It was getting a little dusk, and the four men were greatly excited, though they concealed it under an assumed nonchalance.
"What a situation for a drama," said Brian.
"Only," said Chinston, quietly, "it is as realistic as in the old days of the Coliseum, where the actor who played Orpheus was torn to pieces by bears at the end of the play."
"His last appearance on any stage, I suppose," said Calton, a little cruelly, it must be confessed.
Meanwhile, Kilsip remained seated in his chair, humming an operatic air and chinking the handcuffs together, by way of accompaniment.
He felt intensely pleased with himself, the more so, as he saw that by this capture he would be ranked far above Gorby.
"And what would Gorby say?—Gorby, who had laughed at all his ideas as foolish, and who had been quite wrong from the first.
If only—"
"Hush!" said Calton, holding up his finger, as steps were heard echoing on the flags outside. "Here he is, I believe."
Kilsip arose from his chair, and, stealing softly to the window, looked cautiously out. Then he turned round to those inside and, nodding his head, slipped the handcuffs into his pocket.
Just as he did so, there was a knock at the door, and, in response to Calton's invitation to enter, Thinton and Tarbit's clerk came in with Roger Moreland.
The latter faltered a little on the threshold, when he saw Calton was not alone, and seemed half inclined to retreat. But, evidently, thinking there was no danger of his secret being discovered, he pulled himself together, and advanced into the room in an easy and confident manner.
"This is the gentleman who wants to know about the cheque, sir," said Thinton and Tarbit's clerk to Calton.
"Oh, indeed," answered Calton, quietly. "I am glad to see him; you can go."
The clerk bowed and went out, closing the door after him. Moreland took his seat directly in front of Calton, and with his back to the door.
Kilsip, seeing this, strolled across the room in a nonchalant manner, while Calton engaged Moreland in conversation, and quietly turned the key.
"You want to see me, sir?" said Calton, resuming his seat.
"Yes; that is alone," replied Moreland, uneasily.
"Oh, these gentlemen are my friends," said Calton, quietly; "anything you may say is quite safe."
"That they are your friends, and are quite safe, is nothing to me," said Moreland, insolently, "I wish to speak to you in private."
"Don't you think you would like to know my friends?" said Calton, coolly taking no notice of his remark.
"D— your friends, sir!" cried Moreland, furiously, rising from his seat.
Calton laughed, and introduced Mr. Moreland to the others.
"Dr. Chinston, Mr. Kilsip, and—Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Fitzgerald," gasped Moreland, growing pale. "I—I—what's that?" he shrieked, as he saw Whyte's coat, all weather-stained, lying on a chair near him, and which he immediately recognised.
"That is the rope that's going to hang you," said Kilsip, quietly, coming behind him, "for the murder of Oliver Whyte."
"Trapped by G—!" shouted the wretched man, wheeling round, so as to face Kilsip.
He sprang at the detective's throat, and they both rolled together on the floor, but the latter was too strong for him, and, after a sharp struggle, he succeeded in getting the handcuffs on Moreland's wrists.
The others stood around perfectly quiet, knowing that Kilsip required no assistance.
Now that there was no possibility of escape, Moreland seemed to become resigned, and rose sullenly off the floor.
"I'll make you pay for this," he hissed between hie teeth, with a white despairing face. "You can't prove anything."
"Can't we?" said Calton, touching the confession. "You are wrong.
This is the confession of Mark Frettlby made before he died."
"It's a lie."
"A jury will decide that," said the barrister, dryly. "Meanwhile you will pass the night in the Melbourne Gaol."
"Ah! perhaps they'll give me the same cell as you occupied," said Moreland, with a hard laugh, turning to Fitzgerald. "I should like it for its old associations."
Brian did not answer him, but picking up his hat and gloves, prepared to go.
"Stop!" cried Moreland, fiercely. "I see that it's all up with me, so I'm not going to lie like a coward.
I've played for a big stake and lost, but if I hadn't been such a fool I'd have cashed that cheque the next morning, and been far away by this time."
"It certainly would have been wiser," said Calton.
"After all," said Moreland, nonchalantly, taking no notice of his remark, "I don't know that I'm sorry about it.
I've had a hell upon earth since I killed Whyte."
"Then you acknowledge your guilt?" said Brian, quietly.
Moreland shrugged his shoulders.
"I told you I wasn't a coward," he answered, coolly. "Yes, I did it; it was Whyte's own fault.
When I met him that night he told me how Frettlby wouldn't let him marry his daughter, but said he'd make him, and showed me the marriage certificate.
I thought if I could only get it I'd make a nice little pile out of Frettlby over it; so when Whyte went on drinking I did not.
After he had gone out of the hotel, I put on his coat, which he left behind.
I saw him standing near the lamp-post, and Fitzgerald come up and then leave him. When you came down the street," he went on, turning to Fitzgerald,
"I shrank back into the shadow, and when you passed I ran up to Whyte as the cabman was putting him into the hansom.