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"It's not bills," answered Mr. Gorby, who, having vainly attempted to stem the shrill torrent of words, had given in, and waited mildly until she had finished; "I only want to know a few things about Mr. Fitzgerald's habits." "And what for?" asked Mrs. Sampson, indignantly.
"Now then," she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, "Who are you? what are you? and what do you want?" The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately "My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. Oliver Whyte." "He ain't here," said Mrs.
Gorby got a file of the different newspapers, and looked carefully through those columns in which missing friends and people who will hear "something to their advantage" are generally advertised for. "He was murdered," said Mr. Gorby to himself, "on a Friday morning, between one and two o'clock, so he might stay away till Monday without exciting any suspicion.
"I hope," said Mr. Moreland, nonchalantly, "I hope you will know me again, my friend, but I didn't know Whyte had started a lunatic asylum during my absence. Who are you?" Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gas light. "My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective," he said quietly. "Ah! indeed," said Moreland, coolly looking him up and down.
The detective saw that his face was ghastly pale in the moonlight, and his brows wrinkled in anger. "What the devil do you want?" he burst out, as Gorby paused. "What do you mean by following me all over the place?" "Saw me, watching the house," said Gorby to himself. "I'm not following you, sir," he said aloud. "I suppose the pier ain't private property.
Who are you, impertinence?" she broke off, as a stout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang the bell, "a-pullin' at the bell as if it were a pump 'andle." As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby, did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried down the stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage her bell had received. Mr.
But I never could abide furreigners ever since a Frenchman, as taught me 'is language, made orf with my mother's silver tea-pot, unbeknown to 'er, it bein' set out on the sideboard for company." Mr. Gorby interrupted these domestic reminiscences of Mrs. Sampson's by stating that, now she had given him all necessary information, he would take his departure. "An' I 'opes," said Mrs.
"What has Whyte been doing; running away with someone's wife, eh? I know he has little weaknesses of that sort." Gorby shook his head. "Do you know where Mr. Whyte is to be found?" he asked, cautiously. Moreland laughed. "Not I, my friend," said he, lightly. "I presume he is somewhere about here, as these are his head-quarters. What has he been doing?
"Did he make any remark to you?" "No; except he'd been worried by a loonatic." "And what was the stranger's name?" "That I can't tell you, as Mr. Whyte never told me. He was very tall, with a fair moustache, an' dressed as I told you." Mr. Gorby was satisfied. "That is the man," he said to himself, "who got into the hansom cab, and murdered Whyte; there's no doubt of it!
Gorby was touched by his evident distress, and even Mrs. Hableton permitted a small tear to roll down one hard cheek as a tribute of sorrow and sympathy. Presently Moreland raised his head, and spoke to Gorby in a husky tone. "Tell me all about it," he said, leaning his cheek on his hand. "Everything you know."
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