"I cannot tell you," replied Calton, "but, no doubt, the confession will explain all."
"Then for Heaven's sake read it," broke in Dr. Chinston, impatiently. "I'm quite in the dark, and all your talk is Greek to me."
"One moment," said Kilsip, dragging a bundle from under his chair, and untying it. "If you are right, what about this?" and he held up a light coat, very much soiled and weather-worn.
"Whose is that?" asked Calton, startled. "Not Whyte's?"
"Yes, Whyte's," repeated Kilsip, with great satisfaction. "I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near the gate that opens to George Street, East Melbourne.
It was up in a fir-tree."
"Then Mr. Frettlby must have got out at Powlett Street, and walked down George Street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardens into town," said Calton.
Kilsip took no heed of the remark, but took a small bottle out of the pocket of the coat and held it up.
"I also found this," he said.
"Chloroform," cried everyone, guessing at once that it was the missing bottle.
"Exactly," said Kilsip, replacing it. "This was the bottle which contained the poison used by—by—well, call him the murderer.
The name of the chemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who bought it.
Now, who do you think?" with a look of triumph.
"Frettlby," said Calton, decidedly.
"No, Moreland," burst out Chinston, greatly excited.
"Neither," retorted the detective, calmly. "The man who purchased this was Oliver Whyte himself."
"Himself?" echoed Brian, now thoroughly surprised, as, indeed were all the others.
"Yes. I had no trouble in finding out that, thanks to the 'Poisons Act.'
As I knew no one would be so foolish as to carry chloroform about in his pocket for any length of time, I mentioned the day of the murder as the probable date it was bought.
The chemist turned up in his book, and found that Whyte was the purchaser."
"And what did he buy it for?" asked Chinston.
"That's more than I can tell you," said Kilsip, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's down in the book as being bought for medicinal uses, which may mean anything."
"The law requires a witness," observed Calton, cautiously. "Who was the witness?"
Again Kilsip smiled triumphantly.
"I think I can guess," said Fitzgerald. "Moreland?"
Kilsip nodded.
"And I suppose," remarked Calton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, "that is another of your proofs against Moreland.
He knew that Whyte had chloroform on him, therefore he followed him that night and murdered him?"
"Well, I—"
"It's a lot of nonsense," said the barrister, impatiently. "There's nothing against Moreland to implicate him.
If he killed Whyte, what made him go and see Frettlby?"
"But," said Kilsip, sagely nodding his head, "if, as Moreland says, he had Whyte's coat in his possession before the murder how is it that I should discover it afterwards up a fir-tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, with an empty chloroform bottle in the pocket."
"He may have been an accomplice," suggested Calton.
"What's the good of all this conjecturing?" said Chinston, impatiently, now thoroughly tired of the discussion. "Read the confession, and we will soon know the truth, without all this talk."
Calton assented, and all having settled themselves to listen, he began to read what the dead man had written.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CONFESSION.
"What I am now about to write is set forth by me so that the true circumstances connected with the 'Hansom Cab Tragedy,' which took place in Melbourne in 18—, may be known.
I owe a confession, particularly to Brian Fitzgerald, seeing that he was accused of the crime.
Although I know he was rightfully acquitted of the charge, yet I wish him to know all about the case, though I am convinced, from his altered demeanour towards me, that he is better acquainted with it than he chooses to confess.
In order to account for the murder of Oliver Whyte, I must go back to the beginning of my life in this colony, and show how the series of events began which culminated in the committal of the crime.
"Should it be necessary to make this confession public, in the interests of justice, I can say nothing against such a course being taken; but I would be grateful if it could be suppressed, both on account of my good name and of my dear daughter Margaret, whose love and affection has so soothed and brightened my life.
"If, however, she should be informed of the contents of these pages, I ask her to deal leniently with the memory of one who was sorely tried and tempted.
"I came to the colony of Victoria, or, rather, as it was called then, New South Wales, in the year 18—.
I had been in a merchant's office in London, but not finding much opportunity for advancement, I looked about to see if I could better myself.
I heard of this new land across the ocean, and though it was not then the El Dorado which it afterwards turned out, and, truth to tell, had rather a shady name, owing to the transportation of convicts, yet I longed to go there and start a new life.
Unhappily, however, I had not the means, and saw nothing better before me than the dreary life of a London clerk, as it was impossible that I could save out of the small salary I got.
Just at this time, an old maiden aunt of my mother's died and left a few hundred pounds to me.
With this, I came out to Australia, determined to become a rich man.
I stayed some time in Sydney, and then came over to Port Phillip, now so widely known as Marvellous Melbourne, where I intended to pitch my tent.