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Updated: May 24, 2025
Gorby, nodding his head towards the mantelpiece. "A set of hussies," said Mrs. Hableton grimly, closing her lips tightly. "I feel that ashamed when I dusts 'em as never was I don't believe in gals gettin' their picters taken with 'ardly any clothes on, as if they just got out of bed, but Mr. Whyte seems to like 'em." "Most young men do," answered Mr. Gorby dryly, going over to the bookcase.
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."
"What was he like?" "Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor moustache, an' quite the gentleman." "Anything peculiar about him?" Mrs. Hableton thought for a moment. "Well," she said at length, "he 'ad a mole on his left temple, but it was covered with 'is 'air, an' few people 'ud 'ave seen it." "The very man," said Gorby to himself, "I'm on the right path." "Mr.
Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was in danger of arrest. "I know that," answered Mr. Gorby. "Then where is 'e?" Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words. "He is dead." Mrs. Hableton grew pale, and pushed back her chair. "No," she cried, "he never killed 'im, did 'e?" "Who never killed him?" queried Mr. Gorby, sharply. Mrs.
Possum Villa was an unpretentious-looking place, with one, bow-window and a narrow verandah in front. It was surrounded by a small garden in which were a few sparse flowers the especial delight of Mrs. Hableton.
She went out, and presently Gorby, who was listening intently, heard a man's voice ask if Mr. Whyte was at home. "No, sir, he ain't," answered the landlady; "but there's a gentleman in his room askin' after 'im. Won't you come in, sir?" "For a rest, yes," returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards Mrs. Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte's most intimate friend.
Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to say, for, recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively "He never killed himself." Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare. "Clever," muttered the detective to himself; "knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I'll get it out of her." He paused a moment, and then went on smoothly,
Hableton finally the impression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted. "What d'y want?" she asked, abruptly. "Does Mr. Oliver Whyte live here?" asked the stranger. "He do, an' he don't," answered Mrs. Hableton, epigrammatically.
It was little consolation to her that she was but a type of many women, who, hardworking and thrifty themselves, are married to men who are nothing but an incubus to their wives and to their families. Small wonder, then, that Mrs. Hableton should condense all her knowledge of the male sex into the one bitter aphorism, "Men is brutes."
The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that of the witness Hableton, who swore that the prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the language used was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner.
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