The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

her veil, not wishing to be recognised by Felix, as she knew that if he did it would soon be all over the town.

      “Hallo! old chap,” said Rolleston, in considerable astonishment. “Where did you spring from?”

      “From the cab, of course,” answered Calton, with a laugh.

      “A kind of DEUS EX MACHINA,” replied Rolleston, attempting a bad pun.

      “Exactly,” said Calton. “Look here, Rolleston, do you remember the night of Whyte’s murder—you met Fitzgerald at the Railway Station.”

      “In the train,” corrected Felix.

      “Well, well, no matter, you came up with him to the Club.”

      “Yes, and left him there.”

      “Did you notice if he received any message while he was with you?”

      “Any message?” repeated Felix. “No, he did not; we were talking together the whole time, and he spoke to no one but me.”

      “Was he in good spirits?”

      “Excellent, made me laugh awfully—but why all this thusness?”

      “Oh, nothing,” answered Calton, getting back into the cab. “I wanted a little information from you; I’ll explain next time I see you— Good-bye!”

      “But I say,” began Felix, but the cab had already rattled away, so Mr. Rolleston turned angrily away.

      “I never saw anything like these lawyers,” he said to himself.

      “Calton’s a perfect whirlwind, by Jove.”

      Meanwhile Calton was talking to Madge.

      “You were right,” he said, “there must have been a message for him at the Club, for he got none from the time he left your place.”

      “And what shall we do now?” asked Madge, who, having heard all the conversation, did not trouble to question the lawyer about it.

      “Find out at the Club if any letter was waiting for him on that night,” said Calton, as the cab stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. “Here we are,” and with a hasty word to Madge, he ran up the steps.

      He went to the office of the Club to find out if any letters had been waiting for Fitzgerald, and found there a waiter with whom he was pretty well acquainted.

      “Look here, Brown,” said the lawyer, “do you remember on that Thursday night when the hansom cab murder took place if any letters were waiting here for Mr. Fitzgerald?”

      “Well, really, sir,” hesitated Brown, “it’s so long ago that I almost forget.”

      Calton gave him a sovereign.

      “Oh! it’s not that, Mr. Calton,” said the waiter, pocketing the coin, nevertheless. “But I really do forget.”

      “Try and remember,” said Calton, shortly.

      Brown made a tremendous effort of memory, and at last gave a satisfactory answer.

      “No, sir, there were none!”

      “Are you sure?” said Calton, feeling a thrill of disappointment.

      “Quite sure, sir,” replied the other, confidently, “I went to the letter rack several times that night, and I am sure there were none for Mr. Fitzgerald.”

      “Ah! I thought as much,” said Calton, heaving a sigh.

      “Stop!” said Brown, as though struck with a sudden idea. “Though there was no letter came by post, sir, there was one brought to him on that night.”

      “Ah!” said Calton, turning sharply. “At what time?”

      “Just before twelve o’clock, sir.”

      “Who brought it?”

      “A young woman, sir,” said Brown, in a tone of disgust. “A bold thing, beggin’ your pardon, sir; and no better than she should be. She bounced in at the door as bold as brass, and sings out, ‘Is he in?’ ‘Get out,’ I says, ‘or I’ll call the perlice.’ ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says she. ‘You’ll give him that,’ and she shoves a letter into my hands. ‘Who’s him?’ I asks. ‘I dunno,’ she answers. ‘It’s written there, and I can’t read; give it him at once.’ And then she clears out before I could stop her.”

      “And the letter was for Mr. Fitzgerald?”

      “Yes, sir; and a precious dirty letter it was, too.”

      “You gave it to him, of course?”

      “I did, sir. He was playing cards, and he put it in his pocket, after having looked at the outside of it, and went on with his game.”

      “Didn’t he open it?”

      “Not then, sir; but he did later on, about a quarter to one o’clock. I was in the room, and he opens it and reads it. Then he says to himself, ‘What d—d impertinence,’ and puts it into his pocket.”

      “Was he disturbed!”

      “Well, sir, he looked angry like, and put his coat and hat on, and walked out about five minutes to one.”

      “Ah! and he met Whyte at one,” muttered Calton. “There’s no doubt about it. The letter was an appointment, and he was going to keep it. What kind of a letter was it?” he asked.

      “Very dirty, sir, in a square envelope; but the paper was good, and so was the writing.”

      “That will do,” said Calton; “I am much obliged to you,” and he hurried down to where Madge awaited him in the cab.

      “You were right,” he said to her, when the cab was once more in motion. “He got a letter on that night, and went to keep his appointment at the time he met Whyte.”

      “I knew it,” cried Madge with delight. “You see, we will find it in his lodgings.”

      “I hope so,” answered Calton; “but we must not be too sanguine; he may have destroyed it.”

      “No, he has not,” she replied. “I am convinced it is there.”

      “Well,” answered Calton, looking at her, “I don’t contradict you, for your feminine instincts have done more to discover the truth than my reasonings; but that is often the case with women—they jump in the dark where a man would hesitate, and in nine cases out of ten land safely.”

      “Alas for the tenth!” said Miss Frettlby. “She has to be the one exception to prove the rule.”

      She had in a great measure recovered her spirits, and seemed confident that she would save her lover. But Mr. Calton saw that her nerves were strung up to the highest pitch, and that it was only her strong will that kept her from breaking down altogether.

      “By Jove,” he muttered, in an admiring tone, as he watched her. “She’s a plucky girl, and Fitzgerald is a lucky man to have the love of such a woman.”

      They soon arrived at Brian’s lodgings, and the door was opened by Mrs. Sampson, who looked very disconsolate indeed. The poor cricket had been blaming herself severely for the information she had given to the false insurance agent, and the floods of tears which she had wept had apparently had an effect on her physical condition, for she crackled less loudly than usual, though her voice was as shrill as ever.

      “That sich a thing should ‘ave ‘appened to ‘im,” she wailed, in her thin, high voice. “An’ me that proud of ‘im, not ‘avin’ any family of my own, except one as died and went up to ‘eaving arter ‘is father, which I ‘opes as they both are now angels, an’ friendly, as ‘is nature ‘ad not developed in this valley of the shadder to determine ‘is feelin’s towards is father when ‘e died, bein’ carried off by a chill,