The Mystery of a Hansom Cab

"What an absurd mistake," she cried. "Why, I thought you were Brian."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; in that hat and coat I couldn't tell the difference in the moonlight."

"Oh," said her father, with a laugh, pushing his hat back, "moonlight is necessary to complete the spell, I suppose?"

"Of course," answered his daughter. "If there were no moonlight, alas, for lovers!"

"Alas, indeed!" echoed her father. "They would become as extinct as the moa; but where are your eyes, Puss, when you take an old man like me for your gay young Lochinvar?"

"Well, really, papa," answered Madge, deprecatingly, "you do look so like him in that coat and hat that I could not tell the difference, till you spoke."

"Nonsense, child," said Frettlby, roughly, "you are fanciful;" and turning on his heel, he walked rapidly towards the house, leaving Madge staring after him in astonishment, as well she might, for her father had never spoken to her so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of his sudden anger, she stood spell-bound, until there came a step behind her, and a soft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian smiling at her.

"Oh, it's you," she said, with a pout, as he caught her in his arms and kissed her.

"Only me," said Brian, ungrammatically; "disappointing, isn't it?"

"Oh, fearfully," answered the girl, with a gay laugh, as arm-in-arm they walked towards the house. "But do you know I made such a curious mistake just now; I thought papa was you."

"How strange," said Brian, absently, for indeed he was admiring her charming face, which looked so pure and sweet in the moonlight.

"Yes, wasn't it?" she replied. "He had on a light coat and a soft hat, just like you wear sometimes, and as you are both the same height, I took you for one another."

Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heart as he saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed, for just at that moment there came into his mind the curious coincidence of the man who got into the hansom cab being dressed similarly to himself. What if – "Nonsense," he said, aloud, rousing himself out of the train of thought the resemblance had suggested.

"I'm sure it isn't," said Madge, who had been talking about something else for the last five minutes. "You are a very rude young man."

"I beg your pardon," said Brian, waking up. "You were saying – "

"That the horse is the most noble of all animals – Exactly."

"I don't understand – " began Brian, rather puzzled.

"Of course you don't," interrupted Madge, petulantly; "considering I've been wasting my eloquence on a deaf man for the last ten minutes; and very likely lame as well as deaf."

And to prove the truth of the remark, she ran up the path with Brian after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimble and better acquainted with the garden than he was but at last he caught her just as she was running up the steps into the house, and then – history repeats itself.

They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Frettlby had gone up to his study, and did not want to be disturbed. Madge sat down to the piano, but before she struck a note, Brian took both her hands prisoners.

"Madge," he said, gravely, as she turned round, "what did your father say when you made that mistake?"

"He was very angry," she answered. "Quite cross; I'm sure I don't know why."

Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the visitor's bell sounded, they heard the servant answer it, and then someone was taken upstairs to Mr. Frettlby's study.

When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that had come to the door.

"I don't know, miss," he answered; "he said he wanted to see Mr. Frettlby particularly, so I took him up to the study."

"But I thought that papa said he was not to be disturbed?"

"Yes, miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him."

"Poor papa," sighed Madge, turning again to the piano. "He has always got such a lot to do."

Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldteufel's last new valse, a dreamy, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian, lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang a gay little French song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mocking refrain, which made Brian laugh.

"A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and coming over to the piano. "We certainly can't approach the French in writing these airy trifles."

"They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge, running her fingers over the keys; "they mean nothing."

"Of course not," he replied, "but don't you remember that De Quincy says there is no moral either big or little in the Iliad."

"Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allan than all those frothy things," said Madge, with fine scorn. "Come and sing it."

"A five-act funeral, it is," groaned Brian, as he rose to obey; "let's have Garry Owen instead."

Nothing else however would suit the capricious young person at the piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint old ditty of cruel Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with such disdain.

"Sir John Graham was an ass," said Brian, when he had finished; "or, instead of dying in such a silly manner, he'd have married her right off, without asking her permission."

"I don't think she was worth marrying," replied Madge, opening a book of Mendelssohn's duets; "or she wouldn't have made such a fuss over her health not being drunk."

"Depend upon it, she was a plain woman," remarked Brian, gravely, "and was angry because she wasn't toasted among the rest of the country belles. I think the young man had a narrow escape – she'd always have reminded him about that unfortunate oversight."

"You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well," said Madge, a little dryly; "however, we'll leave the failings of Barbara Allan alone, and sing this."

This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, "Would that my Love," which was a great favourite of Brian's. They were in the middle of it when suddenly Madge stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her father's study. Recollecting Dr. Chinston's warning, she ran out of the room, and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much importance to it.

Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it was locked.

"Who's there?" asked her father, sharply, from inside.

"Only me, papa," she answered. "I thought you were – "

"No! No – I'm all right," replied her father, quickly. "Go down stairs, I'll join you shortly."

Madge went back to the drawing-room only half satisfied with the explanation. She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather an anxious face.

"What's the matter?" he asked, as she paused a moment at the foot of the stairs.

"Papa says nothing," she replied, "but I am sure he must have been startled, or he would not have cried out like that."

She told him what Dr. Chinston had said about the state of her father's heart, a recital which shocked Brian greatly. They did not return to the drawing-room, but went out on the verandah, where, after wrapping a cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. They sat down at the far end of the verandah somewhat in the shadow, and could see the hall door wide open, and a warm flood of mellow light pouring therefrom, and beyond the cold, white moonshine. After about a quarter of an hour, Madge's alarm about her father having somewhat subsided, they were chatting on indifferent subjects, when a man came out of the hall door, and paused for a moment on the steps of the verandah. He was dressed in rather a fashionable suit of clothes, but, in spite of the heat of the night, he had a thick white silk scarf round his throat.

"That's rather a cool individual," said Brian, removing his cigarette from between his lips. "I wonder what – Good God!" he cried, rising to his feet as the stranger turned round to look at the house, and took off his hat for a moment – "Roger Moreland."

The man started, and looked quickly round into the dark shadow of the verandah where they were seated, then, putting on his hat, he ran quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang after him.

Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian's face, as revealed by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it.

"Who is Roger Moreland?" she asked, touching his arm – "Ah! I remember," with sudden horror, "Oliver Whyte's friend."

"Yes," in a hoarse whisper, "and one of the witnesses at the trial."

CHAPTER XXIX.

MR. CALTON'S CURIOSITY IS SATISFIED

There was not much sleep for Brian that night. He left Madge almost immediately, and went home, but he did not go to bed. He felt too anxious and ill at ease to sleep, and passed the greater part of the night walking up and down his room, occupied with his own sad thoughts. He was wondering in his own mind what could be the meaning of Roger Moreland's visit to Mark Frettlby. All the evidence that he had given at the trial was that he had met Whyte, and had been drinking with him during the evening. Whyte then went out, and that was the last Moreland had seen of him. Now, the question was, "What did he go to see Mark Frettlby for?" He had no acquaintance with him, and yet he called by appointment. It is true he might have been in poverty, and the millionaire being well-known as an extremely generous man, Moreland might have called on him for money. But then the cry which Frettlby had given after the interview had lasted a short time proved that he had been startled. Madge had gone upstairs and found the door locked, her father refusing her admission. Now, why was he so anxious Moreland should not be seen by any one? That he had made some startling revelation was certain, and Fitzgerald felt sure that it was in connection with the hansom cab murder case. He wearied himself with conjectures about the matter, and towards daybreak threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed, and slept heavily till twelve o'clock the next day. When he arose and looked at himself in the glass, he was startled at the haggard and worn appearance of his face. The moment he was awake his mind went back to Mark Frettlby and the visit of Roger Moreland.

"The net is closing round him," he murmured to himself. "I don't see how he can escape. Oh! Madge! Madge! if only I could spare you the bitterness of knowing what you must know, sooner or later, and that other unhappy girl – the sins of the fathers will be visited on the children – God help them."

He took his bath, and, after dressing himself, went into his sitting-room, where he had a cup of tea, which refreshed him considerably. Mrs. Sampson came crackling merrily upstairs with a letter, and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, on seeing his altered appearance.

"Lor, sir!" she exclaimed, "what 'ave you bin a-doin' – me knowin' your 'abits know'd as you'd gone to bed, not to say as it's very temptin' in this 'ot weather, but with excuses, sir, you looks as if you 'adn't slept a blessed wink."

"No, more I have," said Brian, listlessly holding out his hand for the letter. "I was walking up and down my room all last night – I must have walked miles."

"Ah! 'ow that puts me in mind of my pore 'usband," chirped the cricket; "bein' a printer, and accustomed like a howl to the darkness, when 'e was 'ome for the night 'e walked up and down till 'e wore out the carpet, bein' an expensive one, as I 'ad on my marriage, an' the only way I could stop 'im was by givin' 'im something soothin', which you, sir, ought to try – whisky 'ot, with lemon and sugar – but I've 'eard tell as chloroform – "

"No, d – it," said Brian, hastily, startled out of his politeness, "I've had enough of that."

"Achin' teeth, no doubt," said the landlady, going to the door, "which I'm often taken that way myself, decayed teeth runnin' in the family, tho', to be sure, mine are stronger than former, a lodger of mine 'avin' bin a dentist, an' doin' them beautiful, instead of payin' rent, not avin' ready cash, his boxes bein' filled with bricks on 'is departure from the 'ouse."

As Brian did not appear particularly interested in these domestic reminiscences, and seemed as if he wanted to be left alone, Mrs. Sampson, with a final crackle, went down stairs and talked with a neighbour in the kitchen, as to the desirability of drawing her money out of the Savings Bank, in case the Russians should surprise and capture Melbourne. Brian, left alone, stared out of the window at the dusty road and the black shadows cast by the tall poplars in front of the house.

"I must leave this place," he said to himself; "every chance remark seems to bear on the murder, and I'm not anxious to have it constantly by my side like the skeleton at the feast."

Suddenly he recollected the letter which he held in his hand, and which he now looked at for the first time. It proved to be from Madge, and tearing it open hastily, he read it.

"I cannot understand what is the matter with papa," she wrote.

"Ever since that man Moreland left last night, he has shut himself up in his study, and is writing there hour after hour. I went up this morning, but he would not let me in. He did not come down to breakfast, and I am getting seriously alarmed Come down to-morrow and see me, for I am anxious about his state of health, and I am sure that Moreland told him something which has upset him."

"Writing," said Brian, as he put the letter in his pocket, "what about, I wonder? Perhaps he is thinking of committing suicide! if so, I for one will not stop him. It is a horrible thing to do, but it would be acting for the best under the circumstances."

In spite of his determination to see Calton and tell all, Fitzgerald did not go near him that day. He felt ill and weary, the want of sleep, and mental worry, telling on him terribly, and he looked ten years older than he did before the murder of Whyte. It is trouble which draws lines on the smooth forehead and furrows round the mouth. If a man has any mental worry, his life becomes a positive agony to him. Mental tortures are quite as bad as physical ones, if not worse. The last thing before dropping off to sleep is the thought of trouble, and with the first faint light of dawn, it returns and hammers all day at the weary brain. But while a man can sleep, life is rendered at least endurable; and of all the blessings which Providence has bestowed, there is none so precious as that same sleep, which, as wise Sancho Panza says, "Wraps every man like a cloak." Brian felt the need of rest, so sending a telegram to Calton to call on him in the morning, and another to Madge, that he would be down to luncheon next day, he stayed indoors all day, and amused himself with smoking and reading. He went to bed early, and succeeded in having a sound sleep, so when he awoke next morning, he felt considerably refreshed and invigorated.

He was having his breakfast at half-past eight, when he heard the sound of wheels, and immediately afterwards a ring at the bell. He went to the window, and saw Calton's trap was at the door. The owner was shortly afterwards shown into the room.

"Well, you are a nice fellow," cried Calton, after greetings were over. "Here I've been waiting for you with all the patience of Job, thinking you were still up country."

"Will you have some breakfast?" asked Brian, laughing at his indignation.

"What have you got?" said Calton, looking over the table. "Ham and eggs. Humph! Your landlady's culinary ideas are very limited."

"Most landladies' ideas are," retorted Fitzgerald, resuming his breakfast. "Unless Heaven invents some new animal, lodgers will go on getting beef and mutton, alternated with hash, until the end of the world."

"When one is in Rome, one musn't speak ill of the Pope," answered Calton, with a grimace. "Do you think your landlady could supply me with brandy and soda?"

"I think so," answered Fitzgerald, rising, and ringing the bell; "but isn't it rather early for that sort of thing?"

"There's a proverb about glass houses," said Calton, severely, "which applies to you in this particular instance."

Whereupon Fitzgerald laughed, and Calton having been supplied with what he required, prepared to talk business.

"I need hardly tell you how anxious I am to hear what you've got to say," he said, leaning back in his chair, "but I may as well tell you that I am satisfied that I know half your secret already."

"Indeed!" Fitzgerald looked astonished. "In that case, I need not – "

"Yes, you need," retorted Calton. "I told you I only know half."

"Which half?"

"Hum – rather difficult to answer – however, I'll tell you what I know, and you can supply all deficiencies. I am quite ready – go on – stop – " he arose and closed the door carefully.

"Well," resuming his seat, "Mother Guttersnipe died the other night."

"Is she dead?"

"As a door nail," answered Calton calmly. "And a horrible death-bed it was – her screams ring in my ears yet – but before she died she sent for me, and said – "

"What?"

"That she was the mother of Rosanna Moore."

"Yes!"

"And that Sal Rawlins was Rosanna's child."

"And the father?" said Brian, in a low voice.

"Was Mark Frettlby."

"Ah!"

"And now what have you to tell me?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing," echoed Calton, surprised, "then this is what Rosanna Moore told you when she died?"

"Yes!"

"Then why have you made such a mystery about it?"

"You ask that?" said Fitzgerald, looking up, in surprise. "If I had told it, don't you see what difference it would have made to Madge?"

"I'm sure I don't," retorted the barrister, completely mystified. "I suppose you mean Frettlby's connection with Rosanna Moore; well, of course, it was not a very creditable thing for her to have been Frettlby's mistress, but still – "

"His mistress?" said Fitzgerald, looking up sharply "then you don't know all."

"What do you mean – was she not his mistress?"

"No – his wife!" Calton sprang to his feet, and gave a cry of surprise.

"His wife!"

Fitzgerald nodded.

"Why, Mother Guttersnipe did not know this – she thought Rosanna was his mistress."

"He kept his marriage secret," answered Brian, "and as his wife ran away with someone else shortly afterwards, he never revealed it."

"I understand now," said the barrister, slowly. "For if Mark Frettlby was lawfully married to Rosanna Moore – Madge is illegitimate."

"Yes, and she now occupies the place which Sal Rawlins – or rather Sal Frettlby ought to."

"Poor girl," said Calton, a little sadly. "But all this does not explain the mystery of Whyte's murder."

"I will tell you that," said Fitzgerald, quickly. "When Rosanna left her husband, she ran away to England with some young fellow, and when he got tired of her she returned to the stage, and became famous as a burlesque actress, under the name of Musette. There she met Whyte, as your friend found out, and they came out here for the purpose of extorting money from Frettlby. When they arrived in Melbourne, Rosanna let Whyte do all the business, and kept herself quiet. She gave her marriage certificate to Whyte, and he had it on him the night he was murdered."

"Then Gorby was right," interposed Calton, eagerly. "The man to whom those papers were valuable did murder Whyte!"

"Can you doubt it? And that man was – "

"Not Mark Frettlby?" burst out Calton. "Surely not Mark Frettlby?"

Brian nodded, "Yes, Mark Frettlby."

There was a silence for a few moments, Calton being too much startled by the revelation to say anything.

"When did you discover this?" he asked, after a pause.

"At the time you first came to see me in prison," said Brian. "I had no suspicion till then; but when you said that Whyte was murdered for the sake of certain papers, I, knowing full well what they were and to whom they were of value – guessed immediately that Mark Frettlby had killed Whyte in order to obtain them and to keep his secret."

"There can be no doubt of it," said the barrister, with a sigh. "So this is the reason Frettlby wanted Madge to marry Whyte – her hand was to be the price of his silence. When he withdrew his consent, Whyte threatened him with exposure. I remember he left the house in a very excited state on the night he was murdered. Frettlby must have followed him up to town, got into the cab with him, and after killing him with chloroform, must have taken the marriage certificate from his secret pocket, and escaped."

Brian rose to his feet, and walked rapidly up and down the room.

"Now you can understand what a hell my life has been for the last few months," he said, "knowing that he had committed the crime; and yet I had to sit with him, eat with him, and drink with him, with the knowledge that he was a murderer, and Madge – Madge, his daughter!"

Just then a knock came to his door, and Mrs. Sampson entered with a telegram, which she handed to Brian. He tore it open as she withdrew, and glancing over it, gave a cry of horror, and let it flutter to his feet.

Calton turned rapidly on hearing his cry, and seeing him fall into a chair with a white face, snatched up the telegram and read it. When he did so, his face grew as pale and startled as Fitzgerald's, and lifting his hand, he said solemnly —

"It is the judgment of God!"

CHAPTER XXX.

NEMESIS

Men, according to the old Greek, "are the sport of the gods," who, enthroned on high Olympus, put evil desires into the hearts of mortals; and when evil actions were the outcome of evil thoughts, amused themselves by watching the ineffectual efforts made by their victims to escape a relentless deity called Nemesis, who exacted a penalty for their evil deeds. It was no doubt very amusing – to the gods – but it is questionable if the men found it so. They had their revenge, however, for weary of plaguing puny mortals, who whimpered and cried when they saw they could not escape, the inevitable Nemesis turned her attention from actors to spectators, and made a clean sweep of the whole Olympian hierarchy. She smashed their altars, pulled down their statues, and after she had completed her malicious work, found that she had, vulgarly speaking, been cutting off her nose to spite her face, for she, too, became an object of derision and of disbelief, and was forced to retire to the same obscurity to which she had relegated the other deities. But men found out that she had not been altogether useless as a scapegoat upon which to lay the blame of their own shortcomings, so they created a new deity called Fate, and laid any misfortune which happened to them to her charge. Her worship is still very popular, especially among lazy and unlucky people, who never bestir themselves: on the ground that whether they do so or not their lives are already settled by Fate. After all, the true religion of Fate has been preached by George Eliot, when she says that our lives are the outcome of our actions. Set up any idol you please upon which to lay the blame of unhappy lives and baffled ambitions, but the true cause is to be found in men themselves. Every action, good or bad, which we do has its corresponding reward, and Mark Frettlby found it so, for the sins of his youth were now being punished in his old age. No doubt he had sinned gaily enough in that far-off time when life's cup was still brimming with wine, and no asp hid among the roses; but Nemesis had been an unseen spectator of all his thoughtless actions, and now she came to demand her just dues. He felt somewhat as Faust must have felt when Mephistopheles suggested a visit to Hades, in repayment of those years of magic youth and magic power. So long ago it seemed since he had married Rosanna Moore, that he almost persuaded himself that it had been only a dream – a pleasant dream, with a disagreeable awakening. When she had left him he had tried to forget her, recognising how unworthy she was of a good man's love. He heard that she had died in a London hospital, and with a passionate sigh for a perished love, he had dismissed her from his thoughts for ever. His second marriage had turned out a happy one, and he regretted the death of his wife deeply. Afterwards, all his love centred in his daughter, and he thought he would be able to spend his declining years in peace. This, however, was not to be, and he was thunderstruck when Whyte arrived from England with the information that his first wife still lived, and that the daughter of his second was illegitimate. Sooner than risk exposure, Frettlby agreed to anything; but Whyte's demands became too exorbitant, and he refused to comply with them. On Whyte's death he again breathed freely, when suddenly a second possessor of his fatal secret started up in the person of Roger Moreland. As the murder of Duncan had to be followed by that of Banquo, in order to render Macbeth safe, so he foresaw that while Roger Moreland lived his life would be one long misery. He knew that the friend of the murdered man would be his master, and would never leave him during his life, while after his death he would probably publish the whole ghastly story, and defame the memory of the widely-respected Mark Frettlby. What is it that Shakespeare says? —