The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on. When I saw that, I determined to search his room. I managed to do so while he was out, and found—”

      “A mare’s nest?”

      Kilsip nodded.

      “And so your castle of cards falls to the ground,” said Calton, jestingly. “Your idea is absurd. Moreland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything.”

      “Humph—so he says.”

      “Well, men don’t calumniate themselves for nothing.”

      “It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one,” replied Kilsip, coolly. “I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out.”

      “Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?”

      “I shall start looking for the coat first.”

      “Ah! you think he has hidden it?”

      “I am sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett Street—”

      “But he didn’t,” interrupted Calton, angrily.

      “Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did,” said Kilsip, quietly. “I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett Street, turned to the left down George Street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy Gardens, then, knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away, or rather, hid it, and walked out of the Gardens through the town—”

      “In evening dress—more noticeable than the coat.”

      “He wasn’t in evening dress,” said Kilsip, quietly.

      “No, neither was he,” observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial. “Another blow to your theory. The murderer was in evening dress—the cabman said so.”

      “Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte.”

      “Well, what of that?”

      “If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moreland wore dark trousers—at least, I suppose so—and, with the coat buttoned up, it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr. Fitzgerald.”

      “That sounds better,” said Calton, thoughtfully. “And what are you going to do?”

      “Look for the coat in the Fitzroy Gardens.”

      “Pshaw! a wild goose chase.”

      “Possibly,” said Kilsip, as he arose to go.

      “And when shall I see you again?” said Calton.

      “Oh, to-night,” said Kilsip, pausing at, the door. “I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you.”

      “Why? What’s up?”

      “She’s dying, and wants to tell you some secret.”

      “Rosanna Moore, by Jove!” said Calton. “She’ll tell me something about her. I’ll get to the bottom of this yet. All right, I’ll be here at eight o’clock.”

      “Very well, sir!” and the detective glided out.

      “I wonder if that old woman knows anything?” said Calton to himself, as he resumed his seat. “She may have overheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, and intends to divulge it. Well, I’m afraid when Fitzgerald does confess, I shall know all about it beforehand.”

Chapter XXVII.

       Mother Guttersnipe Joins the Majority

       Table of Contents

      Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton’s office at eight o’clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums. He found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm this belief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times before Calton had been on the point of going to her and trying to get the secret out of her—that is, if she knew it; but now fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be true than one dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips.

      By the time Kilsip made his appearance Calton was in a high state of excitement.

      “I suppose we’d better go at once,” he said to Kilsip, as he lit a cigar. “That old hag may go off at any moment.”

      “She might,” assented Kilsip, doubtfully; “but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine lives like a cat.”

      “Not improbable,” retorted Calton, as they passed into the brilliantly-lighted street; “her nature seemed to me to be essentially feline. But tell me,” he went on, “what’s the matter with her—old age?”

      “Partly; drink also, I think,” answered Kilsip. “Besides, her surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have pretty well settled her.”

      “It isn’t anything catching, I hope,” cried the barrister, with a shudder, as they passed into the crowd of Bourke Street.

      “Don’t know, sir, not being a doctor,” answered the detective, stolidly.

      “Oh!” ejaculated Calton, in dismay.

      “It will be all right, sir,” said Kilsip, reassuringly; “I’ve been there dozens of times, and I’m all right.”

      “I dare say,” retorted the barrister; “but I may go there once and catch it, whatever it is.”

      “Take my word, sir, it’s nothing worse than old age and drink.”

      “Has she a doctor?”

      “Won’t let one come near her—prescribes for herself.”

      “Gin, I suppose? Humph! Much more unpleasant than the usual run of medicines.”

      In a short time they found themselves in Little Bourke Street, and after traversing a few dark and narrow lanes—by this time they were more or less familiar to Calton—they found themselves before Mother Guttersnipe’s den.

      They climbed the rickety stairs, which groaned and creaked beneath their weight, and found Mother Guttersnipe lying on the bed in the corner. The elfish black-haired child was playing cards with a slatternly-looking girl at a deal table by the faint light of a tallow candle.

      They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and the elfish child pushed a broken chair in a sullen manner towards Mr. Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of the room, and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entry awoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen. Sitting up in bed, she huddled the clothes round her. She presented such a gruesome spectacle that involuntarily Calton recoiled. Her white hair was unbound, and hung in tangled masses over her shoulders in snowy profusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, with the hooked nose, and beady black eyes, like those of a mouse, was poked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, were waving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with her claw-like hands. The square bottle and the broken cup lay beside her, and filling herself a dram, she lapped it up greedily.

      The irritant brought on a paroxysm of coughing