The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

boyish memories. Mr. and Mrs. Rolleston had come back to Melbourne, where the wretched Felix was compelled once more to plunge into politics; and Dr. Chinston had resumed his usual routine of fees and patients.

      Madge was glad to be back in Melbourne again, as now that her health was restored she craved for the excitement of town life. It was now more than three months since the murder, and the nine days’ wonder was a thing of the past. The possibility of a war with Russia was the one absorbing topic of the hour, and the colonists were busy preparing for the attack of a possible enemy. As the Spanish Kings had drawn their treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the White Czar lay violent hands on the golden stores of Australia; but here there were no uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the midst of stormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was quite forgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detective office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver Whyte would remain a free man. There were only two people in Melbourne who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip. Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck his cowardly blow in the dark, and though there seemed no possible chance of success, yet they worked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them. The barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the death-bed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on the subject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer would soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be found that would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at the time of Mark Frettlby’s return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for Fitzgerald’s confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked stealthily in the dark, searching for evidence against Moreland.

      On receiving Madge’s telegram, Brian determined to go down in the evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge to that effect. He did not want to meet Mark Frettlby, but did not of course, tell this to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself, as her father had gone to his club, and the time of his return was uncertain. After dinner, she wrapped a light cloak round her, and repaired to the verandah to wait for her lover. The garden looked charming in the moonlight, with the black, dense cypress trees standing up against the sky, and the great fountain splashing cool and silvery. There was a heavily-foliaged oak by the gate, and she strolled down the path, and stood under it in the shadow, listening to the whisper and rustle of its multitudinous leaves. It is curious the unearthly glamour which moonlight seems to throw over everything, and though Madge knew every flower, tree, and shrub in the garden, yet they all looked weird and fantastical in the cold, white light. She went up to the fountain, and seating herself on the edge, amused herself by dipping her hand into the chilly water, and letting it fall, like silver rain, back into the basin. Then she heard the iron gate open and shut with a clash, and springing to her feet, saw someone coming up the path in a light coat and soft wide-awake hat.

      “Oh, it’s you at last, Brian?” she cried, as she ran down the path to meet him. “Why did you not come before?”

      “Not being Brian, I can’t say,” answered her father’s voice. Madge burst out laughing.

      “What an absurd mistake,” she cried. “Why, I thought you were Brian.”

      “Indeed!”

      “Yes; in that hat and coat I couldn’t tell the difference in the moonlight.”

      “Oh,” said her father, with a laugh, pushing his hat back, “moonlight is necessary to complete the spell, I suppose?”

      “Of course,” answered his daughter. “If there were no moonlight, alas, for lovers!”

      “Alas, indeed!” echoed her father. “They would become as extinct as the moa; but where are your eyes, Puss, when you take an old man like me for your gay young Lochinvar?”

      “Well, really, papa,” answered Madge, deprecatingly, “you do look so like him in that coat and hat that I could not tell the difference, till you spoke.”

      “Nonsense, child,” said Frettlby, roughly, “you are fanciful;” and turning on his heel, he walked rapidly towards the house, leaving Madge staring after him in astonishment, as well she might, for her father had never spoken to her so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of his sudden anger, she stood spell-bound, until there came a step behind her, and a soft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian smiling at her.

      “Oh, it’s you,” she said, with a pout, as he caught her in his arms and kissed her.

      “Only me,” said Brian, ungrammatically; “disappointing, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, fearfully,” answered the girl, with a gay laugh, as arm-in-arm they walked towards the house. “But do you know I made such a curious mistake just now; I thought papa was you.”

      “How strange,” said Brian, absently, for indeed he was admiring her charming face, which looked so pure and sweet in the moonlight.

      “Yes, wasn’t it?” she replied. “He had on a light coat and a soft hat, just like you wear sometimes, and as you are both the same height, I took you for one another.”

      Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heart as he saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed, for just at that moment there came into his mind the curious coincidence of the man who got into the hansom cab being dressed similarly to himself. What if—“Nonsense,” he said, aloud, rousing himself out of the train of thought the resemblance had suggested.

      “I’m sure it isn’t,” said Madge, who had been talking about something else for the last five minutes. “You are a very rude young man.”

      “I beg your pardon,” said Brian, waking up. “You were saying—”

      “That the horse is the most noble of all animals—Exactly.”

      “I don’t understand—” began Brian, rather puzzled.

      “Of course you don’t,” interrupted Madge, petulantly; “considering I’ve been wasting my eloquence on a deaf man for the last ten minutes; and very likely lame as well as deaf.”

      And to prove the truth of the remark, she ran up the path with Brian after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimble and better acquainted with the garden than he was but at last he caught her just as she was running up the steps into the house, and then—history repeats itself.

      They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Frettlby had gone up to his study, and did not want to be disturbed. Madge sat down to the piano, but before she struck a note, Brian took both her hands prisoners.

      “Madge,” he said, gravely, as she turned round, “what did your father say when you made that mistake?”

      “He was very angry,” she answered. “Quite cross; I’m sure I don’t know why.”

      Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the visitor’s bell sounded, they heard the servant answer it, and then someone was taken upstairs to Mr. Frettlby’s study.

      When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that had come to the door.

      “I don’t know, miss,” he answered; “he said he wanted to see Mr. Frettlby particularly, so I took him up to the study.”

      “But I thought that papa said he was not to be disturbed?”

      “Yes, miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him.”

      “Poor papa,” sighed Madge, turning again to the piano. “He has always got such a lot to do.”

      Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldteufel’s last new valse, a dreamy, haunting