flirtations,” said Calton, with a laugh, pointing to these.
“I should not wonder,” retorted Miss Frettlby, coolly. “Brian always was in love with some one or other; but you know what Lytton says, ‘There are many counterfeits, but only one Eros,’ so I can afford to forget these things.”
The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was it in the sitting-room. They tried the bedroom, but with no better result. Madge was about to give up the search in despair, when suddenly Calton’s eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which, by some unaccountable reason, they had over-looked. The basket was half-full, in fact; more than half, and, on looking at it, a sudden thought struck the lawyer. He rang the bell, and presently Mrs. Sampson made her appearance.
“How long has that waste-paper basket been standing like that?” he asked, pointing to it.
“It bein’ the only fault I ‘ad to find with ‘im,” said Mrs. Sampson, “‘e bein’ that untidy that ‘e a never let me clean it out until ‘e told me pussonly. ‘E said as ‘ow ‘e throwed things into it as ‘e might ‘ave to look up again; an’ I ‘aven’t touched it for more nor six weeks, ‘opin’ you won’t think me a bad ‘ousekeeper, it bein’ ‘is own wish—bein’ fond of litter an’ sich like.”
“Six weeks,” repeated Calton, with a look at Madge. “Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago. Depend upon it, we shall find it there.”
Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basket out on the floor, and both she and Calton were soon as busy among the fragments of paper as though they were rag-pickers.
“‘Opin they ain’t orf their ‘eads,” murmured Mrs. Sampson, as she went to the door, “but it looks like it, they bein’—”
Suddenly a cry broke from Madge, as she drew out of the mass of paper a half-burnt letter, written on thick and creamy-looking paper.
“At last,” she cried, rising off her knees, and smoothing it out; “I knew he had not destroyed it.”
“Pretty nearly, however,” said Calton, as his eye glanced rapidly over it; “it’s almost useless as it is. There’s no name to it.”
He took it over to the window, and spread it out upon the table. It was dirty, and half burnt, but still it was a clue. The above is a FAC-SIMILE of the letter:—
“There is not much to be gained from that, I’m afraid,” said Madge, sadly. “It shows that he had an appointment—but where?”
Calton did not answer, but, leaning his head on his hands, stared hard at the paper. At last he jumped up with a cry—
“I have it,” he said, in an excited tone. “Look at that paper; see how creamy and white it is, and above all, look at the printing in the corner—‘OT VILLA, TOORAK.’”
“Then he went down to Toorak?”
“In an hour, and back again—hardly!”
“Then it was not written from Toorak?”
“No, it was written in one of the Melbourne back slums.”
“How do you know?”
“Look at the girl who brought it,” said Calton, quickly. “A disreputable woman, one far more likely to come from the back slums than from Toorak. As to the paper, three months ago there was a robbery at Toorak, and this is some of the paper that was stolen by the thieves.”
Madge said nothing, but her sparkling eyes and the nervous trembling of her hands showed her excitement.
“I will see a detective this evening,” said Calton, exultingly, “find out where this letter came from, and who wrote it. We’ll save him yet,” he said, placing the precious letter carefully in his pocket-book.
“You think that you will be able to find the woman who wrote that?”
“Hum,” said the lawyer, looking thoughtful, “she may be dead, as the letter says she is in a dying condition. However, if I can find the woman who delivered the letter at the Club, and who waited for Fitzgerald at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, that will be sufficient. All I want to prove is that he was not in the hansom cab with Whyte.”
“And do you think you can do that?”
“Depends upon this letter,” said Calton, tapping his pocket-book with his finger. “I’ll tell you to-morrow.”
Shortly afterwards they left the house, and when Calton put Madge safely into the St. Kilda train, her heart felt lighter than it had done since Fitzgerald’s arrest.
Chapter XIV.
Another Richmond in the Field
There is an old adage that says “Like draws to like.” The antithesis of this is probably that “Unlike repels unlike.” But there are times when individualism does not enter into the matter, and Fate alone, by throwing two persons together, sets up a state, congenial or uncongenial, as the case may be. Fate chose to throw together Mr. Gorby and Mr. Kilsip, and each was something more than uncongenial to the other. Each was equally clever in their common profession; each was a universal favourite, yet each hated the other. They were as fire and water to one another, and when they came together, invariably there was trouble.
Kilsip was tall and slender; Gorby was short and stout. Kilsip looked clever; Gorby wore a smile of self-satisfaction; which alone was sufficient to prevent his doing so. Yet, singularly enough, it was this very smile that proved most useful to Gorby in the pursuit of his calling. It enabled him to come at information where his sharp-looking colleague might try in vain. The hearts of all went forth to Gorby’s sweet smile and insinuating manner. But when Kilsip appeared people were wont to shut up, and to retire promptly, like alarmed snails, within their shells. Gorby gave the lie direct to those who hold that the face is ever the index to the mind. Kilsip, on the other hand, with his hawk-like countenance, his brilliant black eyes, hooked nose, and small thin-lipped mouth, endorsed the theory. His complexion was quite colourless, and his hair was jet black. Altogether, he could not be called fair to look upon. His craft and cunning were of the snake-like order. So long as he conducted his enquiries in secret he was generally successful; but once let him appear personally on the scene, and failure was assured to him. Thus, while Kilsip passed as the cleverer, Gorby was invariably the more successful—at all events, ostensibly.
When, therefore, this hansom cab murder case was put into Gorby’s hands, the soul of Kilsip was smitten with envy, and when Fitzgerald was arrested, and all the evidence collected by Gorby seemed to point so conclusively to his guilt, Kilsip writhed in secret over the triumph of his enemy. Though he would only have been too glad to say that Gorby had got hold of the wrong man, yet the evidence was so conclusive that such a thought never entered his head until he received a note from Mr. Calton, asking him to call at his office that evening at eight o’clock, with reference to the murder.
Kilsip
