BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

Frettlby, and when he had finished, his face was very grave, though he laughed at the millionaire’s fears.

      “You are all right,” he said, gaily. “Action of the heart a little weak, that’s all—only,” impressively, “avoid excitement—avoid excitement.”

      Just as Frettlby was putting on his coat, a knock came to the door, and Madge entered.

      “Brian is gone,” she began. “Oh, I beg your pardon, doctor—but is papa ill?” she asked with sudden fear.

      “No, child, no,” said Frettlby, hastily, “I’m all right; I thought my heart was affected, but it isn’t.”

      “Not a bit of it,” answered Chinston, reassuringly. “All right—only avoid excitement.”

      But when Frettlby turned to go to the door, Madge, who had her eyes fixed on the doctor’s face, saw how grave it was.

      “There is danger?” she said, touching his arm as they paused for a moment at the door.

      “No! No!” he answered, hastily.

      “Yes, there is,” she persisted. “Tell me the worst, it is best for me to know.”

      The doctor looked at her in some doubt for a few moments, and then placed his hand on her shoulder.

      “My dear young lady,” he said gravely, “I will tell you what I have not dared to tell your father.”

      “What?” she asked in a low voice, her face growing pale.

      “His heart is affected.”

      “And there is great danger?”

      “Yes, great danger. In the event of any sudden shock—” he hesitated.

      “Yes—”

      “He would probably drop down dead.”

      “My God!”

Chapter XXVI.

       Kilsip Has a Theory of His Own

       Table of Contents

      Mr. Calton sat in his office reading a letter he had just received from Fitzgerald, and judging from the complacent smile upon his face it seemed to give him the greatest satisfaction.

      “I know,” wrote Brian, “that now you have taken up the affair, you will not stop until you find out everything, so, as I want the matter to rest as at present, I will anticipate you, and reveal all. You were right in your conjecture that I knew something likely to lead to the detection of Whyte’s murderer; but when I tell you my reasons for keeping such a thing secret, I am sure you will not blame me. Mind you, I do not say that I know who committed the murder; but I have suspicions—very strong suspicions—and I wish to God Rosanna Moore had died before she told me what she did. However, I will tell you all, and leave you to judge as to whether I was justified in concealing what I was told. I will call at your office some time next week, and then you will learn everything that Rosanna Moore told me; but once that you are possessed of the knowledge you will pity me.”

      “Most extraordinary,” mused Calton, leaning back in his chair, as he laid down the letter. “I wonder if he’s about to tell me that he killed Whyte after all, and that Sal Rawlins perjured herself to save him! No, that’s nonsense, or she’d have turned up in better time, and wouldn’t have risked his neck up to the last moment. Though I make it a rule never to be surprised at anything, I expect what Brian Fitzgerald has to tell me will startle me considerably. I’ve never met with such an extraordinary case, and from all appearances the end isn’t reached yet. After all,” said Mr. Calton, thoughtfully, “truth is stranger than fiction.”

      Here a knock came to the door, and in answer to an invitation to enter, it opened, and Kilsip glided into the room.

      “You’re not engaged, sir?” he said, in his soft, low voice.

      “Oh, dear, no,” answered Calton, carelessly; “come in—come in!”

      Kilsip closed the door softly, and gliding along in his usual velvet-footed manner, sat down in a chair near Calton’s, and placing his hat on the ground, looked keenly at the barrister.

      “Well, Kilsip,” said Calton, with a yawn, playing with his watch chain, “any good news to tell me?”

      “Well, nothing particularly new,” purred the detective, rubbing his hands together.

      “Nothing new, and nothing true, and no matter,” said Calton, quoting Emerson. “And what have you come to see me about?”

      “The Hansom Cab Murder,” replied the other quietly.

      “The deuce!” cried Calton, startled out of his professional dignity. “And have you found out who did it?”

      “No!” answered Kilsip, rather dismally; “but I have an idea.”

      “So had Gorby,” retorted Calton, dryly, “an idea that ended in smoke. Have you any practical proofs?”

      “Not yet.”

      “That means you are going to get some?”

      “If possible.”

      “Much virtue in ‘if,’” quoted Calton, picking up a pencil, and scribbling idly on his blotting paper. “And to whom does your suspicion point?”

      “Aha!” said Mr. Kilsip, cautiously.

      “Don’t know him,” answered the other, coolly; “family name Humbug, I presume. Bosh! Whom do you suspect?”

      Kilsip looked round cautiously, as if to make sure they were alone, and then said, in a stage whisper—

      “Roger Moreland!”

      “That was the young man that gave evidence as to how Whyte got drunk?”

      Kilsip nodded.

      “Well, and how do you connect him with the murder?”

      “Do you remember in the evidence given by the cabmen, Royston and Rankin, they both swore that the man who was with Whyte on that night wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand?”

      “What of that? Nearly every second man in Melbourne wears a diamond ring?”

      “But not on the forefinger of the right hand.”

      “Oh! And Moreland wears a ring in that way?”

      “Yes!”

      “Merely a coincidence. Is that all your proof?”

      “All I can obtain at present.”

      “It’s very weak,” said Calton, scornfully.

      “The weakest proofs may form a chain to hang a man,” observed Kilsip, sententiously.

      “Moreland gave his evidence clearly enough,” said Calton, rising, and pacing the room. “He met Whyte; they got drunk together. Whyte went out of the hotel, and shortly afterwards Moreland followed with the coat, which was left behind by Whyte, and then someone snatched it from him.”

      “Ah, did they?” interrupted Kilsip, quickly.

      “So Moreland says,” said Calton, stopping short. “I understand; you think Moreland was not so drunk as he would make out, and that after following Whyte outside, he put on his coat, and got into the cab with him.”

      “That is my theory.”

      “It’s ingenious enough,” said the barrister; “but why should Moreland murder Whyte? What motive had he?”

      “Those papers—”

      “Pshaw! another idea of Gorby’s,”