“He was murdered,” said Mr. Gorby to himself, “on a Friday morning, between one and two o’clock, so he might stay away till Monday without exciting any suspicion.  On Monday, however, the landlady would begin to feel uneasy, and on Tuesday she would advertise for him.  Therefore,” said Mr. Gorby, running his fat finger down the column, “Wednesday it is.”

It did not appear in Wednesday’s paper, neither did it in Thursday’s, but in Friday’s issue, exactly one week after the murder, Mr. Gorby suddenly came upon the following advertisement:—­

“If Mr. Oliver Whyte does not return to Possum Villa, Grey Street, St. Kilda, before the end of the week, his rooms will be let again.—­ Rubina Hableton.”

“Oliver Whyte,” repeated Mr. Gorby slowly, “and the initials on the pocket-handkerchief which was proved to have belonged to the deceased were ‘O.W.’  So his name is Oliver Whyte, is it?  Now, I wonder if Rubina Hableton knows anything about this matter.  At any rate,” said Mr. Gorby, putting on his hat, “as I’m fond of sea breezes, I think I’ll go down, and call at Possum Villa, Grey Street, St. Kilda.”

CHAPTER V.

MRS. HAMILTON UNBOSOMS HERSELF.

Mrs. Hableton was a lady with a grievance, as anybody who happened to become acquainted with her, soon found out.  It is Beaconsfield who says, in one of his novels, that no one is so interesting as when he is talking about himself; and, judging Mrs. Hableton by this statement, she was an extremely fascinating individual, as she never by any chance talked upon any other subject.  What was the threat of a Russian invasion to her so long as she had her special grievance—­once let that be removed, and she would have time to attend to such minor details as affected the colony.

Mrs. Hableton’s particular grievance was want of money.  Not by any means an uncommon one, you might remind her; but she snappishly would tell you that “she knowd that, but some people weren’t like other people.”  In time one came to learn what she meant by this.  She had come to the Colonies in the early days—­days when the making of money in appreciable quantity was an easier matter than it is now.  Owing to a bad husband, she had failed to save any.  The late Mr. Hableton—­for he had long since departed this life—­had been addicted to alcohol, and at those times when he should have been earning, he was usually to be found in a drinking shanty spending his wife’s earnings in “shouting” for himself and his friends.  The constant drinking, and the hot Victorian climate, soon carried him off, and when Mrs. Hableton had seen him safely under the ground in the Melbourne Cemetery, she returned home to survey her position, and see how it could be bettered.  She gathered together a little money from the wreck of her fortune, and land being cheap, purchased a small “section” at St. Kilda, and built a house on it.  She supported herself by going out charing, taking in sewing, and acting as a sick nurse, So, among this multiplicity of occupations, she managed to exist fairly well.