“In evening dress—­more noticeable than the coat.”

“He wasn’t in evening dress,” said Kilsip, quietly.

“No, neither was he,” observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial.  “Another blow to your theory.  The murderer was in evening dress—­the cabman said so.”

“Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte.”

“Well, what of that?”

“If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up.  Moreland wore dark trousers—­at least, I suppose so—­and, with the coat buttoned up, it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“That sounds better,” said Calton, thoughtfully.  “And what are you going to do?”

“Look for the coat in the Fitzroy Gardens.”

“Pshaw! a wild goose chase.”

“Possibly,” said Kilsip, as he arose to go.

“And when shall I see you again?” said Calton.

“Oh, to-night,” said Kilsip, pausing at, the door.  “I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you.”

“Why?  What’s up?”

“She’s dying, and wants to tell you some secret.”

“Rosanna Moore, by Jove!” said Calton.  “She’ll tell me something about her.  I’ll get to the bottom of this yet.  All right, I’ll be here at eight o’clock.”

“Very well, sir!” and the detective glided out.

“I wonder if that old woman knows anything?” said Calton to himself, as he, resumed his seat.  “She may have overheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, and intends to divulge it.  Well, I’m afraid when Fitzgerald does confess, I shall know all about it beforehand.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

MOTHER GUTTERSNIPE JOINS THE MAJORITY.

Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton’s office at eight o’clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums.  He found the barrister waiting impatiently for him.  The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm this belief.  When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush-money in order to keep quiet.  Several times before Calton had been on the point of going to her and trying to get the secret out of her—­that is, if she knew it; but now fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be true than one dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips.

By the time Kilsip made his appearance Calton was in a high state of excitement.

“I suppose we’d better go at once,” he said to Kilsip, as he lit a cigar.  “That old hag may go off at any moment.”