CHAPTER X.
IN THE QUEEN'S NAME
It was a broiling hot day – one of those cloudless days, with the blazing sun beating down on the arid streets, and casting deep, black shadows – a real Australian December day dropped by mistake of the clerk of the weather into the middle of August. The previous week having been really chilly, it was all the more welcome.
It was Saturday morning, and fashionable Melbourne was "doing the Block." Collins Street is to the Southern city what Bond Street and the Row are to London, and the Boulevards to Paris.
It is on the Block that people show off their new dresses, bow to their friends, cut their enemies, and chatter small talk. The same thing no doubt occurred in the Appian Way, the fashionable street of Imperial Rome, when Catullus talked gay nonsense to Lesbia, and Horace received the congratulations of his friends over his new volume of society verses. History repeats itself, and every city is bound by all the laws of civilisation to have one special street, wherein the votaries of fashion can congregate.
Collins Street is not, of course, such a grand thoroughfare as those above mentioned, but the people who stroll up and down the broad pavement are quite as charmingly dressed, and as pleasant as any of the peripatetics of those famous cities. As the sun brings out bright flowers, so the seductive influence of the hot weather had brought out all the ladies in gay dresses of innumerable colours, which made the long street look like a restless rainbow.
Carriages were bowling smoothly along, their occupants smiling and bowing as they recognised their friends on the side walk. Lawyers, their legal quibbles finished for the week, were strolling leisurely with their black bags in their hands; portly merchants, forgetting Flinder's Lane and incoming ships, walked beside their pretty daughters; and the representatives of swelldom were stalking along in their customary apparel of curly brimmed hats, high collars, and immaculate suits. Altogether, it was a pleasant and animated scene, which would have delighted the heart of anyone who was not dyspeptic, or in love – dyspeptic people and lovers (disappointed ones, of course) being wont to survey the world in a cynical vein.
Madge Frettlby was engaged in that occupation so dear to every female heart – shopping. She was in Moubray, Rowan, and Hicks', turning over ribbons and laces, while the faithful Brian waited for her outside, and amused himself by looking at the human stream which flowed along the pavement.
He disliked shopping quite as much as the majority of his sex, and though as a lover he felt a certain amount of self-abnegation to be becoming in him, it was difficult to drive away the thoughts of his pleasant club, where he could be reading and smoking, with, perchance, something cooling in a glass beside him.
However, after she had purchased a dozen or more articles she did not want, Madge remembered that Brian was waiting for her, and hurried to the door.
"I haven't been many minutes, have I, dear?" she said, touching him lightly on the arm.
"Oh, dear no," answered Brian, looking at his watch, "only thirty – a mere nothing, considering a new dress was being discussed."
"I thought I had been longer," said Madge, her brow clearing; "but still I am sure you feel a martyr."
"Not at all," replied Fitzgerald, handing her into the carriage; "I enjoyed myself very much."
"Nonsense," she laughed, opening her sunshade, while Brian took his seat beside her; "that's one of those social stories – which every one considers themselves bound to tell from a sense of duty. I'm afraid I did keep you waiting – though, after all," she went on, with a true feminine idea as to the flight of time, "I was only a few minutes."
"And the rest," said Brian, quizzically looking at her pretty face, so charmingly flushed under her great white hat.
Madge disdained to notice this interruption.
"James," she cried to the coachman, "drive to the Melbourne Club. Papa will be there, you know," she said to Brian, "and we'll take him off to have tea with us."
"But it's only one o'clock," said Brian, as the Town Hall clock came in sight. "Mrs. Sampson won't be ready."
"Oh, anything will do," replied Madge, "a cup of tea and some thin bread and butter isn't hard to prepare. I don't feel like lunch, and papa eats so little in the middle of the day, and you – "
"Eat a great deal at all times," finished Brian with a laugh.
Madge went on chattering in her usual lively manner, and Brian listened to her with delight. Her pleasant talk drove away the evil spirit which had been with him for the last three weeks. Suddenly Madge made an observation as they were passing the Burke and Wills' monument, which startled him.
"Isn't that the place where Mr Whyte got into the cab?" she asked, looking at the corner near the Scotch Church, where a vagrant of musical tendencies was playing "Just before the Battle, Mother," on a battered old concertina.
"So the papers say," answered Brian, listlessly, without turning his head.
"I wonder who the gentleman in the light coat could have been," said Madge, as she settled herself again.
"No one seems to know," he replied evasively.
"Ah, but they have a clue," she said. "Do you know, Brian," she went on, "that he was dressed just like you in a light overcoat and soft hat?"
"How remarkable," said Fitzgerald, speaking in a slightly sarcastic tone, and as calmly as he was able. "He was dressed in the same manner as nine out of every ten young fellows in Melbourne."
Madge looked at him in surprise at the tone in which he spoke, so different from his usual nonchalant way of speaking. She was about to answer when the carriage stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. Brian, anxious to escape any more remarks about the murder, sprang quickly out, and ran up the steps into the building. He found Mr. Frettlby smoking complacently, and reading the AGE. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, and putting down the paper, held out his hand, which the other took.
"Ah! Fitzgerald," he said, "have you left the attractions of Collins Street for the still greater ones of Clubland?"
"Not I," answered Brian. "I've come to carry you off to afternoon tea with Madge and myself."
"I don't mind," answered Mr. Frettlby rising; "but, isn't afternoon tea at half-past one rather an anomaly?"
"What's in a name?" said Fitzgerald, absently, as they left the room. "What have you been doing all morning?"
"I've been in here for the last half-hour reading," answered the other, carelessly.
"Wool market, I suppose?"
"No, the hansom cab murder."
"Oh, d – that thing!" said Brian, hastily; then, seeing his companion looking at him in surprise, he apologised. "But, indeed," he went on, "I'm nearly worried to death by people asking about Whyte, as if I knew all about him, whereas I know nothing."
"Just as well you don't," answered Mr. Frettlby, as they descended the steps together; "he was not a very desirable companion."
It was on the tip of Brian's tongue to say, "And yet you wanted him to marry your daughter," but he wisely refrained, and they reached the carriage in silence.
"Now then, papa," said Madge, when they were all settled in the carriage, and it was rolling along smoothly in the direction of East Melbourne, "what have you been doing?"
"Enjoying myself," answered her father, "until you and Brian came, and dragged me out into this blazing sunshine."
"Well, Brian has been so good of late," said Madge, "that I had to reward him, so I knew that nothing would please him better than to play host."
"Certainly," said Brian, rousing himself out of a fit of abstraction, "especially when one has such charming visitors."
Madge laughed at this, and made a little grimace.
"If your tea is only equal to your compliments," she said lightly, "I'm sure papa will forgive us for dragging him away from his club."
"Papa will forgive anything," murmured Mr. Frettlby, tilting his hat over his eyes, "so long as he gets somewhere out of the sun. I can't say I care about playing the parts of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace of a Melbourne hot day."
"There now, papa is quite a host in himself," said Madge mischievously, as, the carriage drew up at Mrs. Sampson's door.
"No, you are wrong," said Brian, as he alighted and helped her out; "I am the host in myself this time."
"If there is one thing I hate above another," observed Miss Frettlby, calmly, "it's a pun, and especially a bad one."
Mrs. Sampson was very much astonished at the early arrival of her lodger's guests, and did not hesitate to express her astonishment.
"Bein' taken by surprise," she said, with an apologetic cackle, "it ain't to be suppose as miraculs can be performed with regard to cookin', the fire havin' gone out, not bein' kept alight on account of the 'eat of the day, which was that 'ot as never was, tho', to be sure, bein' a child in the early days, I remember it were that 'ot as my sister's aunt was in the 'abit of roastin' her jints in the sun."
After telling this last romance, and leaving her visitors in doubt whether the joints referred to belonged to an animal or to her sister's aunt or to herself, Mrs. Sampson crackled away downstairs to get things ready.
"What a curious thing that landlady of yours is, Brian," said Madge, from the depths of a huge arm-chair. "I believe she's a grasshopper from the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Oh, no, she's a woman," said Mr. Frettlby, cynically. "You can tell that by the length of her tongue."
"A popular error, papa," retorted Madge, sharply. "I know plenty of men who talk far more than any woman."
"I hope I'll never meet them, then," said Mr. Frettlby, "for if I did I should be inclined to agree with De Quincey on murder as a fine art."
Brian winced at this, and looked apprehensively at Madge, and saw with relief that she was not paying attention to her father, but was listening intently.
"There she is," as a faint rustle at the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Sampson and the tea-tray. "I wonder, Brian, you don't think the house is on fire with that queer noise always going on – she wants oil!"
"Yes, St. Jacob's oil," laughed Brian, as Mrs. Sampson entered, and placed her burden on the table.
"Not 'avin' any cake," said that lady, "thro' not being forewarned as to the time of arrival – tho' it's not ofting I'm taken by surprise – except as to a 'eadache, which, of course, is accidental to every pusson – I ain't got nothin' but bread and butter, the baker and grocer both bein' all that could be desired, except in the way of worryin' for their money, which they thinks as 'ow I keeps the bank in the 'ouse, like Allading's cave, as I've 'eard tell in the Arabian Nights, me 'avin' gained it as a prize for English in my early girl'ood, bein' then considered a scholard an' industrus."
Mrs. Sampson's shrill apologies for the absence of cake having been received, she hopped out of the room, and Madge made the tea. The service was a quaint Chinese one, which Brian had picked up in his wanderings. He used it only on special occasions. As he watched Madge he could not help thinking how pretty she looked, with her hands moving deftly among the cups and saucers, so bizarre-looking with their sprawling dragons of yellow and green. He half smiled to himself as he thought, "If they knew all, I wonder if they would sit with me so unconcernedly."
Mr. Frettlby, too, as he looked at his daughter, thought of his dead wife and sighed.
"Well," said Madge, as she handed them their tea, and helped herself to some thin bread and butter, "you two gentlemen are most delightful company – papa is sighing like a furnace, and Brian is staring at me with his eyes like blue china saucers. You ought both to be turned forth to funerals like melancholy."
"Why like melancholy?" queried Brian, lazily.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the young lady with a smile in her pretty black eyes, "that you are not a student of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'"
"Very likely not," answered Brian; "midsummer out here is so hot that one gets no sleep, and, consequently no dreams. Depend upon it, if the four lovers whom Puck treated so badly had lived in Australia they wouldn't have been able to sleep for the mosquitoes."
"What nonsense you two young people do talk," said Mr. Frettlby, with an amused smile, as he stirred his tea.
"Dulce est desipere in loco," observed Brian, gravely, "a man who can't carry out that observation is sure not to be up to much."
"I don't like Latin," said Miss Frettlby, shaking her pretty head. "I agree with Heine's remark, that if the Romans had been forced to learn it they would not have found time to conquer the world."
"Which was a much more agreeable task," said Brian.
"And more profitable," finished Mr. Frettlby.
They chattered in this desultory fashion for a considerable time, till at last Madge rose and said they must go.
Brian proposed to dine with them at St. Kilda, and then they would all go to Brock's Fireworks. Madge consented to this, and she was just pulling on her gloves when suddenly they heard a ring at the front door, and presently Mrs. Sampson talking in an excited manner at the pitch of her voice.
"You shan't come in, I tell you," they heard her say shrilly, "so it's no good trying, which I've allays 'eard as an Englishman's 'ouse is 'is castle, an' you're a-breakin' the law, as well as a-spilin' the carpets, which 'as bin newly put down."
Some one made a reply; then the door of Brian's room was thrown open, and Gorby walked in, followed by another man. Fitzgerald turned as white as a sheet, for he felt instinctively that they had come for him. However, pulling himself together, he demanded, in a haughty tone, the reason of the intrusion.
Mr. Gorby walked straight over to where Brian was standing, and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Brian Fitzgerald," he said, in a clear voice, "I arrest you in the Queen's name."
"For what?" asked Brian, steadily.
"The murder of Oliver Whyte."
At this Madge gave a cry.
"It is not true!" she said, wildly. "My God, it's not true."
Brian did not answer, but, ghastly pale, held out his hands. Gorby slipped the handcuffs on to his wrists with a feeling of compunction, despite his joy in running his man down. This done, Fitzgerald turned round to where Madge was standing, pale and still, as though turned into stone.
"Madge," he said, in a clear, low voice, "I am going to prison – perhaps to death; but I swear to you, by all that I hold most sacred, that I am innocent of this murder."
"My darling!" She made a step forward, but her father stepped before her.
"Keep back," he said, in a hard voice; "there is nothing between you and that man now."
She turned round with an ashen face, but with a proud look in her clear eyes.
"You are wrong," she answered, with a touch of scorn in her voice. "I love him more now than ever." Then, before her father could stop her, she placed her arms round her lover's neck, and kissed him wildly.
"My darling," she said, with the tears streaming down her white cheeks, "whatever the world may say, you are always dearest of all to me."
Brian kissed her passionately, and moved away. Madge fell down at her father's feet in a dead faint.
CHAPTER XI.
COUNSEL FOR THE PRISONER
Brian Fitzgerald was arrested at a few minutes past three o'clock, and by five all Melbourne was ringing with the news that the perpetrator of the now famous hansom cab murder had been caught. The evening papers were full of the affair, and the HERALD went through several editions, the demand being far in the excess of the supply. Such a crime had not been committed in Melbourne since the Greer shooting case in the Opera House, and the mystery by which it was surrounded, made it even more sensational. The committal of the crime in such an extraordinary place as a hansom cab had been startling enough, but the discovery that the assassin was one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne was still more so. Brian Fitzgerald being well known in society as a wealthy squatter, and the future husband of one of the richest and prettiest girls in Victoria, it was no wonder that his arrest caused some sensation. The HERALD, which was fortunate enough to obtain the earliest information about the arrest, made the best use of it, and published a flaming article in its most sensational type, somewhat after this fashion: —
HANSOM CAB TRAGEDY. ARREST OF THE SUPPOSED MURDERER. STARTLING REVELATIONS IN HIGH LIFE.
It is needless to say that some of the reporters had painted the lily pretty freely, but the public were ready to believe everything that came out in the papers.
Mr. Frettlby, the day after Brian's arrest, had a long conversation with his daughter, and wanted her to go up to Yabba Yallook Station until the public excitement had somewhat subsided. But this Madge flatly refused to do.
"I'm not going to desert him when he most needs me," she said, resolutely; "everybody has turned against him, even before they have heard the facts of the case. He says he is not guilty, and I believe him."
"Then let him prove his innocence," said her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room; "if he did not get into the cab with Whyte he must have been somewhere else; so he ought to set up the defence of an ALIBI."
"He can easily do that," said Madge, with a ray of hope lighting up her sad face, "he was here till eleven o'clock on Thursday night."
"Very probably," returned her father, dryly; "but where was he at one o'clock on Friday morning?"
"Besides, Mr. Whyte left the house long before Brian did," she went on rapidly. "You must remember – it was when you quarrelled with Mr. Whyte."
"My dear Madge," said Frettlby, stopping in front of her with a displeased look, "you are incorrect – Whyte and myself did not quarrel. He asked me if it were true that Fitzgerald was engaged to you, and I answered 'Yes.' That was all, and then he left the house."
"Yes, and Brian didn't go until two hours after," said Madge, triumphantly. "He never saw Mr. Whyte the whole night."
"So he says," replied Mr. Frettlby, significantly. "I believe Brian before any one else in the world," said his daughter, hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
"Ah! but will a jury?" queried her father.
"You have turned against him, too," answered Madge, her eyes filling with tears. "You believe him guilty."
"I am not prepared either to deny or confirm his guilt," said Mr. Frettlby, coldly. "I have done what I could to help him – I have engaged Calton to defend him, and, if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind at rest."
"My dear father," said Madge, throwing her arms round his neck, "I knew you would not desert him altogether, for my sake."
"My darling," replied her father, in a faltering voice, as he kissed her, "there is nothing in the world I would not do for your sake."
Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Jail, thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escape except one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.
"It would kill her; it would kill her," he said, feverishly, as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones. "Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like a common thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If I engage a lawyer to defend me," he went on, "the first question he will ask me will be where was I on that night, and if I tell him all will be discovered, and then – no – no – I cannot do it; it would kill her, my darling," and throwing himself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.
He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and on looking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a great friend of Fitzgerald's, and Brian was deeply touched by his kindness in coming to see him.
Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian, but there was also a touch of self interest in the matter. He had received a note from Mr. Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald, which he agreed to do with avidity, as he foresaw in this case an opportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australian colonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, but his reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw that Fitzgerald's trial for murder would cause a great sensation throughout Australia and New Zealand, he determined to take advantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame, wealth, and position. So this tall, keen-eyed man, with the clean shaven face and expressive mouth, advanced into the cell, and took Brian by the hand.
"It is very kind of you to come and see me," said Fitzgerald; "it is at a time like this that one appreciates friendship."
"Yes, of course," answered the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on the other's haggard face, as if he would read his innermost thoughts. "I came partly on my own account, and partly because Frettlby asked me to see you as to your defence."
"Mr. Frettlby?" said Brian, in a mechanical way. "He is very kind; I thought he believed me guilty."
"No man is considered guilty until he has been proved so," answered Calton, evasively.
Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved an impatient sigh.
"And Miss Frettlby?" he asked, in a hesitating manner. This time he got a decided answer.
"She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear a word said against you."
"God bless her," said Brian, fervently; "she is a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed?" he added, bitterly.
"Nothing else talked about," answered Calton, calmly. "Your arrest has for the present suspended all interest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are at the present moment being discussed threadbare in Clubs and drawing-rooms."
Fitzgerald writhed. He was a singularly proud man, and there was something inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.
"But this is all idle chatter," said Calton, taking a seat.
"We must get to business. Of course, you will accept me as your counsel."
"It's no good my doing so," replied Brian, gloomily. "The rope is already round my neck."
"Nonsense," replied the lawyer, cheerfully, "the rope is round no man's neck until he is on the scaffold. Now, you need not say a word," he went on, holding up his hand as Brian was about to speak; "I intend to defend you, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts, except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate so much that one can place no reliance on them. At all events, I believe from my heart that you are innocent, and you must walk out of the prisoner's dock a free man, if only for the sake of that noble girl who loves you."
Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the other grasped warmly.
"I will not deny," went on Calton, "that there is a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case is such an extraordinary one, that I feel as if I were unable to let slip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don't care for your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort of thing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting. When you are safe we will look together for the real criminal, and the pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitement when we find him out."
"I agree with everything you say," said Fitzgerald, calmly, "but I have no defence to make."
"No defence? You are not going to confess you killed him?"
"No," with an angry flush, "but there are certain circumstances which prevent me from defending myself."
"What nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply, "as if any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life. But never mind, I like these objections; they make the nut harder to crack – but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now, I want you to answer certain questions."
"I won't promise."
"Well, we shall see," said the lawyer, cheerfully, taking out his note-book, and resting it on his knee. "First, where were you on the Thursday night preceding the murder?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St. Kilda, and came up to town by the eleven o'clock train."
"Eleven-twenty," corrected Brian.
Calton smiled in a gratified manner as he noted this down. "A little diplomacy is all that's required," he said mentally.
"And where did you go then?" he added, aloud.
"I met Rolleston in the train, and we took a cab from the Flinders Street station up to the Club."
"What Club?"
"The Melbourne Club."
"Yes?" interrogatively.
"Rolleston went home, and I went into the Club and played cards for a time."
"When did you leave the Club?"
"A few minutes to one o'clock in the morning."
"And then, I suppose, you went home?"
"No; I did not."
"Then where did you go?"
"Down the street."
"Rather vague. I presume you mean Collins Street?"
"Yes."
"You were going to meet some one, I suppose?"
"I never said so."
"Probably not; but young men don't wander about the streets at night without some object."
"I was restless and wanted a walk."
"Indeed! How curious you should prefer going into the heart of the dusty town for a walk to strolling through the Fitzroy Gardens, which were on your way home! It won't do; you had an appointment to meet some one."
"Well – er – yes."
"I thought as much. Man or woman?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Then I must find out for myself."
"You can't."
"Indeed! Why not?"
"You don't know where to look for her."
"Her," cried Calton, delighted at the success of his craftily-put question. "I knew it was a woman."
Brian did not answer, but sat biting his lips with vexation.
"Now, who is this woman?"
No answer.
"Come now, Fitzgerald, I know that young men will be young men, and, of course, you don't like these things talked about; but in this case your character must be sacrificed to save your neck. What is her name?"
"I can't tell you."
"Oh! you know it, then?"
"Well, yes."
"And you won't tell me?"
"No!"
Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him; first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second that it had been with a woman. He pursued another line.
"When did you last see Whyte!"
Brian answered with great reluctance, "I saw him drunk by the Scotch Church."
"What! you were the man who hailed the hansom?"
"Yes," assented the other, hesitating slightly, "I was!"
The thought flashed through Calton's brain as to whether the young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged to confess that things looked very black against him.
"Then what the newspapers said was correct?"
"Partly."
"Ah!" Calton drew a long breath – here was a ray of hope.
"You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lying drunk near the Scotch Church?"
"No, I did not. Had I known it was he I would not have picked him up."
"Of course, you recognised him afterwards?"
"Yes I did. And, as the paper stated, I dropped him and walked away."
"Why did you leave him so abruptly?"
Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.
"Because I detested him," he said, shortly.
"Why did you detest him?"
No answer. "Was it because he admired Miss Frettlby, and from all appearances, was going to marry her?"
"Well, yes," sullenly.
"And now," said Calton, impressively, "this is the whole point upon which the case turns. Why did you get into the cab with him?"
"I did not get into the cab."
"The cabman declares that you did."
"He is wrong. I never came back after I recognised Whyte."
"Then who was the man who got into the cab with Whyte?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"Not the least."
"You are certain?"
"Yes, perfectly certain."
"He seems to have been dressed exactly like you."
"Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of my acquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, and soft hats."
"Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?"
"No, I don't; I know nothing about him, beyond that he came from England a short time ago with a letter of introduction to Mr. Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marry him."
"Where did Whyte live?"
"Down in St. Kilda, at the end of Grey Street."
"How do you know?"
"It was in the papers, and – and – " hesitatingly, "I called on him."
"Why?"
"To see if he would cease his attentions to Madge, and to tell him that she was engaged to me."
"And what did he say?"
"Laughed at me. Curse him."
"You had high words, evidently?"
Brian laughed bitterly.
"Yes, we had."
"Did anyone hear you?"
"The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house."
"The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness."
"Very likely," indifferently.
"Did you say anything likely to incriminate yourself?" Fitzgerald turned away his head.
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "I spoke very wildly – indeed, I did not know at the time what I said."
"Did you threaten him?"
"Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge."
"Ah! if the landlady can swear that she heard you say so, it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. So far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one – you must prove an ALIBI."
No answer.
"You say you did not come back and get into the cab?" said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.
"No, it was some one else dressed like me."
"And you have no idea who it was?"
"No, I have not."
"Then, after you left Whyte, and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?"
"I can't tell you."
"Were you intoxicated?"
"No!" indignantly
"Then you remember?"
"Yes."
"And where were you?"
"I can't tell you."
"You refuse."
"Yes, I do."
"Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal."
"If necessary, I will pay it."
"And you won't tell me where you were?"
"No, I won't."
Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.
"You're very foolish," he said, "sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an ALIBI."
No answer.
"At what hour did you get home?"
"About two o'clock in the morning."
"Did you walk home?"
"Yes – through the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Did you see anyone on your way home?"
"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention."
"Did anyone see you?"