“You’re not engaged, sir?” he said, in his soft, low voice.
“Oh, dear, no,” answered Calton, carelessly; “come in—come in!”
Kilsip closed the door softly, and gliding along in his usual velvet-footed manner, sat down in a chair near Calton’s, and placing his hat on the ground, looked keenly at the barrister.
“Well, Kilsip,” said Calton, with a yawn, playing with his watch chain, “any good news to tell me?”
“Well, nothing particularly new,” purred the detective, rubbing his hands together.
“Nothing new, and nothing true, and no matter,” said Calton, quoting Emerson. “And what have you come to see me about?”
“The Hansom Cab Murder,” replied the other quietly.
“The deuce!” cried Calton, startled out of his professional dignity. “And have you found out who did it?”
“No!” answered Kilsip, rather dismally; “but I have an idea.”
“So had Gorby,” retorted Calton, dryly, “an idea that ended in smoke. Have you any practical proofs?”
“Not yet.”
“That means you are going to get some?”
“If possible.”
“Much virtue in ‘if,’” quoted Calton, picking up a pencil, and scribbling idly on his blotting paper. “And to whom does your suspicion point?”
“Aha!” said Mr. Kilsip, cautiously.
“Don’t know him,” answered the other, coolly; “family name Humbug, I presume. Bosh! Whom do you suspect?”
Kilsip looked round cautiously, as if to make sure they were alone, and then said, in a stage whisper—
“Roger Moreland!”
“That was the young man that gave evidence as to how Whyte got drunk?”
Kilsip nodded.
“Well, and how do you connect him with the murder?”
“Do you remember in the evidence given by the cabmen, Royston and Rankin, they both swore that the man who was with Whyte on that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand?”
“What of that? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wears a diamond ring?”
“But not on the forefinger of the right hand.”
“Oh! And Moreland wears a ring in that way?”
“Yes!”
“Merely a coincidence. Is that all your proof?”
“All I can obtain at present.”
“It’s very weak,” said Calton, scornfully.
“The weakest proofs may form a chain to hang a man,” observed Kilsip, sententiously.
“Moreland gave his evidence clearly enough,” said Calton, rising, and pacing the room. “He met Whyte; they got drunk together. Whyte went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwards Moreland followed with the coat, which was left behind by Whyte, and then someone snatched it from him.”
“Ah, did they?” interrupted Kilsip, quickly.
“So Moreland says,” said Calton, stopping short. “I understand; you think Moreland was not so drunk as he would make out, and that after following Whyte outside, he put on his coat, and got into the cab with him.”
“That is my theory.”
“It’s ingenious enough,” said the barrister; “but why should Moreland murder Whyte? What motive had he?”
“Those papers—”
“Pshaw! another idea of Gorby’s,” said Calton, angrily. “How do you know there were any papers?”
The fact is, Calton did not intend Kilsip to know that Whyte really had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tell him.
“And another thing,” said Calton, resuming his walk, “if your theory is correct, which I don’t think it is, what became of Whyte’s coat? Has Moreland got it?”
“No, he has not,” answered the detective, decisively.
“You seem very positive about it,” said the lawyer, after a moment’s pause. “Did you ask Moreland about it?”
A reproachful look came into Kilsip’s white face.
“Not quite so green,” he said, forcing a smile. “I thought you’d a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton. Ask him?—no.”
“Then how did you find out?”
“The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel.”
“A barman!” echoed Calton; “and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman—pshaw! the idea is absurd.”
“Well, you may be right about the matter,” said Kilsip, rather angrily; “and if Gorby makes mistakes I don’t pretend to be infallible. But, at all events, when I saw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand.”
“Silver isn’t a diamond.”
“No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on. When I saw that, I determined to search his room. I managed to do so while he was out, and found—”
“A mare’s nest?”
Kilsip nodded.
“And so your castle of cards falls to the ground,” said Calton, jestingly. “Your idea is absurd. Moreland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything.”
“Humph—so he says.”
“Well, men don’t calumniate themselves for nothing.”
“It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one,” replied Kilsip, coolly. “I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out.”
“Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?”
“I shall start looking for the coat first.”
“Ah! you think he has hidden it?”
