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He was following at a safe distance. Brian walked slowly along Flinders Street apparently deep in thought. He turned up Russell Street and did not stop until he found himself close to the Burke and Wills' monument the exact spot where the cab had stopped on the night of Whyte's murder. "Ah!" said the detective to himself, as he stood in the shadow on the opposite side of the street.
To add to his wretchedness, he received a letter from Kate about a week after Mr Whyte's burial, telling him of the death of his mother. Meanwhile, Redfeather and Jacques both of whom, at their young master's earnest solicitation, agreed to winter at Stoney Creek cultivated each other's acquaintance sedulously.
"Names of Taylor and Lloyd are mentioned as having shot a black at Lake Colac. "WHYTE'S SECOND COLLISION. ALLAN'S CASE. Two natives shot. "Taylor was overseer of a sheep station in the Western district, and was notorious for killing natives. No legal evidence could be obtained against this nefarious individual.
Whyte's model, and Pinkie McCormick we call her Pinkie because she's got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much and Lizzie Burke." I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas, and said: "Well, go on." "We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and and all the rest. I made a mash." "Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?" She laughed and shook her head.
Whyte's adoration. Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes, above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number of plush frames of all colours, with pretty faces smiling out of them; a remarkable fact being, that all the photographs were of ladies, and not a single male face was to be seen, either on the walls or in the plush frames. "Fond of the ladies, I see," said Mr.
Mr. Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood looking at Mr. Whyte's library, which seemed to consist mostly of French novels and sporting newspapers. "Zola," said Mr. Gorby, thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book rather tattered. "I've heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn't care to read them."
No sooner did it feel the blow than it sent both heels with a bang against the wooden store, by way of preliminary movement, and then rearing up with a wild snort, it sprang over Tom Whyte's head, jerked the reins from his hand, and upset him in the snow. Poor Tom never bent to anything.
Moreland arose, and going to a side table, brought Whyte's album, which he laid on the table and opened in silence. The contents were very much the same as the photographs in the room, burlesque actresses and ladies of the ballet predominating; but Mr. Moreland turned over the pages till nearly the end, when he stopped at a large cabinet photograph, and pushed the album towards Mr. Gorby.
"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.
"Look here, Rolleston, do you remember the night of Whyte's murder you met Fitzgerald at the Railway Station." "In the train," corrected Felix. "Well, well, no matter, you came up with him to the Club." "Yes, and left him there." "Did you notice if he received any message while he was with you?" "Any message?" repeated Felix.
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