The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

as I do, as ‘e’s as innocent as an unborn babe, an’ to think of me ‘avin’ told that ‘orrid pusson who ‘ad no regard for the truth all about ‘im as is now in a cold cell, not as what the weather ain’t warm, an’ ‘e won’t want a fire as long as they allows ‘im blankets.”

      “What did you tell him?” asked Calton, sharply.

      “Ah! you may well say that,” lamented Mrs. Sampson, rolling her dingy handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes, which presented quite a bacchanalian appearance, due, be it said in justice, to grief, not to liquor. “‘Avin’ bin beguiled by that serping in light clothes as wanted to know if ‘e allays come ‘ome afore twelve, which I said ‘e was in the ‘abit of doin’, tho’, to be sure, ‘e did sometimes use ‘is latch-key.”

      “The night of the murder, for instance.”

      “Oh! don’t say that, sir,” said Mrs. Sampson, with a terrified crackle. “Me bein’ weak an’ ailin’, tho’ comin’ of a strong family, as allays lived to a good age, thro’ bein’ in the ‘abit of wearin’ flannels, which my mother’s father thought better nor a-spilin’ the inside with chemistry.”

      “Clever man, that detective,” murmured Calton to himself. “He got out of her by strategy what he never would have done by force. It’s a strong piece of evidence against Fitzgerald, but it does not matter much if he can prove an ALIBI. You’ll likely be called as a witness for the prosecution,” he said aloud.

      “Me, sir!” squeaked Mrs. Sampson, trembling violently, and thereby producing a subdued rustle, as of wind in the trees. “As I’ve never bin in the court, ‘cept the time as father tooked me for a treat, to ‘ear a murder, which there’s no denyin’ is as good as a play, ‘e bein’ ‘ung, ‘avin’ ‘it ‘is wife over the ‘ead with the poker when she weren’t lookin’, and a-berryin’ ‘er corpse in a back garding, without even a stone to mark the place, let alone a line from the Psalms and a remuneration of ‘er virtues.”

      “Well, well,” said Calton, rather impatiently, as he opened the door for her, “leave us for a short time, there’s a good soul. Miss Frettlby and I want to rest, and we will ring for you when we are going.”

      “Thank you, sir,” said the lachrymose landlady, “an’ I ‘opes they won’t ‘ang ‘im, which is sich a choky way of dyin’; but in life we are in death,” she went on, rather incoherently, “as is well known to them as ‘as diseases, an’ may be corpsed at any minute, and as—”

      Here Calton, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, shut the door, and they heard Mrs. Sampson’s shrill voice and subdued cracklings die away in the distance.

      “Now then,” he said, “now that we have got rid of that woman and her tongue, where are we to begin?”

      “The desk,” replied Madge, going over to it. “It’s the most likely place.”

      “Don’t think so,” said Calton, shaking his head. “If, as you say, Fitzgerald is a careless man, he would not have troubled to put it there. However; perhaps we’d better look.”

      The desk was very untidy (“Just like Brian,” as Madge remarked)—full of paid and unpaid bills, old letters, play-bills, ball-programmes, and withered flowers.

      “Reminiscences of former flirtations,” said Calton, with a laugh, pointing to these.

      “I should not wonder,” retorted Miss Frettlby, coolly. “Brian always was in love with some one or other; but you know what Lytton says, ‘There are many counterfeits, but only one Eros,’ so I can afford to forget these things.”

      The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was it in the sitting-room. They tried the bedroom, but with no better result. Madge was about to give up the search in despair, when suddenly Calton’s eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which, by some unaccountable reason, they had over-looked. The basket was half-full, in fact; more than half, and, on looking at it, a sudden thought struck the lawyer. He rang the bell, and presently Mrs. Sampson made her appearance.

      “How long has that waste-paper basket been standing like that?” he asked, pointing to it.

      “It bein’ the only fault I ‘ad to find with ‘im,” said Mrs. Sampson, “‘e bein’ that untidy that ‘e a never let me clean it out until ‘e told me pussonly. ‘E said as ‘ow ‘e throwed things into it as ‘e might ‘ave to look up again; an’ I ‘aven’t touched it for more nor six weeks, ‘opin’ you won’t think me a bad ‘ousekeeper, it bein’ ‘is own wish—bein’ fond of litter an’ sich like.”

      “Six weeks,” repeated Calton, with a look at Madge. “Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago. Depend upon it, we shall find it there.”

      Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basket out on the floor, and both she and Calton were soon as busy among the fragments of paper as though they were rag-pickers.

      “‘Opin they ain’t orf their ‘eads,” murmured Mrs. Sampson, as she went to the door, “but it looks like it, they bein’—”

      Suddenly a cry broke from Madge, as she drew out of the mass of paper a half-burnt letter, written on thick and creamy-looking paper.

      “At last,” she cried, rising off her knees, and smoothing it out; “I knew he had not destroyed it.”

      “Pretty nearly, however,” said Calton, as his eye glanced rapidly over it; “it’s almost useless as it is. There’s no name to it.”

      

Facsimile of the letter

      He took it over to the window, and spread it out upon the table. It was dirty, and half burnt, but still it was a clue. The above is a FAC-SIMILE of the letter:—

      “There is not much to be gained from that, I’m afraid,” said Madge, sadly. “It shows that he had an appointment—but where?”

      Calton did not answer, but, leaning his head on his hands, stared hard at the paper. At last he jumped up with a cry—

      “I have it,” he said, in an excited tone. “Look at that paper; see how creamy and white it is, and above all, look at the printing in the corner—‘OT VILLA, TOORAK.’”

      “Then he went down to Toorak?”

      “In an hour, and back again—hardly!”

      “Then it was not written from Toorak?”

      “No, it was written in one of the Melbourne back slums.”

      “How do you know?”

      “Look at the girl who brought it,” said Calton, quickly. “A disreputable woman, one far more likely to come from the back slums than from Toorak. As to the paper, three months ago there was a robbery at Toorak, and this is some of the paper that was stolen by the thieves.”

      Madge said nothing, but her sparkling eyes and the nervous trembling of her hands showed her excitement.

      “I will see a detective this evening,” said Calton, exultingly, “find out where this letter came from, and who wrote it. We’ll save him yet,” he said, placing the precious letter carefully in his pocket-book.

      “You think that you will be able to find the woman who wrote that?”

      “Hum,” said the lawyer, looking thoughtful, “she may be dead, as the letter says she is in a dying condition. However, if I can find the woman who delivered the letter at the Club, and who waited for Fitzgerald at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, that will be sufficient. All I want to prove is that he was not in the hansom cab with Whyte.”

      “And do you think you can do that?”

      “Depends upon this