As to the man in the light coat, he doesn't live in Powlett Street—no—nor in East Melbourne either."
"Why not?" asked Frettlby.
"Because he wouldn't have been such a fool as to leave a trail to his own door; he did what the fox often does—he doubled.
My opinion is that he went either right through East Melbourne to Fitzroy, or he walked back through the Fitzroy Gardens into town.
There was no one about at that time of the morning, and he could return to his lodgings, hotel, or wherever he is staying, with impunity.
Of course, this is a theory that may be wrong; but from what insight into human nature my profession has given me, I think that my idea is a correct one."
All present agreed with Mr. Calton's idea, as it really did seem the most natural thing that would be done by a man desirous of escaping detection.
"Tell you what," said Felix to Brian, as they were on their way to the drawing-room, "if the fellow that committed the crime, is found out, by gad, he ought to get Calton to defend him."
CHAPTER VIII.
BRIAN TAKES A WALK AND A DRIVE.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room a young lady was engaged in playing one of those detestable pieces of the MORCEAU DE SALON order, in which an unoffending air is taken, and variations embroidered on it, till it becomes a perfect agony to distinguish the tune, amid the perpetual rattle of quavers and demi-semi-quavers.
The melody in this case was
"Over the Garden Wall," with variations by Signor Thumpanini, and the young lady who played it was a pupil of that celebrated Italian musician.
When the male portion of the guests entered, the air was being played in the bass with a great deal of power (that is, the loud pedal was down), and with a perpetual rattle of treble notes, trying with all their shrill might to drown the tune.
"Gad! it's getting over the garden wall in a hailstorm," said Felix, as he strolled over to the piano, for he saw that the musician was Dora Featherweight, an heiress to whom he was then paying attention, in the hope that she might be induced to take the name of Rolleston.
So, when the fair Dora had paralysed her audience with one final bang and rattle, as if the gentleman going over the garden wall had tumbled into the cucumber-frame, Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.
"Such power, you know, Miss Featherweight," he said, sinking into a chair, and mentally wondering if any of the piano strings had given way at that last crash.
"You put your heart into it—and all your muscle, too, by gad," he added mentally.
"It's nothing but practice," answered Miss Featherweight, with a modest blush. "I am at the piano four hours every day."
"Good heavens!" thought Felix, "what a time the family must have of it."
But he kept this remark to himself, and, screwing his eye-glass into his left organ of vision, merely ejaculated,
"Lucky piano."
Miss Featherweight, not being able to think of any answer to this, looked down and blushed, while the ingenuous Felix looked up and sighed.
Madge and Brian were in a corner of the room talking over Whyte's death.
"I never liked him," she said, "but it is horrible to think of him dying like that."
"I don't know," answered Brian, gloomily; "from all I can hear dying by chloroform is a very easy death."
"Death can never be easy," replied Madge, "especially to a young man so full of health and spirits as Mr. Whyte was."
"I believe you are sorry he's dead," said Brian, jealously.
"Aren't you?" she asked in some surprise.
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," quoted Fitzgerald. "But as I detested him when alive, you can't expect me to regret his end."
Madge did not answer him, but glanced quickly at his face, and for the first time it struck her that he looked ill.
"What is the matter with you, dear?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. "You are not looking well."
"Nothing—nothing," he answered hurriedly. "I've been a little worried about business lately—but come," he said, rising, "let us go outside, for I see your father has got that girl with the steam-whistle voice to sing."
The girl with the steam-whistle voice was Julia Featherweight, the sister of Rolleston's inamorata, and Madge stifled a laugh as she went on to the verandah with Fitzgerald.
"What a shame of you," she said, bursting into a laugh when they were safely outside; "she's been taught by the best masters."
"How I pity them," retorted Brian, grimly, as Julia wailed out, "Meet me once again," with an ear-piercing shrillness.
"I'd much rather listen to our ancestral Banshee, and as to meeting her again, one interview would be more than enough."
Madge did not answer, but leaning lightly over the high rail of the verandah looked out into the beautiful moonlit night.
There were a number of people passing along the Esplanade, some of whom stopped and listened to Julia's shrill notes.
One man in particular seemed to have a taste for music, for he persistently stared over the fence at the house.
Brian and Madge talked of divers subjects, but every time Madge looked up she saw the man watching the house.
"What does that man want, Brian?" she asked.
"What man?" asked Brian, starting. "Oh," he went on indifferently, as the watcher moved away from the gate and crossed the road on to the footpath, "he's taken up with the music, I suppose; that's all."
Madge said nothing, but she could not help thinking there was more in it than the music.
Presently Julia ceased, and she proposed to go in.
"Why?" asked Brian, who was lying back in a comfortable seat, smoking a cigarette. "It's nice enough here."
"I must attend to my guests," she answered, rising. "You stop here and finish your cigarette," and with a gay laugh she flitted into the house.
Brian sat and smoked, staring out into the moonlight the while.
Yes, the man was certainly watching the house, for he sat on one of the seats, and kept his eyes fixed on the brilliantly-lighted windows.
Brian threw away his cigarette and shivered slightly.