Now," went on the lawyer, "I want to find out who the girl that brought the letter is!"
"But how?"
"God bless my soul, Kilsip! How stupid you are," cried Calton, his irritation getting the better of him. "Can't you understand—that paper came from one of the back slums—therefore it must have been stolen."
A sudden light flashed into Kilsip's eyes.
"Talbot Villa, Toorak," he cried quickly, snatching up the letter again, and examining it with great attention, "where that burglary took place."
"Exactly," said Calton, smiling complacently. "Now do you understand what I want—you must take me to the crib in the back slums where the articles stolen from the house in Toorak were hidden.
This paper"—pointing to the letter—"is part of the swag left behind, and must have been used by someone there.
Brian Fitzgerald obeyed the directions given in the letter, and he was there, at the time of the murder."
"I understand," said Kilsip, with a gratified purr. "There were four men engaged in that burglary, and they hid the swag at Mother Guttersnipe's crib, in a lane off Little Bourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr. Fitzgerald, in evening dress, couldn't very well have gone down there unless—"
"He had some one with him well-known in the locality," finished Calton, rapidly. "Exactly, that woman who delivered the letter at the Club guided him.
Judging from the waiter's description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums."
"Well," said Kilsip, rising and looking at his watch, "it is now nine o'clock, so if you like we will go to the old hag's place at once—dying woman," he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, "there was a woman who died there about four weeks ago."
"Who was she?" asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.
"Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe's, I fancy," answered Kilsip, as they left the office. "I don't know exactly what she was—she was called the
'Queen,' and a precious handsome woman she must have been—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England, died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder."
CHAPTER XV.
A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE.
Bourke Street is a more crowded thoroughfare than Collins Street, especially at night.
The theatres that it contains are in themselves sufficient for the gathering of a considerable crowd. It is a grimy crowd for the most part.
Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, waiting till some kind friend shall invite them to step inside.
Further on a knot of horsey-looking men are to be seen standing under the Opera House verandah giving and taking odds about the Melbourne Cup, or some other meeting.
Here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, "'ERALD, third 'dition, one penny!" until the ear wearies of the constant repetition.
Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here, a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club—there, a dingy-looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street.
Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds.
Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement, three violins and a harp are playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators.
If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music.
Their fondness for it is only equalled by their admiration for horse-racing.
Any street band which plays at all decently, may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their performance.
Some writer has described Melbourne, as Glasgow with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon.
In spite of the dismal prognostications of Marcus Clarke regarding the future Australian, whom he describes as being "a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship," it is more likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarian principles.
Climatic influence should be taken into account with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will no more resemble us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands of the Adriatic.
This was the conclusion at which Mr. Calton arrived as he followed his guide through the crowded streets, and saw with what deep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling melodies of Offenbach.
The brilliantly-lit street, with the never-ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles, and the fitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character constantly passing before his eyes.
But his guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the narrowness of the thoroughfare, with the high buildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas-lamps, and the few ragged-looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene they had just left.
Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane.
It was as hot as a furnace from the accumulated heat of the day.
To look up at the clear starlit sky was to experience a sensation of delicious coolness.
"Keep close to me," whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the arm; "we may meet some nasty customers about here."
It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of haze so observable in Australian twilights, and this weird light was just sufficient to make the darkness visible.
Kilsip and the barrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring upon them unaware, and they could see sometimes on the one side, a man cowering back into the black shadow, or on the other, a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a breath of fresh air.
There were also some children playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill young voices came echoing strangely through the gloom, mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song, sung by a man, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones.
Now and then a mild-looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad in their dull-hued blue blouses, either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy on their yellow faces.
Here and there came a stream of warm light through an open door, and within, the Mongolians were gathered round the gambling-tables, playing fan-tan, or leaving the seductions of their favourite pastime, to glide soft-footed to the many cook-shops, where enticing-looking fowls and turkeys already cooked were awaiting purchasers.
Kilsip turning to the left, led the barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in such murky places.
At last, to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow.
Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark, ill-smelling passage.
At the end a faint light glimmered.
Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along the passage.
There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides.
Just as they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete darkness.