe, since it was in the power of a man who might reveal it at any moment in a drunken fit, or out of sheer maliciousness, he sat at his desk writing. After a time he laid down his pen, and taking up a portrait of his dead wife which stood just in front of him, he stared at it long and earnestly As he did so, his mind went back to the time when he had first met and loved her. Even as Faust had entered into the purity and serenity of Gretchen's chamber, out of the coarseness and profligacy of Auerbach's cellar, so he, leaving behind him the wild life of his youth, had entered into the peace and quiet of a domestic home. The old feverish life with Rosanna Moore, seemed to be as unsubstantial and chimerical, as, no doubt, his union with Lillith after he met Eve, seemed to Adam in the old Rabbinical legend. There seemed to be only one way open to him, by which he could escape the relentless fate which dogged his steps. He would write a confession of everything from the time he had first met Rosanna, and then — death. He would cut the Gordian knot of all his difficulties, and then his secret would be safe; safe? no, it could not be while Moreland lived. When he was dead Moreland would see Madge and embitter her life with the story of her father's sins — yes — he must live to protect her, and drag his weary chain of bitter remembrance through life, always with that terrible sword of Damocles hanging over him. But still, he would write out his confession, and after his death, whenever it may happen, it might help if not altogether to exculpate, at least to secure some pity for a man who had been hardly dealt with by Fate. His resolution taken, he put it into force at once, and sat all day at his desk filling page after page with the history of his past life, which was so bitter to him. He started at first languidly, and as in the performance of an unpleasant but necessary duty. Soon, however, he became interested in it, and took a peculiar pleasure in putting down every minute circumstance which made the case stronger against, himself. He dealt with it, not as a criminal, but as a prosecutor, and painted his conduct as much blacker than it really had been. Towards the end of the day, however, after reading over the earlier sheets, he experienced a revulsion of feeling, seeing how severe he had been on himself, so he wrote a defence of his conduct, showing that fate had been too strong for him. It was a weak argument to bring forward, but still he felt it was the only one that he could make. It was quite dark when he had finished, and while sitting in the twilight, looking dreamily at the sheets scattered all over his desk, he heard a knock at the door, and his daughter's voice asking if he was coming to dinner. All day long he had closed his door against everyone, but now his task being ended, he collected all the closely-written sheets together, placed them in a drawer of his escritoire, which he locked, and then opened the door.

   "Dear papa," cried Madge, as she entered rapidly, and threw her arms around his neck, "what have you been doing here all day by yourself?"

   "Writing," returned her father laconically, as he gently removed her arms.

   "Why, I thought you were ill," she answered, looking at him apprehensively.

   "No, dear," he replied, quietly. "Not ill, but worried."

   "I knew that dreadful man who came last night had told you something to worry you. Who is he?"

   "Oh! a friend of mine," answered Frettlby, with hesitation.

   "What — Roger Moreland?"

   Her father started.

   "How do you know it was Roger Moreland?"

   "Oh! Brian recognised him as he went out."

   Mark Frettlby hesitated for a few moments, and then busied himself with the papers on his desk, as he replied in a low voice —

   "You are right — it was Roger Moreland — he is very hard up, and as he was a friend of poor Whyte's, he asked me to assist him, which I did."

   He hated to hear himself telling such a deliberate falsehood, but there was no help for it — Madge must never know the truth so long as he could conceal it.

   "Just like you," said Madge, kissing him lightly with filial pride. "The best and kindest of men."

   He shivered slightly as he felt her caress, and thought how she would recoil from him did she know all. "After all," says some cynical writer, "the illusions of youth are mostly due to the want of experience." Madge, ignorant in a great measure of the world, cherished her pleasant illusions, though many of them had been destroyed by the trials of the past year, and her father longed to keep her in this frame of mind.

   "Now go down to dinner, my dear," he said, leading her to the door. "I will follow soon."

   "Don't be long," replied his daughter, "or I shall come up again," and she ran down the stairs, her heart feeling strangely light.

   Her father looked after her until she vanished, then heaving a regretful sigh returned to his study, and taking out the scattered papers fastened them together, and endorsed them, "My Confession." He then placed them in an envelope, sealed it, and put it back in the desk. "If all that is in that packet were known," he said aloud, as he left the room, "what would the world say?"

   That night he was singularly brilliant at the dinner table. Generally a very reticent and grave man, on this night he laughed and talked so gaily that the very servants noticed the change. The fact was he felt a sense of relief at having unburdened his mind, and felt as though by writing out that confession he had laid the spectre which had haunted him for so long. His daughter was delighted at the change in his spirits, but the old Scotch nurse, who had been in the house since Madge was a baby, shook her head —

   "He's fey," she said gravely. "He's no lang for the warld."

   Of course she was laughed at — people who believe in presentiments generally are — but, nevertheless, she held firmly to her opinion.

   Mr. Frettlby went to bed early that night, the excitement of the last few days and the feverish gaiety in which he had lately indulged proving too strong for him. No sooner had he laid his head on his pillow than he dropped off to sleep at once, and forgot in placid slumber the troubles and worries of his waking hours.

   It was only nine o'clock, so Madge stayed by herself in the great drawing-room, and read a new novel, which was then creating a sensation, called "Sweet Violet Eyes." It belied its reputation, however, for it was very soon thrown on the table with a look of disgust, and rising from her seat Madge walked up and down the room, and wished some good fairy would hint to Brian that he was wanted. If man is a gregarious animal, how much more, then, is a woman? This is not a conundrum, but a simple truth. "A female Robinson Crusoe," says a writer who prided himself upon being a keen observer of human nature — "a female Robinson Crusoe would have gone mad for want of something to talk to." This remark, though severe, nevertheless contains several grains of truth, for women, as a rule, talk more than men. They are more sociable, and a Miss Misanthrope, in spite of Justin McCarthy's, is unknown — at least in civilised communities. Miss Frettlby, being neither misanthropic nor dumb, began to long for some one to talk to, and, ringing the bell, ordered Sal to be sent in. The two girls had become great friends, and Madge, though by two years the younger, assumed the rôle of mentor, and under her guidance Sal was rapidly improving. It was a strange irony of fate which brought together these two children of the same father, each with such different histories — the one reared in luxury and affluence, never having known want; the other dragged up in the gutter, all unsexed and besmirched by the life she had led. "The whirligig of time brings in its revenges," and it was the last thing in the world Mark Frettlby would have thought of seeing: Rosanna Moore's child, whom he fancied dead, under the same roof as his daughter Madge.

   On receiving Madge's message Sal came to the drawing room, and the two were soon chatting amicably together. The room was almost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted, Mr. Frettlby very sensibly detested gas, with its glaring light, and had nothing but lamps in his drawing-room. At the end of the apartment, where Sal and Madge were seated, there was a small table. On it stood a large lamp, with an opaque globe, which, having a shade over it, threw a soft and subdued circle of light round the table, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of semi-darkness. Near this sat Madge and Sal, talking gaily, and away on the left-hand side they could see the door open, and a warm flood of light pouring in from the hall.

   They had been talking together for some time, when Sal's quick ear caught a footfall on the soft carpet, and, turning rapidly, she saw a tall figure advancing down the room. Madge saw it too, and started up in surprise on recognising her father. He was clothed in his dressing-gown, and carried some papers in his hand.

   "Why, papa," said Madge, in surprise. "I ——"

   "Hush!" whispered Sal, grasping her arms. "He's asleep."

   And so he was. In accordance with the dictates of the excited brain, the weary body had risen from the bed and wandered about the house. The two girls, drawing back into the shadow, watched him with bated breath as he came slowly down the room. In a few moments he was within the circle of light, and, moving noiselessly along, he laid the papers he carried on the table. They were in a large blue envelope much worn, with writing in red ink on it. Sal recognised it, at once as the one she had seen in the possession of the dead woman, and with an instinctive feeling that there was something wrong, she tried to draw Madge back, as she watched her father's action with an intensity of feeling which held her spell-bound. Frettlby opened the envelope, and took therefrom a yellow, frayed piece of paper, which he spread out on the table. Madge bent forward to see it, but Sal, with a sudden terror drew her back.

   "For God's sake no," she cried.

   But it was too late; Madge had caught sight of the names on the paper — "Marriage — Rosanna Moore — Mark Frettlby" — and the whole awful truth flashed upon her. These were the papers Rosanna Moore had handed to Whyte. Whyte had been murdered by the man to whom the papers were of value —

   "Oh! My father!"

   She staggered blindly forward, and then, with one piercing shriek, fell to the ground. In doing so, she struck against her father, who was still standing beside the table. Awakened suddenly, with that wild cry in his ears, he opened his eyes wide, put out feeble hands, as if to keep something back, and with a strangled cry fell dead on the floor beside his daughter. Sal, horror-struck, did not lose her presence of mind, but, snatching the papers off the table, she thrust them into her pocket, and then called aloud for the servants. But they, already attracted by Madge's wild cry, came hurrying in, to find Mark Frettlby, the millionaire, lying dead, and his daughter in a faint beside her father's corpse.

AS soon as Brian received the telegram which announced the death of Mark Frettlby, he put on his hat, stepped into Calton's trap, and drove along to the St. Kilda station in Flinders Street with that gentleman. There Calton dismissed his trap, sending a note to his clerk with the groom, and went down to St. Kilda with Fitzgerald. On arrival they found the whole house perfectly quiet and orderly, owing to the excellent management of Sal Rawlins. She had taken the command in everything, and although the servants, knowing her antecedents, were disposed to resent her doing so, yet such were her administrative powers and strong will, that they obeyed her implicitly. Mark Frettlby's body had been taken up to his bedroom, Madge had been put to bed, and Dr. Chinston and Brian sent for. When they arrived they could not help expressing their admiration at the capital way in which Sal Rawlins had managed things.

   "She's a clever girl that," whispered Calton to Fitzgerald. "Curious thing she should have taken up her proper position in her father's house. Fate is a deal cleverer than we mortals think her."

   Brian was about to reply when Dr. Chinston entered the room. His face was very grave, and Fitzgerald looked at him in alarm.

   "Madge — Miss Frettlby," he faltered.

   "Is very ill," replied the doctor; "has an attack of brain fever. I can't answer for the consequences yet."

   Brian sat down on the sofa, and stared at the doctor in a dazed sort of way. Madge dangerously ill — perhaps dying. What if she were to die, and he to lose the true-hearted woman who stood so nobly by him in his trouble?

   "Cheer up," said Chinston, patting him on the shoulder; "while there's life there's hope, and whatever human aid can do to save her will be done."

   Brian grasped the doctor's hand in silence, his heart being too full to speak.

   "How did Frettlby die?" asked Calton.

   "Heart disease," said Chinston. "His heart was very much affected, as I discovered a week or so ago. It appears he was walking in his sleep, and entering the drawing-room, he alarmed Miss Frettlby, who screamed, and must have touched him. He awoke suddenly, and the natural consequences followed — he dropped down dead."

   "What alarmed Miss Frettlby?" asked Brian, in a low voice, covering his face with his hand.

   "The sight of her father walking in his sleep, I suppose," said Chinston, buttoning his glove; "and the shock of his death which took place indirectly through her, accounts for the brain fever."

   "Madge Frettlby is not the woman to scream and waken a somnambulist," said Calton, decidedly, "knowing as she did the danger. There must be some other reason."

   "This young woman will tell you all about it," said Chinston, nodding towards Sal, who entered the room at this moment. "She was present, and since then has managed things admirably; and now I must go," he said, shaking hands with Calton and Fitzgerald. "Keep up your heart, my boy; I'll pull her through yet."

   After the doctor had gone, Calton turned sharply to Sal Rawlins, who stood waiting to be addressed.

   "Well," he said briskly, "can you tell us what startled Miss Frettlby?"

   "I can, sir," she answered quietly. "I was in the drawing-room when Mr. Frettlby died — but — we had better go up to the study."

   "Why?" asked Calton, in surprise, as he and Fitzgerald followed her up stairs.

   "Because, sir," she said, when they had entered the study and she had locked the door, "I don't want any one but yourselves to know what I tell you."

   "More mystery," muttered Calton, as he glanced at Brian, and took his seat at the escritoire.

   "Mr. Frettlby went to bed early last night," said Sal, calmly, "and Miss Madge and I were talking together in the drawing-room, when he entered, walking in his sleep, and carrying some papers ——"

   Both Calton and Fitzgerald started, and the latter grew pale.

   "He came down the room, and spread out a paper on the table where the lamp was. Miss Madge bent forward to see what it was. I tried to stop her, but it was too late. She gave a scream, and fell on the floor. In doing so she happened to touch her father. He awoke, and fell down dead."

   "And the papers?" asked Calton, uneasily.

   Sal did not answer, but producing them from her pocket, laid them in his hands.

   Brian bent forward, as Calton opened the envelope in silence, but both gave vent to an exclamation of horror at seeing the certificate of marriage which they knew Rosanna Moore had given to Whyte. Their worst suspicions were confirmed, and Brian turned away his head, afraid to meet the barrister's eye. The latter folded up the papers thoughtfully, and put them in his pocket.

   "You know what these are?" he asked Sal, eyeing her keenly.

   "I could hardly help knowing," she answered; "it proves that Rosanna Moore was Mr. Frettlby's wife, and ——" she hesitated.

   "Go on," said Brian, in a harsh tone, looking up.

   "And they were the papers she gave Mr. Whyte."

   "Well!"

   Sal was silent for a moment, and then looked up with a flush.

   "You needn't think I'm going to split," she said, indignantly, recurring to her Bourke Street slang in the excitement of the moment. "I know what you know, but I'll be as silent as the grave."

   "Thank you," said Brian, fervently, taking her hand; "I know you love her too well to betray this terrible secret."

   "I would be a nice 'un, I would," said Sal, with a scorn, "after her lifting me out of the gutter, to round on her — a poor girl like me, without a friend or a relative, now Gran's dead."

   Calton looked up quickly. It was plain Sal was quite ignorant that Rosanna Moore was her mother. So much the better; they would keep her in ignorance, perhaps not altogether, but it would be folly to undeceive her at present.

   "I'm goin' to Miss Madge now," she said, going to the door, "and I won't see you again; she's getting light-headed, and might let it out; but I'll not let any one in but myself," and so saying, she left the room.

   "Cast thy bread upon the waters," said Calton, oracularly. "The kindness of Miss Frettlby to that poor waif is already bearing fruit — gratitude is the rarest of qualities, rarer even than modesty."

   Fitzgerald made no answer, but stared out of the window, and thought of his darling lying sick unto death, and he able to do nothing to save her.

   "Well," said Calton, sharply.

   "Oh, I beg your pardon," said Fitzgerald, turning in confusion. "I suppose the will must be read, and all that sort of thing."

   "Yes," answered the barrister, "I am one of the executors."

   "And the others?"

   "Yourself and Chinston," answered Calton; "so I suppose," turning to the desk, "we can look at his papers, and see that all is straight."

   "Yes, I suppose so," replied Brian, mechanically, his thoughts far away, and then he turned again to the window. Suddenly Calton gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and, turning hastily, Brian saw him holding a thick roll of papers in his hand, which he had taken out of the drawer.

   "Look here, Fitzgerald," he said, greatly excited, "here is Frettlby's confession — look!" and he held it up.

   Brian sprang forward in astonishment. So at last the hansom cab mystery was to be cleared up. These sheets, no doubt, contained the whole narration of the crime, and how it was committed.

   "We will read it, of course," he said, hesitating, half hoping that Calton would propose to destroy it at once.

   "Yes," answered Calton; "the three executors must read it, and then — we will burn it."

   "That will be the better way," answered Brian, gloomily. "Frettlby is dead, and the law can do nothing in the matter, so it would be best to avoid the scandal of publicity. But why tell Chinston?"

   "We must," said Calton, decidedly. "He will be sure to gather the truth from Madge's ravings, and he may as well know all. He is quite safe, and will be silent as the grave. But I am more sorry to tell Kilsip."

   "The detective? Good God, Calton, surely you will not do so!"

   "I must," replied the barrister, quietly. "Kilsip is firmly persuaded that Moreland committed the crime, and I have the same dread of his pertinacity as you had of mine. He may find out all."

   "What must be, must be," said Fitzgerald, clenching his hands. "But I hope no one else will find out this miserable story. There's Moreland, for instance."

   "Ah, true!" said Calton, thoughtfully. "He called and saw Frettlby the other night, you say?"

   "Yes. I wonder what for?"

   "There is only one answer," said the barrister, slowly. "He must have seen Frettlby following Whyte when he left the hotel, and wanted hush-money."

   "I wonder if he got it?" observed Fitzgerald.

   "Oh, I'll soon find that out," answered Calton, opening the drawer again, and taking out the dead man's cheque-book. "Let me see what cheques have been drawn lately."

   Most of the blocks were filled up for small amounts, and one or two for a hundred or so. Calton could find no large sum such as Moreland would have demanded, when, at the very end of the book, he found a cheque torn off, leaving the block-slip quite blank.

   "There you are," he said, triumphantly holding out the book to Fitzgerald. "He wasn't such a fool as to write in the amount on the block, but tore the cheque out, and wrote in the sum required."

   "And what's to be done about it?"

   "Let him keep it, of course," answered Calton, shrugging his shoulders. "It's the only way to secure his silence."

   "I expect he cashed it yesterday, and is off by this time," said Brian, after a moment's pause.

   "So much the better for us," said Calton, grimly. "But I don't think he's off, or Kilsip would have let me know. We must tell him, or he'll get everything out of Moreland, and the consequences will be that all Melbourne will know the story; whereas, by showing him the confession, we get him to leave Moreland alone, and thus secure silence in both cases."

   "I suppose we must see Chinston?"

   "Yes, of course. I will telegraph to him and Kilsip to come up to my office this afternoon at three o'clock, and then we will settle the whole matter."

   "And Sal Rawlins?"

   "Oh! I quite forgot about her," said Calton, in a perplexed voice. "She knows nothing about her parents, and, of course, Mark Frettlby died in the belief that she was dead."

   "We must tell Madge," said Brian, gloomily. "There is no help for it. Sal is by rights the heiress to the money of her dead father."

   "That depends upon the will," replied Calton, dryly. "If it specifies that the money is left to 'my daughter, Margaret Frettlby,' Sal Rawlins can have no claim; and if such is the case, it will be no good telling her who she is."

   "And what's to be done?"

   "Sal Rawlins," went on the barrister, without noticing the interruption, "has evidently never given a thought to her father or mother, as the old hag, no doubt, swore they were dead. So I think it will be best to keep silent — that is, if no money is left to her, and, as her father thought her dead, I don't think there will be any. In that case, it would be best to settle an income on her. You can easily find a pretext, and let the matter rest."

   "But suppose, in accordance with the wording of the will, she is entitled to all the money?"

   "In that case," said Calton, gravely, "there is only one course open — she must be told everything, and the dividing of the money left to her generosity. But I don't think you need be alarmed, I'm pretty sure Madge is the heiress."

   "It's not the money I think about," said Brian, hastily. "I'd take Madge without a penny."

   "My boy," said the barrister, placing his hand kindly on Brian's shoulder, "when you marry Madge Frettlby, you will get what is better than money — a heart of gold."

"NOTHING is certain but the unforeseen;" so says a French proverb, and judging from the unexpected things which daily happen to us, it is without doubt a very true one. If anyone had told Madge Frettlby one day that she would be stretched on a bed of sickness the next, and would be quite oblivious of the world and its doings, she would have laughed the prophet to scorn. Yet it was so, and she was tossing and turning on a bed of pain to which the couch of Procustes was one of roses. Sal sat beside her, ever watchful of her wants, and listened through the bright hours of the day, or the still ones of the night, to the wild and incoherent words which issued from her lips. She incessantly called on her father to save himself, and then would talk about Brian, and sing snatches of song, or would sob broken sentences about her dead mother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear her. No one was allowed into the room except Sal, and when Dr. Chinston heard the things she was saying, although used to such cases, he recoiled.

   "There is blood on your hands," cried Madge, sitting up in bed, with her hair all tangled and falling over her shoulders; "red blood, and you cannot wash it off. Oh, Cain! God save him! Brian, you are not guilty; my father killed him. God! God!" and she fell back on her disordered pillows weeping bitterly.

   Dr. Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards took his leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see the patient.

   "'Tain't likely," said Sal, in a disgusted tone, as she closed the door after him. "I'm not a viper to sting the bosom as fed me," from which it may be gathered she was advancing rapidly in her education.

   Meanwhile Dr. Chinston had received Calton's telegram, and was considerably astonished thereat. He was still more so when, on arriving at the office at the time appointed, he found Calton and Fitzgerald were not alone, but a third man whom he had never seen was with them. The latter Calton introduced to him as Mr. Kilsip, of the detective office, a fact which made the worthy doctor uneasy, as he could in no wise divine the meaning of it. However, he made no remark, but took the seat handed to him by Mr. Calton and prepared to listen. Calton locked the door of the office, and then went back to his desk, having the other three seated before him in a kind of semi-circle.

   "In the first place," said Calton to the doctor, "I have to inform you that you are one of the executors under the will of the late Mr. Frettlby, and that is why I asked you to come here to-day. The other executors are Mr. Fitzgerald and myself."

   "Oh, indeed," murmured the doctor, politely.

   "And now," said Calton, looking at him, "do you remember the hansom cab murder, which caused such a sensation some months ago?"

   "Yes, I do," replied the doctor, rather astonished; "but what has that to do with the will?"

   "Nothing to do with the will," answered Calton, gravely; "but the fact is, Mr. Frettlby was implicated in the affair."

   Dr. Chinston glanced enquiringly at Brian, but that gentleman shook his head.

   "It has nothing to do with my arrest," he said, sadly.

   Madge's words, uttered in her delirium, flashed across the doctor's memory.

   "What do you mean?" he gasped, pushing back his chair. "How was he implicated?"

   "That I cannot tell you," answered Calton, "until I read his confession."

   "Ah!" said Kilsip, becoming very attentive.

   "Yes," said Calton, turning to Kilsip, "your hunt after Moreland is a wild-goose chase, for the murderer of Oliver Whyte is discovered."

   "Discovered!" cried Kilsip and the doctor in one breath.

   "Yes, and his name is Mark Frettlby."

   Kilsip shot a glance of disdain out of his bright black eyes, and gave a low laugh of disbelief, but the doctor pushed back his chair furiously, and arose to his feet.

   "This is monstrous," he cried, in a rage. "I won't sit still and hear this accusation against my dead friend."

   "Unfortunately, it is too true," said Brian, sadly.

   "How dare you say so?" said Chinston, turning angrily on him. "And you going to marry his daughter!"

   "There is only one way to settle the question," said Calton, coldly. "We must read his confession."

   "But why the detective?" asked the doctor, ungraciously, as he took his seat.

   "Because I want him to hear for himself that Mr. Frettlby committed the crime, that he may keep silence."

   "Not till I've arrested him," said Kilsip, determinedly.

   "But he's dead," said Brian.

   "I'm speaking of Roger Moreland," retorted Kilsip. "For he and no other murdered Oliver Whyte."

   "That's a much more likely story," Chinston said.

   "I tell you no," said Calton, vehemently. "God knows I would like to preserve Mark Frettlby's good name, and it is with this object I have brought you all together. I will read the confession, and when you know the truth, I want you all to keep silent about it, as Mark Frettlby is dead, and the publication of his crime can do no good to anyone."

   "I know," resumed Calton, addressing the detective, "that you are fully convinced in your own mind that you are right and I am wrong, but what if I tell you that Mark Frettlby died holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime was committed?"

   Kilsip's face lengthened considerably.

   "What were the papers?"

   "The marriage certificate of Mark Frettlby and Rosanna Moore, the woman who died in the back slum."

   Kilsip was not often astonished; but he was so now. And Dr. Chinston fell back in his chair, staring at the barrister in blank amazement.

   "And what's more," went on Calton, triumphantly, "do you know that Moreland went to Frettlby two nights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush-money?"

   "What!" cried Kilsip.

   "Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently saw Frettlby, and threatened to expose him unless he paid for his silence."

   "Very strange," murmured Kilsip, to himself, with a disappointed look on his face. "But why did Moreland keep still so long?"

   "I cannot tell you," replied Calton, "but, no doubt, the confession will explain all."

   "Then for Heaven's sake read it," broke in Dr. Chinston, impatiently. "I'm quite in the dark, and all your talk is Greek to me."

   "One moment," said Kilsip, dragging a bundle from under his chair, and untying it. "If you are right, what about this?" and he held up a light coat, very much soiled and weather-worn.

   "Whose is that?" asked Calton, startled. "Not Whyte's?"

   "Yes, Whyte's," repeated Kilsip, with great satisfaction. "I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near the gate that opens to George Street, East Melbourne. It was up in a fir-tree."

   "Then Mr. Frettlby must have got out at Powlett Street, and walked down George Street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardens into town," said Calton.

   Kilsip took no heed of the remark, but took a small bottle out of the pocket of the coat and held it up.

   "I also found this," he said.

   "Chloroform," cried everyone, guessing at once that it was the missing bottle.

   "Exactly," said Kilsip, replacing it. "This was the bottle which contained the poison used by — by — well, call him the murderer. The name of the chemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who bought it. Now, who do you think?" with a look of triumph.

   "Frettlby," said Calton, decidedly.

   "No, Moreland," burst out Chinston, greatly excited.

   "Neither," retorted the detective, calmly. "The man who purchased this was Oliver Whyte himself."

   "Himself?" echoed Brian, now thoroughly surprised, as, indeed were all the others.

   "Yes. I had no trouble in finding out that, thanks to the 'Poisons Act.' As I knew no one would be so foolish as to carry chloroform about in his pocket for any length of time, I mentioned the day of the murder as the probable date it was bought. The chemist turned up in his book, and found that Whyte was the purchaser."

   "And what did he buy it for?" asked Chinston.

   "That's more than I can tell you," said Kilsip, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's down in the book as being bought for medicinal uses, which may mean anything."

   "The law requires a witness," observed Calton, cautiously. "Who was the witness?"

   Again Kilsip smiled triumphantly.

   "I think I can guess," said Fitzgerald. "Moreland?"

   Kilsip nodded.

   "And I suppose," remarked Calton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, "that is another of your proofs against Moreland. He knew that Whyte had chloroform on him, therefore he followed him that night and murdered him?"

   "Well, I ——"

   "It's a lot of nonsense," said the barrister, impatiently. "There's nothing against Moreland to implicate him. If he killed Whyte, what made him go and see Frettlby?"

   "But," said Kilsip, sagely nodding his head, "if, as Moreland says, he had Whyte's coat in his possession before the murder how is it that I should discover it afterwards up a fir-tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, with an empty chloroform bottle in the pocket."

   "He may have been an accomplice," suggested Calton.

   "What's the good of all this conjecturing?" said Chinston, impatiently, now thoroughly tired of the discussion. "Read the confession, and we will soon know the truth, without all this talk."

   Calton assented, and all having settled themselves to listen, he began to read what the dead man had written.

"WHAT I am now about to write is set forth by me so that the true circumstances connected with the 'Hansom Cab Tragedy,' which took place in Melbourne in 18—, may be known. I owe a confession, particularly to Brian Fitzgerald, seeing that he was accused of the crime. Although I know he was rightfully acquitted of the charge, yet I wish him to know all about the case, though I am convinced, from his altered demeanour towards me, that he is better acquainted with it than he chooses to confess. In order to account for the murder of Oliver Whyte, I must go back to the beginning of my life in this colony, and show how the series of events began which culminated in the committal of the crime.

   "Should it be necessary to make this confession public, in the interests of justice, I can say nothing against such a course being taken; but I would be grateful if it could be suppressed, both on account of my good name and of my dear daughter Margaret, whose love and affection has so soothed and brightened my life.

   "If, however, she should be informed of the contents of these pages, I ask her to deal leniently with the memory of one who was sorely tried and tempted.

   "I came to the colony of Victoria, or, rather, as it was called then, New South Wales, in the year 18—. I had been in a merchant's office in London, but not finding much opportunity for advancement, I looked about to see if I could better myself I heard of this new land across the, ocean, and though it was not then the El Dorado which it afterwards turned out, and, truth to tell, had rather a shady name, owing to the transportation of convicts, yet I longed to go there and start a new life. Unhappily, however, I had not the means, and saw nothing better before me than the dreary life of a London clerk, as it was impossible that I could save out of the small salary I got. Just at this time, an old maiden aunt of my mother's died and left a few hundred pounds to me. With this, I came out to Australia, determined to become a rich man. I stayed some time in Sydney, and then came over to Port Phillip, now so widely known as Marvellous Melbourne, where I intended to pitch my tent. I saw that it was a young and rising colony, though, of course, coming as I did, before the days of the, gold diggings, I never dreamt it would spring up, as it has done since, into a nation. I was careful and saving in those days, and, indeed, I think it was the happiest time of my life.

   "I bought land whenever I could scrape the money together, and, at the time of the gold rush, was considered well-to-do. When, however, the cry that gold had been discovered was raised, and the eyes of all the nations were turned to Australia, with her glittering treasures, men poured in from all parts of the world, and the 'Golden Age' commenced. I began to grow rich rapidly, and was soon pointed out as the wealthiest man in the Colonies. I bought a station, and, leaving the riotous, feverish Melbourne life, went to live on it. I enjoyed myself there, for the wild, open-air life had great charms for me, and there was a sense of freedom to which I had hitherto been a stranger. But man is a gregarious animal, and I, growing weary of solitude and communings with Mother Nature, came down on a visit to Melbourne, where, with companions as gay as myself, I spent my money freely, and, as the phrase goes, saw life. After confessing that I loved the pure life of the country, it sounds strange to say I enjoyed the wild life of the town, but I did. I was neither a Joseph nor a St. Anthony, and I was delighted with Bohemia, with its good fellowship and charming suppers, which took place in the small hours of the morning, when wit and humour reigned supreme. It was at one of these suppers that I first met Rosanna Moore, the woman who was destined to curse my existence. She was a burlesque actress, and all the young fellows in those days were madly in love with her. She was not exactly what was called beautiful, but there was a brilliancy and fascination about her which few could resist. On first seeing her I did not admire her much, but laughed at my companions as they raved about her. On becoming personally acquainted with her, however, I found that her powers of fascination had not been over-rated, and I ended by falling desperately in love with her. I made enquiries about her private life, and found that it was irreproachable, as she was guarded by a veritable dragon of a mother, who would let no one approach her daughter. I need not tell about my courtship, as these phases of a man's life are generally the same, but it will be sufficient to prove the depth of my passion for her when I say that I determined to make her my wife. It was on condition, however, that the marriage should be kept secret until such time as I should choose to reveal it. My reason for such a course was this, my father was still alive, and he, being a rigid Presbyterian, would never has forgiven me for having married a woman of the stage; so, as he was old and feeble, I did not wish him to learn that I had done so, fearing that the shock would be too much for him in his then state of health. I told Rosanna I would marry her, but wanted her to leave her mother, who was a perfect fury, and not an agreeable person to live with. As I was rich, young, and not bad looking, Rosanna consented, and, during an engagement she had in Sydney, I went over there and married her. She never told her mother she had married me, why, I do not know, as I laid no restriction on her doing so. The mother made a great noise over the matter, but I gave Rosanna a large sum of money for her, and this the old harridan accepted, and left for New Zealand. Rosanna went with me to my station, where we lived as man and wife, though, in Melbourne, she was supposed to be my mistress. At last, feeling degraded in my own eyes at the way in which I was supposed to be living, I wanted to reveal our secret, but this Rosanna would not consent to. I was astonished at this, and could never discover the reason, but in many ways Rosanna was an enigma to me. She then grew weary of the quiet country life, and longed to return to the glitter and glare of the footlights. This I refused to let her do, and from that moment she took a dislike to me. A child was born, and for a time she was engrossed with it, but soon wearied of the new plaything, and again pressed me to allow her to return to the stage. I again refused, and we became estranged from one another. I grew gloomy and irritable, and was accustomed to take long rides by myself, frequently being away for days. There was a great friend of mine who owned the next station, a fine, handsome young fellow, called Frank Kelly, with a gay, sunny disposition, and a wonderful flow of humour. When he found I was so much away, thinking Rosanna was only my mistress, he began to console her, and succeeded so well that one day, on my return from a ride, I found she had fled with him, and had taken the child with her. She left a letter saying that she had never really cared for me, but had married me for my money — she would keep our marriage secret, and was going to return to the stage. I followed my false friend and false wife down to Melbourne, but arrived too late, as they had just left for England. Disgusted with the manner in which I had been treated, I plunged into a whirl of dissipation, trying to drown the memory of my married life. My friends, of course, thought that my loss amounted to no more than that of a mistress, and I soon began myself to doubt that I had ever been married, so far away and visionary did my life of the previous year seem. I continued my fast life for about six months, when suddenly I was arrested upon the brink of destruction by — an angel. I say this advisedly, for if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was she who afterwards became my wife. She was the daughter of a doctor, and it was her influence which drew me back from the dreary path of profligacy and dissipation which I was then leading. I paid her great attention, and we were, in fact, looked upon as good as engaged; but I knew that I was still linked to that accursed woman, and could not ask her to be my wife. At this second crisis of my life Fate again intervened, for I received a letter from England, which informed me that Rosanna Moore had been run over in the streets of London, and had died in an hospital. The writer was a young doctor who had attended her, and I wrote home to him, begging him to send out a certificate of her death, so that I might be sure she was no more. He did so, and also enclosed an account of the accident, which had appeared in a newspaper. Then, indeed, I felt that I was free, and closing, as I thought, for ever the darkest page of my life's history, I began to look forward to the future. I married again, and my domestic life was a singularly happy one. As the colony grew greater, with every year I became even more wealthy than I had been, and was looked up to and respected by my fellow-citizens. When my dear daughter Margaret was born, I felt that my cup of happiness was full, but suddenly I received a disagreeable reminder of the past. Rosanna's mother made her appearance one day — a disreputable-looking creature, smelling of gin, in whom I could not recognise the respectably-dressed woman who used to accompany Rosanna to the theatre. She had spent long ago all the money I had given her, and had sank lower and lower, until she now lived in a slum off Little Bourke Street. I made enquiries after the child, and she told me it was dead. Rosanna had not taken it to England with her, but had left it in her mother's charge, and, no doubt, neglect and want of proper nourishment was the cause of its death. There now seemed to be no link to bind me to the past with the exception of the old hag, who knew nothing about the marriage. I did not attempt to undeceive her, but agreed to allow her enough to live on if she promised never to trouble me again, and to keep quiet about everything which had reference to my connection with her daughter. She promised readily enough, and went back to her squalid dwelling in the slums, where, for all I know, she still lives, as money has been paid to her regularly every month by my solicitors. I heard nothing more about the matter, and now felt quite satisfied that I had heard the last of Rosanna. As years rolled on, things prospered with me, and so fortunate was I in all speculations that my luck became proverbial. Then, alas! when all things seemed to smile upon me, my wife died, and the world has never seemed the same to me since. But I had my dear daughter to console me, and in her love and affection I became reconciled to the loss of my wife. A young Irish gentleman, called Brian Fitzgerald, came out to Australia, and I soon saw that my daughter was in love with him, and that he reciprocated that affection, whereat I was glad, as I have always esteemed him highly. I looked forward to their marriage, when suddenly a series of events occurred, which must be fresh in the memory of those who read these pages. Mr. Oliver Whyte, a gentleman from London, called on me and startled me with the news that my first wife, Rosanna Moore, was still living, and that the story of her death had been an ingenious fabrication in order to deceive me. She had met with an accident, as stated in the newspaper, and had been taken to an hospital, where she recovered. The young doctor, who had sent me the certificate of her death, had fallen in love with her, and wanted to marry her, and had told me that she was dead in order that her past life might be obliterated. The doctor, however, died before the marriage, and Rosanna did not trouble herself about undeceiving me. She was then acting on the burlesque stage under the name of 'Musette,' and seemed to have gained an unenviable notoriety by her extravagance and infamy. Whyte met her in London, and she became his mistress. He seemed to have had a wonderful influence over her, for she told him all her past life, and about her marriage with me. Her popularity being on the wane in London, as she was now growing old, and had to make way for younger actresses, Whyte proposed that they should proceed to the colonies and extort money from me, and he had come to me for that purpose. The villain told me all this in the coolest manner, and I, knowing he held the secret of my life, was unable to resent it. I refused to see Rosanna, but told Whyte I would agree to his terms, which were, first, a large sum of money was to be paid to Rosanna, and, secondly, that he should marry my daughter. I, at first, absolutely declined to sanction the latter proposal, but as he threatened to publish the story, and that meant the proclamation to the world of my daughter's illegitimacy, I at last — agreed, and he began to pay his addresses to Madge. She, however, refused to marry him, and told me she was engaged to Fitzgerald, so, after a severe struggle with myself, I told Whyte that I would not allow him to marry Madge, but would give him whatever sum he liked to name. On the night he was murdered he came to see me, and showed me the certificate of marriage between myself and Rosanna Moore. He refused to take a sum of money, and said that unless I consented to his marriage with Madge he would publish the whole affair. I implored him to give me time to think, so he said he would give me two days, but no more, and left the house, taking the marriage certificate with him. I was in despair, and saw that the only way to save myself was to obtain possession of the marriage certificate and deny everything. With this idea in my mind I followed him up to town and saw him meet Moreland, and drink with him. They went into the hotel in Russell Street, and when Whyte came out, at half-past twelve, he was quite intoxicated. I saw him go along to the Scotch Church, near the Bourke and Wills' monument, and cling to the lamp-post at the corner. I thought I would then be able to get the certificate from him, as he was so drunk, when I saw a gentleman in a light coat — I did not know it was Fitzgerald — come up to him and hail a cab for him. I saw there was nothing more to be done at that time, so, in despair, went home and waited for the next day, in fear lest he should carry out his determination. Nothing, however, turned up, and I was beginning to think that Whyte had abandoned his purpose, when I heard that he had been murdered in the hansom cab. I was in great fear lest the marriage certificate should be found on him, but nothing was said about it. This I could not understand at all. I knew he had it on him, and I could only conclude that the murderer, whoever he was, had taken it from the body, and would sooner or later come to me to extort money, knowing that I dare not denounce him. Fitzgerald was arrested, and afterwards acquitted, so I began to think that the certificate had been lost, and my troubles were at an end. However, I was always haunted by a dread that the sword was hanging over my head, and would fall sooner or later. I was right, for two nights ago Roger Moreland, who was an intimate friend of Whyte's, called on me, and produced the marriage certificate, which he offered to sell to me for five thousand pounds. In horror, I accused him of murdering Whyte, which he denied at first, but afterwards acknowledged, stating that I dare not betray him for my own sake. I was nearly mad with the horror I was placed in, either to denounce my daughter as illegitimate or let a murderer escape the penalty of his crime. At last I agreed to keep silent, and handed him a cheque for five thousand pounds, receiving in return the marriage certificate. I then made Moreland swear to leave the colony, which he readily agreed to do, saying Melbourne was dangerous. When he left I reflected upon the awfulness of my position, and I had almost determined to commit suicide, but, thank God, I was saved from that crime. I write this confession in order that after my death the true story of the murder of Whyte may be known, and that any one who may hereafter be accused of the murder may not be wrongfully punished. I have no hopes of Moreland ever receiving the penalty of his crime, as when this is opened all trace of him will, no doubt, be lost. I will not destroy the marriage certificate, but place it with these papers, so that the truth of my story can be seen. In conclusion, I would ask forgiveness of my daughter Margaret for my sins, which have been visited on her, but she can see for herself that circumstances were too strong for me. May she forgive me, as I hope God in His infinite mercy will, and may she come sometimes and pray over my grave, nor think too hardly upon her dead father."

CALTON'S voice faltered a little when he read those last sad words, and he laid the manuscript down on the table, amid a dead silence, which was first broken by Brian.

   "Thank God," he said, reverently, "thank God that he was innocent of the crime!"

   "No," said Calton, a little cynically, "the riddle which has perplexed us so long is read, and the Sphinx is silent for evermore."

   "I knew he was incapable of such a thing," cried Chinston, whom emotion had hitherto kept silent.

   Meanwhile Kilsip listened to these eulogistic remarks on the dead man, and purred to himself, in a satisfied sort of way, like a cat who has caught a mouse.

   "You see, sir," he said, addressing the barrister, "I was right after all."

   "Yes," answered Calton, frankly, "I acknowledge my defeat, but now ——"

   "I'm going to arrest Moreland right off," said Kilsip.

   There was a silence for a few moments, and then Calton spoke again.

   "I suppose it must be so — poor girl — poor girl."

   "I'm very sorry for the young lady myself," said the detective in his soft, low voice; "but you see I cannot let a dangerous criminal escape for a mere matter of sentiment."

   "Of course not," said Fitzgerald, sharply. "Moreland must be arrested right off."

   "But he will confess everything," said Calton, angrily, "and then everyone will know about this first marriage."

   "Let them," retorted Brian, bitterly. "As soon as she is well enough we will marry at once, and leave Australia for ever."

   "But ——"

   "I know her better than you do," said the young man, doggedly; "and I know she would like an end made of this whole miserable business at once. Arrest the murderer, and let him suffer for his crime."

   "Well, I suppose it must be so," said Chinston, with a sigh, "but it seems very hard that this slur should be cast upon Miss Frettlby."

   Brian turned a little pale.

   "The sins of the father are generally visited upon the children by the world," he said bitterly. "But after the first pain is over, in new lands among new faces, she will forget the bitter past."

   "Now that it is settled Moreland is to be arrested," said Calton, "how is it to be done? Is he still in Melbourne?"

   "Rather," said Kilsip in a satisfied tone; "I've had my eye on him for the last two months, and someone is watching him for me now — trust me, he can't move two steps without my knowing it."

   "Ah, indeed!" said Calton, quickly. "Then do you know if he has been to the bank and cashed that cheque for five thousand, which Frettlby gave him?"

   "Well, now," observed Kilsip, after a pause, "do you know you rather startled me when you told me he had received a cheque for that amount."

   "Why?"

   "It's such a large one," replied the detective, "and had I known what sum he had paid into his account I should have been suspicious."

   "Then he has been to the bank?"

   "To his own bank, yes. He went there yesterday afternoon at two o'clock — that is the day after he got it — so it would be sent round to Mr. Frettlby's bank, and would not be returned till next day, and as he died in the meanwhile I expect it hasn't been honoured, so Mr. Moreland won't have his money yet."

   "I wonder what he'll do," said Chinston.

   "Go to the manager and kick up a row," said Kilsip, coolly, "and the manager will no doubt tell him he'd better see the executors."

   "But, my good friend, the manager doesn't know who the executors are," broke in Calton, impatiently. "You forget the will has yet to be read."

   "Then he'll tell him to go to the late Mr. Frettlby's solicitors. I suppose he knows who they are," retorted Kilsip.

   "Thinton and Tarbit," said Calton, musingly; "but it's questionable if Moreland would go to them."

   "Why shouldn't he, sir?" said Kilsip, quickly. "He does not know anything about this," laying his hand on the confession, "and as the cheque is genuine enough he won't let five thousand pounds go without a struggle."

   "I'll tell you what," observed Calton, after a few moments of reflection, "I'll go across the way and telephone to Thinton and Tarbit, and when he calls on them they can send him up to me."

   "A very good idea," said Kilsip, rubbing his hands, "and then I can arrest him."

   "But the warrant?" interposed Brian, as Calton rose and put on his hat.

   "Is here," said the detective, producing it.

   "By Jove, you must have been pretty certain of his guilt," remarked Chinston, dryly.

   "Of course I was," retorted Kilsip, in a satisfied tone of voice. "When I told the magistrate where I found the coat, and reminded him of Moreland's acknowledgment at the trial, that he had it in his possession before the murder, I soon got him to see the necessity of having Moreland arrested."

   "Half-past four," said Calton, pausing for a moment at the door and looking at his watch. "I'm afraid it's rather late to catch Moreland to-day; however, I'll see what Thinton and Tarbit know," and he went out.

   The rest sat waiting his return, and chatted about the curious end of the hansom cab mystery, when, in about ten minutes, Calton rushed in hurriedly and closed the door after him quickly.

   "Fate is playing into our hands," he said, as soon as he recovered his breath. "Moreland called on Thinton and Tarbit, as Kilsip surmised, and as neither of them was in, he said he would call again before five o'clock. I told the clerk to bring him up to me at once, so he may be here at any moment."

   "That is, if he's fool enough to come," observed Chinston.

   "Oh, he'll come," said the detective, confidently, rattling a pair of handcuffs together. "He is so satisfied that he has made things safe that he'll walk right into the trap."

   It was getting a little dusk, and the four men were greatly excited, though they concealed it under an assumed nonchalance.

   "What a situation for a drama," said Brian.

   "Only," said Chinston, quietly, "it is as realistic as in the old days of the Coliseum, where the actor who played Orpheus was torn to pieces by bears at the end of the play."

   "His last appearance on any stage, I suppose," said Calton, a little cruelly, it must be confessed.

   Meanwhile, Kilsip remained seated in his chair, humming an operatic air and chinking the handcuffs together, by way of accompaniment. He felt intensely pleased with himself, the more so, as he saw that by this capture he would be ranked far above Gorby. "And what would Gorby say? — Gorby, who had laughed at all his ideas as foolish, and who had been quite wrong from the first. If only ——"

   "Hush!" said Calton, holding up his finger, as steps were heard echoing on the flags outside. "Here he is, I believe."

   Kilsip arose from his chair, and, stealing softly to the window, looked cautiously out. Then he turned round to those inside and, nodding his head, slipped the handcuffs into his pocket. Just as he did so, there was a knock at the door, and, in response to Calton's invitation to enter, Thinton and Tarbit's clerk came in with Roger Moreland. The latter faltered a little on the threshold, when he saw Calton was not alone, and seemed half inclined to retreat. But, evidently, thinking there was no danger of his secret being discovered, he pulled himself together, and advanced into the room in an easy and confident manner.

   "This is the gentleman who wants to know about the cheque, sir," said Thinton and Tarbit's clerk to Calton.

   "Oh, indeed," answered Calton, quietly. "I am glad to see him; you can go."

   The clerk bowed and went out, closing the door after him. Moreland took his seat directly in front of Calton, and with his back to the door. Kilsip, seeing this, strolled across the room in a nonchalant manner, while Calton engaged Moreland in conversation, and quietly turned the key.

   "You want to see me, sir?" said Calton, resuming his seat.

   "Yes; that is alone," replied Moreland, uneasily.

   "Oh, these gentlemen are my friends," said Calton, quietly; "anything you may say is quite safe."

   "That they are your friends, and are quite safe, is nothing to me," said Moreland, insolently, "I wish to speak to you in private."

   "Don't you think you would like to know my friends?" said Calton, coolly taking no notice of his remark.

   "D—— your friends, sir!" cried Moreland, furiously, rising from his seat.

   Calton laughed, and introduced Mr. Moreland to the others.

   "Dr. Chinston, Mr. Kilsip, and — Mr. Fitzgerald."

   "Fitzgerald," gasped Moreland, growing pale. "I — I — what's that?" he shrieked, as he saw Whyte's coat, all weather-stained, lying on a chair near him, and which he immediately recognised.

   "That is the rope that's going to hang you," said Kilsip, quietly, coming behind him, "for the murder of Oliver Whyte."

   "Trapped by G—!" shouted the wretched man, wheeling round, so as to face Kilsip. He sprang at the detective's throat, and they both rolled together on the floor, but the latter was too strong for him, and, after a sharp struggle, he succeeded in getting the handcuffs on Moreland's wrists. The others stood around perfectly quiet, knowing that Kilsip required no assistance. Now that there was no possibility of escape, Moreland seemed to become resigned, and rose sullenly off the floor.

   "I'll make you pay for this," he hissed between his teeth, with a white despairing face. "You can't prove anything."

   "Can't we?" said Calton, touching the confession. "You are wrong. This is the confession of Mark Frettlby made before he died."

   "It's a lie."

   "A jury will decide that," said the barrister, dryly. "Meanwhile you will pass the night in the Melbourne Gaol."

   "Ah! perhaps they'll give me the same cell as you occupied," said Moreland, with a hard laugh, turning to Fitzgerald. "I should like it for its old associations."

   Brian did not answer him, but picking up his hat and gloves, prepared to go.

   "Stop!" cried Moreland, fiercely. "I see that it's all up with me, so I'm not going to lie like a coward. I've played for a big stake and lost, but if I hadn't been such a fool I'd have cashed that cheque the next morning, and been far away by this time."

   "It certainly would have been wiser," said Calton.

   "After all," said Moreland, nonchalantly, taking no notice of his remark, "I don't know that I'm sorry about it. I've had a hell upon earth since I killed Whyte."

   "Then you acknowledge your guilt?" said Brian, quietly.

   Moreland shrugged his shoulders.

   "I told you I wasn't a coward," he answered, coolly. "Yes, I did it; it was Whyte's own fault. When I met him that night he told me how Frettlby wouldn't let him marry his daughter, but said he'd make him, and showed me the marriage certificate. I thought if I could only get it I'd make a nice little pile out of Frettlby over it; so when Whyte went on drinking I did not. After he had gone out of the hotel, I put on his coat, which he left behind. I saw him standing near the lamp-post, and Fitzgerald come up and then leave him. When you came down the street," he went on, turning to Fitzgerald, "I shrank back into the shadow, and when you passed I ran up to Whyte as the cabman was putting him into the hansom. He took me for you, so I didn't undeceive him, but I swear I had no idea of murdering Whyte when I got into the cab. I tried to get the papers, but he wouldn't let me, and commenced to sing out. Then I thought of the chloroform in the pocket of his coat, which I was wearing. I pulled it out, and found that the cork was loose. Then I took out Whyte's handkerchief, which was also in the coat, and emptied the bottle on it, and put it back in my pocket. I again tried to get the papers, without using the chloroform, but couldn't, so I clapped the handkerchief over his mouth, and he went off after a few minutes, and I got the papers. I thought he was only insensible, and it was only when I saw the newspapers that I knew he was dead. I stopped the cab in St. Kilda Road, got out and caught another cab, which was going to town. Then I got out at Powlett Street, took off the coat, and carried it over my arm. I went down George Street, towards the Fitzroy Gardens, and having hid the coat up a tree, where I suppose you found it," to Kilsip, "I walked home — so I've done you all nicely, but ——"

   "You're caught at last," finished Kilsip, quietly.

   Moreland fell down in a chair, with an air of utter weariness and lassitude.

   "No man can be stronger than Destiny," he said, dreamily. "I have lost and you have won; so life is a chess board, after all, and we are the puppets of Fate."

   He refused to utter another word; so leaving Calton and Kilsip with him, Brian and the doctor went out and hailed a cab. It drove up to the entrance of the court, where Calton's office was, and then Moreland, walking as if in a dream, left the room, and got into the cab, followed by Kilsip.

   "Do you know," said Chinston, thoughtfully, as they stood and watched the cab drive off, "do you know what the end of that man will be?"

   "It requires no prophet to foretell that," said Calton, dryly. "He will be hanged."

   "No, he won't," retorted the doctor. "He will commit suicide."

THERE are certain periods in the life of man when Fate seems to have done her worst, and any further misfortunes which may befall are accepted with a philosophical resignation, begotten by the very severity of previous trials. Fitzgerald was in this state of mind — he was calm, but it was the calmness of despair — the misfortunes of the past year seemed to have come to a climax, and he looked forward to the publication of the whole bitter story with an indifference that surprised himself His own name, and that of Madge and her dead father, would be on every tongue, yet he felt perfectly callous to whatever might be said on the subject. So long as Madge recovered, and they could go away to another part of the world, leaving Australia, with its bitter memories behind — he did not care. Moreland would suffer the bitter penalty of his crime, and then nothing more would ever be heard of the matter. It would be better for the whole story to be told, and transitory pain endured, than to go on striving to hide the infamy and shame which might be discovered at any moment. Already the news was all over Melbourne that the murderer of Oliver Whyte had been captured, and that his confession would bring to light certain startling facts concerning the late Mark Frettlby. Brian well knew that the world winked at secret vices so long as there was an attempt at concealment, though it was cruelly severe on those which were brought to light, and that many whose lives might be secretly far more culpable than poor Mark Frettlby's, would be the first to slander the dead man. The public curiosity, however, was destined never to be gratified, for the next day it was known that Roger Moreland had hanged himself in his cell during the night, and had left no confession behind him.

   When Brian heard this, he breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks for his deliverance, and went to see Calton, whom he found at his chambers, in deep conversation with Chinston and Kilsip. They all came to the conclusion that as Moreland was now dead, nothing could be gained by publishing the confession of Mark Frettlby, so agreed to burn it, and when Fitzgerald saw in the heap of blackened paper in the fireplace all that remained of the bitter story, he felt a weight lifted off his heart. The barrister, Chinston, and Kilsip, all promised to keep silent, and they kept the promise nobly, for nothing was ever known of the circumstances which led to the death of Oliver Whyte, and it was generally supposed that it must have been caused by some quarrel between the dead man and his friend Roger Moreland.

   Fitzgerald, however, did not forget the good service that Kilsip had done him, and gave him a sum of money which made him independent for life, though he still followed his old profession of a detective from sheer love of excitement, and was always looked upon with admiration as the man who had solved the mystery of the famous hansom cab murder. Brian, after several consultations with Calton, at last came to the conclusion that it would be useless to reveal to Sal Rawlins the fact that she was Mark Frettlby's daughter, as by the will the money was clearly left to Madge, and such a revelation could bring her no pecuniary benefit, while her bringing up unfitted her for the position; so a yearly income, more than sufficient for her wants, was settled upon her, and she was allowed to remain in ignorance of her parentage. The influence of Sal Rawlins' old life, however, was very strong on her, and she devoted herself to the task of saving her fallen sisters. Knowing as she did, all the intricacies of the slums, she was enabled to do an immense amount of good, and many an unhappy woman was saved from the squalor and hardship of a gutter life by the kind hand of Sal Rawlins.

   Felix Rolleston became a member of Parliament, where his speeches, if not very deep, were at least amusing; and while in the House he always behaved like a gentleman, which could not be said of all his Parliamentary colleagues.

   Madge slowly recovered from her illness, and as she had been explicitly named in the will as heiress to Mark Frettlby's great wealth, she placed the management of her estates in the hands of Mr. Calton, who, with Thinton and Tarbit, acted as her agents in Australia. On her recovery she learned the story of her father's early marriage, but both Calton and Fitzgerald were silent about the fact of Sal Rawlins being her half-sister, as such a relation could do no good, and would only create a scandal, as no explanation could be given except the true one. Shortly afterwards Madge married Fitzgerald, and both of them only too gladly left Australia, with all its sorrows and bitter memories.

   Standing with her husband on the deck of one of the P. and O. steamers, as it ploughed the blue waters of Hobson's Bay into foam, they both watched Melbourne gradually fade from their view, under the glow of the sunset. They could see the two great domes of the Exhibition, and the Law Courts, and also Government House, with its tall tower rising from the midst of the green trees. In the background was a bright crimson sky, barred with masses of black clouds, and over all the great city hung a cloud of smoke like a pall. The flaring red light of the sinking sun glared angrily on the heavy waters, and the steamer seemed to be making its way through a sea of blood. Madge, clinging to her husband's arm, felt her eyes fill with tears, as she saw the land of her birth receding slowly.

   "Good-bye," she murmured, softly. "Good-bye for ever."

   "You do not regret?" he said, bending his head.

   "Regret, no," she answered, looking at him with loving eyes.

   "With you by my side, I fear nothing. Surely our hearts have been tried in the furnace of affliction, and our love has been chastened and purified."

   "We are sure of nothing in this world," replied Brian, with a sigh. "But after all the sorrow and grief of the past, let us hope that the future will be peace."

   "Peace!"

   A white-winged sea-gull rose suddenly from the crimson waters, and circled rapidly in the air above them.

   "A happy omen," she said, looking up fondly to the grave face of her husband, "for your life and for mine."

   He bent down and kissed her.

   The great steamer moved slowly out to sea, and as they stood on the deck, hand clasped in hand, with the fresh salt breeze blowing keenly in their faces, it bore them away into the placid beauty of the coming night, towards the old world and the new life.

THE END.