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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,” said Calton, angrily. “How do you know there were any papers?”

      The fact is, Calton did not intend Kilsip to know that Whyte really had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tell him.

      “And another thing,” said Calton, resuming his walk, “if your theory is correct, which I don’t think it is, what became of Whyte’s coat? Has Moreland got it?”

      “No, he has not,” answered the detective, decisively.

      “You seem very positive about it,” said the lawyer, after a moment’s pause. “Did you ask Moreland about it?”

      A reproachful look came into Kilsip’s white face.

      “Not quite so green,” he said, forcing a smile. “I thought you’d a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton. Ask him?—no.”

      “Then how did you find out?”

      “The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel.”

      “A barman!” echoed Calton; “and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman—pshaw! the idea is absurd.”

      “Well, you may be right about the matter,” said Kilsip,

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