The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

yes.”

      “And you won’t tell me?”

      “No!”

      Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him; first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second that it had been with a woman. He pursued another line.

      “When did you last see Whyte!”

      Brian answered with great reluctance, “I saw him drunk by the Scotch Church.”

      “What! you were the man who hailed the hansom?”

      “Yes,” assented the other, hesitating slightly, “I was!”

      The thought flashed through Calton’s brain as to whether the young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged to confess that things looked very black against him.

      “Then what the newspapers said was correct?”

      “Partly.”

      “Ah!” Calton drew a long breath—here was a ray of hope.

      “You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lying drunk near the Scotch Church?”

      “No, I did not. Had I known it was he I would not have picked him up.”

      “Of course, you recognised him afterwards?”

      “Yes I did. And, as the paper stated, I dropped him and walked away.”

      “Why did you leave him so abruptly?”

      Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.

      “Because I detested him,” he said, shortly.

      “Why did you detest him?”

      No answer. “Was it because he admired Miss Frettlby, and from all appearances, was going to marry her?”

      “Well, yes,” sullenly.

      “And now,” said Calton, impressively, “this is the whole point upon which the case turns. Why did you get into the cab with him?”

      “I did not get into the cab.”

      “The cabman declares that you did.”

      “He is wrong. I never came back after I recognised Whyte.”

      “Then who was the man who got into the cab with Whyte?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “You have no idea?”

      “Not the least.”

      “You are certain?”

      “Yes, perfectly certain.”

      “He seems to have been dressed exactly like you.”

      “Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of my acquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, and soft hats.”

      “Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?”

      “No, I don’t; I know nothing about him, beyond that he came from England a short time ago with a letter of introduction to Mr. Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marry him.”

      “Where did Whyte live?”

      “Down in St. Kilda, at the end of Grey Street.”

      “How do you know?”

      “It was in the papers, and—and—” hesitatingly, “I called on him.”

      “Why?”

      “To see if he would cease his attentions to Madge, and to tell him that she was engaged to me.”

      “And what did he say?”

      “Laughed at me. Curse him.”

      “You had high words, evidently?”

      Brian laughed bitterly.

      “Yes, we had.”

      “Did anyone hear you?”

      “The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house.”

      “The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness.”

      “Very likely,” indifferently.

      “Did you say anything likely to incriminate yourself?” Fitzgerald turned away his head.

      “Yes,” he answered in a low voice, “I spoke very wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what I said.”

      “Did you threaten him?”

      “Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge.”

      “Ah! if the landlady can swear that she heard you say so, it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. So far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one—you must prove an ALIBI.”

      No answer.

      “You say you did not come back and get into the cab?” said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.

      “No, it was some one else dressed like me.”

      “And you have no idea who it was?”

      “No, I have not.”

      “Then, after you left Whyte, and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?”

      “I can’t tell you.”

      “Were you intoxicated?”

      “No!” indignantly

      “Then you remember?”

      “Yes.”

      “And where were you?”

      “I can’t tell you.”

      “You refuse.”

      “Yes, I do.”

      “Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal.”

      “If necessary, I will pay it.”

      “And you won’t tell me where you were?”

      “No, I won’t.”

      Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.

      “You’re very foolish,” he said, “sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an ALIBI.”

      No answer.

      “At what hour did you get home?”

      “About two o’clock in the morning.”

      “Did you walk home?”

      “Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens.”

      “Did you see anyone on your way home?”

      “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”

      “Did anyone see you?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o’clock on Friday morning?”

      “Absolutely!”

      Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.

      “Did you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?”

      Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.

      “No! I did not know,” he said, reluctantly.

      The lawyer made a master stroke.

      “Then why did you take them from him?”

      “What!