The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars, evidently being the objects of the late Mr. 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. 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.

      “Brutes,” said the lady of the house. “I’d drown ‘em in the Yarrer, I would, a settin’ ‘emselves and a callin’ ‘emselves lords of creation, as if women were made for nothin’ but to earn money ‘an see ‘em drink it, as my ‘usband did, which ‘is inside never seemed to ‘ave enough beer, an’ me a poor lone woman with no family, thank God, or they’d ‘ave taken arter their father in ‘is drinkin’ ‘abits.”

      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.”

      Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive. On hearing it Mrs. Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. “That may be Mr. Moreland,” she said, as the detective quickly replaced “Zola” in the bookcase. “I never ‘ave visitors in the evenin’, bein’ a lone widder, and if it is ‘im I’ll bring ‘im in ‘ere.”

      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. He was a tall, slender man, with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-coloured moustache—altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual. He was well-dressed in a suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.

      “And where is Mr. Whyte to-night?” he asked, sinking into a chair, and taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article of furniture.

      “Haven’t you seen him lately?” asked the detective quickly. Mr. Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or not. At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back in his chair.

      “No, I have not,” he said with a yawn. “I have been up the country for a few days, and arrived back only this evening, so I have not seen him for over a week. Why do you ask?”

      The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young man before him in a thoughtful manner.

      “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. “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? Nothing that can surprise me, I assure you—he was always an erratic individual, and—”

      “He paid reg’ler,” interrupted Mrs. Hableton, pursing up her lips.

      “A most enviable reputation to possess,” answered the other with a sneer, “and one I’m afraid I’ll never enjoy. But why all this questioning about Whyte? What’s the matter with him?”

      “He’s dead!” said Gorby, abruptly.

      All Moreland’s nonchalance vanished on hearing this, and he started up from his chair.

      “Dead,” he repeated mechanically. “What do you mean?”

      “I mean that Mr. Oliver Whyte was murdered in a hansom cab.” Moreland stared at the detective in a puzzled sort of way, and passed his hand across his forehead.

      “Excuse me, my head is in a whirl,” he said, as he sat down again. “Whyte murdered! He was all right when I left him nearly two weeks ago.”

      “Haven’t you seen the papers?” asked Gorby.

      “Not for the last two weeks,” replied Moreland. “I have been up country, and it was only on arriving back in town to-night that I heard about the murder at all, as my landlady gave me a garbled account of it, but I never for a moment connected it with Whyte, and I came down here to see him, as I had agreed to do when I left. Poor fellow! poor fellow! poor fellow!” and much overcome, he buried his face in his hands.

      Mr. 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.”

      He placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands again, while the detective sat down and related all that he knew about Whyte’s murder. When it was done he lifted up his head, and looked sadly at the detective.

      “If I had been in town,” he said, “this would not have happened, for I was always beside Whyte.”

      “You knew him very well, sir?” said the detective, in a sympathetic tone.

      “We were like brothers,” replied Moreland, mournfully.

      “I came out from England in the same steamer with him, and used to visit him constantly here.”

      Mr. Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was the case.

      “In fact,” said Mr. Moreland, after a moment’s thought, “I believe I was with him on the night he was murdered.”

      Mrs. Hableton gave a slight scream, and threw her apron over her face, but the detective sat unmoved, though Moreland’s last remark had startled him considerably.

      “What’s the matter?” said Moreland, turning to Mrs. Hableton.

      “Don’t be afraid; I didn’t kill him—no—but I met him last Thursday week, and I left for the country on Friday morning at half-past six.”

      “And what time did you meet Whyte on Thursday night?” asked Gorby.

      “Let me see,” said Moreland, crossing his legs and looking thoughtfully up to the ceiling, “it was about half-past nine o’clock. I was in the Orient Hotel, in Bourke Street. We had a drink together, and then went up the street to an hotel in Russell Street, where we had another. In fact,” said Moreland, coolly, “we had several