The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

gone on the drink, like the rest of ‘em, but I’ve put sumthin’ in the paper as ‘ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let ‘im know I ain’t a carpet to be trod on, an’ if you’re a friend of ‘im, you can tell ‘im from me ‘e’s a brute, an’ it’s no more but what I expected of ‘im, ‘e bein’ a male.”

      The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs. Hableton, having stopped for want of breath, he interposed, quietly—

      “Can I speak to you for a few moments?”

      “An’ who’s a-stoppin’ of you?” said Mrs. Hableton, defiantly. “Go on with you, not as I expects the truth from a male, but go on.”

      “Well, really,” said the other, looking up at the cloudless blue sky, and wiping his face with a gaudy red silk pocket-handkerchief, “it is rather hot, you know, and—”

      Mrs. Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate, opened it with a jerk.

      “Use your legs and walk in,” she said, and the stranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting-room, which seemed to overflow with antimacassars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There were also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutlass on the wall, and a grimy line of hard-looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornament, for their appearance in no way tempted one to read them.

      The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and shiny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery-looking arm-chair that Mrs. Hableton pushed towards him; he could not help thinking it had been stuffed with stones, it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, and having taken the handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.

      “Now then,” she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, “Who are you? what are you? and what do you want?”

      The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately—

      “My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. Oliver Whyte.”

      “He ain’t here,” said Mrs. Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was in danger of arrest.

      “I know that,” answered Mr. Gorby.

      “Then where is ‘e?”

      Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

      “He is dead.”

      Mrs. Hableton grew pale, and pushed back her chair. “No,” she cried, “he never killed ‘im, did ‘e?”

      “Who never killed him?” queried Mr. Gorby, sharply.

      Mrs. Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to say, for, recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively—

      “He never killed himself.”

      Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.

      “Clever,” muttered the detective to himself; “knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I’ll get it out of her.” He paused a moment, and then went on smoothly:

      “Oh, no! he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?” Mrs. Hableton did not answer, but, rising from her seat, went over to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard, from whence she took a bottle of brandy and a small wine-glass. Half filling the glass, she drank it off, and returned to her seat.

      “I don’t take much of that stuff,” she said, seeing the detective’s eyes fixed curiously on her, “but you ‘ave given me such a turn that I must take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?”

      “Tell me all you know,” said Mr. Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

      “Where was Mr. Whyte killed?” she asked.

      “He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St. Kilda Road.”

      “In the open street?” she asked in a startled tone.

      “Yes, in the open street.”

      “Ah!” she drew a long breath, and closed her lips, firmly. Mr. Gorby said nothing. He saw that she was deliberating whether or not to speak, and a word from him might seal her lips, so, like a wise man, he kept silent. He obtained his reward sooner than he expected.

      “Mr. Gorby,” she said at length, “I ‘ave ‘ad a ‘ard struggle all my life, which it came along of a bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, I ain’t got much inducement to think well of the lot of you, but—murder,” she shivered slightly, though the room was quite warm, “I didn’t think of that.”

      “In connection with whom?”

      “Mr. Whyte, of course,” she answered, hurriedly.

      “And who else?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Then there is nobody else?”

      “Well, I don’t know—I’m not sure.”

      The detective was puzzled.

      “What do you mean?” he asked.

      “I will tell you all I know,” said Mrs. Hableton, “an’ if ‘e’s innocent, God will ‘elp ‘im.”

      “If who is innocent?”

      “I’ll tell you everythin’ from the start,” said Mrs. Hableton, “an’ you can judge for yourself.”

      Mr. Gorby assented, and she began:

      “It’s only two months ago since I decided to take in lodgers; but charin’s ‘ard work, and sewin’s tryin’ for the eyes, So, bein’ a lone woman, ‘avin’ bin badly treated by a brute, who is now dead, which I was allays a good wife to ‘im, I thought lodgers ‘ud ‘elp me a little, so I put a notice in the paper, an’ Mr. Oliver Whyte took the rooms two months ago.”

      “What was he like?”

      “Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor moustache, an’ quite the gentleman.”

      “Anything peculiar about him?”

      Mrs. Hableton thought for a moment.

      “Well,” she said at length, “he ‘ad a mole on his left temple, but it was covered with ‘is ‘air, an’ few people ‘ud ‘ave seen it.”

      “The very man,” said Gorby to himself, “I’m on the right path.”

      “Mr. Whyte said ‘e ‘ad just come from England,” went on the woman.

      “Which,” thought Mr. Gorby, “accounts for the corpse not being recognised by friends.”

      “He took the rooms, an’ said ‘e’d stay with me for six months, an’ paid a week’s rent in advance, an’ ‘e allays paid up reg’ler like a respectable man, tho’ I don’t believe in ‘em myself. He said ‘e’d lots of friends, an’ used to go out every night.”

      “Who were his friends?”

      “That I can’t tell you, for ‘e were very close, an’ when ‘e went out of doors I never knowd where ‘e went, which is jest like ‘em; for they ses they’re goin’ to work, an’ you finds ‘em in the beershop. Mr. Whyte told me ‘e was a-goin’ to marry a heiress, ‘e was.”

      “Ah!” interjected Mr. Gorby, sapiently.

      “He ‘ad only one friend as I ever saw—a Mr. Moreland—who comed ‘ere with ‘m, an’ was allays with ‘im—brother-like.”