"And in the latter case," said Frettlby, without looking at the doctor, and playing with a paper knife, "do you regard the murderer as mad?"
"Yes, I do," answered the doctor, bluntly. "He is as mad as a person who kills another because he supposes he has been told by God to do so—only there is method in his madness.
For instance, I believe that hansom cab murder, in which you were mixed up—"
"I wasn't mixed up in it," interrupted Frettlby, pale with anger.
"Beg pardon," said Chinston, coolly, "a slip of the tongue; I was thinking of Fitzgerald.
Well, I believe that crime to have been premeditated, and that the man who committed it was mad.
He is, no doubt, at large now, walking about and conducting himself as sanely as you or I, yet the germ of insanity is there, and sooner or later he will commit another crime."
"How do you know it was premeditated?" asked Frettlby, abruptly.
"Any one can see that," answered the other. "Whyte was watched on that night, and when Fitzgerald went away the other was ready to take his place, dressed the same."
"That's nothing," retorted Frettlby, looking at his companion sharply. "There are dozens of men in Melbourne who wear evening dress, light coats, and soft hats—in fact, I generally wear them myself."
"Well, that might have been a coincidence," said the doctor, rather disconcerted; "but the use of chloroform puts the question beyond a doubt; people don't usually carry chloroform about with them."
"I suppose not," answered the other, and then the matter dropped.
Chinston made an examination of Mark 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.
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?"