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"There's nothing more to tell," said Kilsip, "except that she turned up to-night at five o'clock, looking more like a corpse than anything else." When they entered the squalid, dingy passage that led to Mother Guttersnipe's abode, they saw a faint light streaming down the stair.
"Of course you can see that from the date; and Whyte was murdered on Friday, the 27th." "It was written at something Villa, Toorak," pursued Kilsip, still examining the paper. "Oh! I understand; he went down there." "Hardly," retorted Calton, in a sarcastic tone.
"Where was Sal the whole time?" asked Calton, absently, not thinking of what the detective was saying. "Ill," answered Kilsip. "After she left the Chinaman she went into the country, caught cold by falling into some river, and ended up by getting brain fever. Some people found her, took her in, and nursed her. When she got well she came back to her grandmother's."
"Let him keep it, of course," answered Calton, shrugging his shoulders. "It's the only way to secure his silence." "I expect he cashed it yesterday, and is off by this time," said Brian, after a moment's pause. "So much the better for us," said Calton, grimly. "But I don't think he's off, or Kilsip would have let me know.
"Well, sir," answered Kilsip, modestly, "of course you know more about the case than I do, but that is the only defence I can see he can make." "Well, he's not going to put in such a defence." "Then he must be guilty," said Kilsip, promptly. "Not necessarily," returned the barrister, drily. "But if he wants to save his neck, he'll have to prove an ALIBI," persisted the other.
Yet, singularly enough, it was this very smile that proved most useful to Gorby in the pursuit of his calling. It enabled him to come at information where his sharp-looking colleague might try in vain. The hearts of all went forth to Gorby's sweet smile and insinuating manner. But when Kilsip appeared people were wont to shut up, and to retire promptly, like alarmed snails, within their shells.
Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them.
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?"
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 upon with admiration as the man who had solved the mystery of the famous hansom cab murder.
"Ah!" said Kilsip, in his soft, low voice, rubbing his lean white hands together, as they sat over their drinks, "you're a lucky man to have laid your hands on that hansom cab murderer so quickly." "Yes; I flatter myself I did manage it pretty well," said Gorby, lighting his pipe. "I had no idea that it would be so simple though, mind you, it required a lot of thought before I got a proper start."
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