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 hie 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.”
Chapter XXXV.
“The Love That Lives”
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
