The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

room, caught sight of a light covert coat hanging behind the door and also a soft hat.

      “Ah,” said the detective, going up to the door, “here is the very coat you wore when you killed that poor fellow. Wonder what you have in the pockets,” and he plunged his hand into them in turn. There were an old theatre programme and a pair of brown gloves in one, but in the second pocket Mr. Gorby made a discovery—none other than that of the missing glove. There it was—a soiled white glove for the right hand, with black bands down the back; and the detective smiled in a gratified manner as he put it carefully in his pocket.

      “My morning has not been wasted,” he said to himself. “I’ve found out that he came in at a time which corresponds to all his movements after one o’clock on Thursday night, and this is the missing glove, which clearly belonged to Whyte. If I could only get hold of the chloroform bottle I’d be satisfied.”

      But the chloroform bottle was not to be found, though he searched most carefully for it. At last, hearing Mrs. Sampson coming upstairs again, he gave up the search, and came back to the sitting-room.

      “Threw it away, I suspect,” he said, as he sat down in his, old place; “but it doesn’t matter. I think I can form a chain of evidence, from what I have discovered, which will be sufficient to convict him. Besides, I expect when he is arrested he will confess everything; he seems to feel remorse for what he has done.”

      The door opened, and Mrs. Sampson entered the room in a state of indignation.

      “One of them Chinese ‘awkers,” she explained, “‘e’s bin a-tryin’ to git the better of me over carrots—as if I didn’t know what carrots was—and ‘im a-talkin’ about a shillin’ in his gibberish, as if ‘e ‘adn’t been brought up in a place where they don’t know what a shillin’ is. 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. Sampson, as she opened the door for him, “as I’ll ‘ave the pleasure of seein’ you again should any business on be’alf of Mr. Fitzgerald require it.”

      “Oh, I’ll see you again,” said Mr. Gorby, with heavy jocularity, “and in a way you won’t like, as you’ll be called as a witness,” he added, mentally. “Did I understand you to say, Mrs. Sampson,” he went on, “that Mr. Fitzgerald would be at home this afternoon?”

      “Oh, yes, sir, ‘e will,” answered Mrs. Sampson, “a-drinkin’ tea with his young lady, who is Miss Frettlby, and ‘as got no end of money, not but what I mightn’t ‘ave ‘ad the same ‘ad I been born in a ‘igher spear.”

      “You need not tell Mr. Fitzgerald I have been here,” said Gorby, closing the gate; “I’ll probably call and see him myself this afternoon.”

      “What a stout person ‘e are,” said Mrs. Sampson to herself, as the detective walked away, “just like my late father, who was allays fleshy, bein’ a great eater, and fond of ‘is glass, but I took arter my mother’s family, they bein’ thin-like, and proud of keeping ‘emselves so, as the vinegar they drank could testify, not that I indulge in it myself.”

      She shut the door, and went upstairs to take away the breakfast things, while Gorby was being driven along at a good pace to the police office, to obtain a warrant for Brian’s arrest, on a charge of wilful murder.

      Chapter X.

       In the Queen’s Name

       Table of Contents

      It was a broiling hot day—one of those cloudless days, with the blazing sun beating down on the arid streets, and casting deep, black shadows—a real Australian December day dropped by mistake of the clerk of the weather into the middle of August. The previous week having been really chilly, it was all the more welcome.

      It was Saturday morning, and fashionable Melbourne was “doing the Block.” Collins Street is to the Southern city what Bond Street and the Row are to London, and the Boulevards to Paris.

      It is on the Block that people show off their new dresses, bow to their friends, cut their enemies, and chatter small talk. The same thing no doubt occurred in the Appian Way, the fashionable street of Imperial Rome, when Catullus talked gay nonsense to Lesbia, and Horace received the congratulations of his friends over his new volume of society verses. History repeats itself, and every city is bound by all the laws of civilisation to have one special street, wherein the votaries of fashion can congregate.

      Collins Street is not, of course, such a grand thoroughfare as those above mentioned, but the people who stroll up and down the broad pavement are quite as charmingly dressed, and as pleasant as any of the peripatetics of those famous cities. As the sun brings out bright flowers, so the seductive influence of the hot weather had brought out all the ladies in gay dresses of innumerable colours, which made the long street look like a restless rainbow.

      Carriages were bowling smoothly along, their occupants smiling and bowing as they recognised their friends on the side walk. Lawyers, their legal quibbles finished for the week, were strolling leisurely with their black bags in their hands; portly merchants, forgetting Flinder’s Lane and incoming ships, walked beside their pretty daughters; and the representatives of swelldom were stalking along in their customary apparel of curly brimmed hats, high collars, and immaculate suits. Altogether, it was a pleasant and animated scene, which would have delighted the heart of anyone who was not dyspeptic, or in love—dyspeptic people and lovers (disappointed ones, of course) being wont to survey the world in a cynical vein.

      Madge Frettlby was engaged in that occupation so dear to every female heart—shopping. She was in Moubray, Rowan, and Hicks’, turning over ribbons and laces, while the faithful Brian waited for her outside, and amused himself by looking at the human stream which flowed along the pavement.

      He disliked shopping quite as much as the majority of his sex, and though as a lover he felt a certain amount of self-abnegation to be becoming in him, it was difficult to drive away the thoughts of his pleasant club, where he could be reading and smoking, with, perchance, something cooling in a glass beside him.

      However, after she had purchased a dozen or more articles she did not want, Madge remembered that Brian was waiting for her, and hurried to the door.

      “I haven’t been many minutes, have I, dear?” she said, touching him lightly on the arm.

      “Oh, dear no,” answered Brian, looking at his watch, “only thirty—a mere nothing, considering a new dress was being discussed.”

      “I thought I had been longer,” said Madge, her brow clearing; “but still I am sure you feel a martyr.”

      “Not at all,” replied Fitzgerald, handing her into the carriage; “I enjoyed myself very much.”

      “Nonsense,” she laughed, opening her sunshade, while Brian took his seat beside her; “that’s one of those social stories—which every one considers themselves bound to tell from a sense of duty. I’m afraid I did keep you waiting—though, after all,” she went on, with a true feminine idea as to the flight of time, “I was only a few minutes.”

      “And the rest,” said Brian, quizzically looking at her pretty face, so charmingly flushed under her great white hat.

      Madge disdained to notice this interruption.

      “James,” she cried to the coachman, “drive to the Melbourne Club. Papa will be there, you know,” she said to Brian, “and we’ll take him off to have tea with us.”

      “But it’s only one o’clock,”