“It is that very fact that makes it safer,” replied Mr. Calton, epigrammatically.  “You read De Quincey’s account of the Marr murders in London, and you will see that the more public the place the less risk there is of detection.  There was nothing about the gentleman in the light coat who murdered Whyte to excite Royston’s suspicions.  He entered the cab with Whyte; no noise or anything likely to attract attention was heard, and then he alighted.  Naturally enough, Royston drove to St. Kilda, and never suspected Whyte was dead till he looked inside and touched him.  As to the man in the light coat, he doesn’t live in Powlett Street—­no—­nor in East Melbourne either.”

“Why not?” asked Frettlby.

“Because he wouldn’t have been such a fool as to leave a trail to his own door; he did what the fox often does—­he doubled.  My opinion is that he went either right through East Melbourne to Fitzroy, or he walked back through the Fitzroy Gardens into town.  There was no one about at that time of the morning, and he could return to his lodgings, hotel, or wherever he is staying, with impunity.  Of course, this is a theory that may be wrong; but from what insight into human nature my profession has given me, I think that my idea is a correct one.”

All present agreed with Mr. Calton’s idea, as it really did seem the most natural thing that would be done by a man desirous of escaping detection.

“Tell you what,” said Felix to Brian, as they were on their way to the drawing-room, “if the fellow that committed the crime, is found out, by gad, he ought to get Calton to defend him.”

CHAPTER VIII.

BRIAN TAKES A WALK AND A DRIVE.

When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room a young lady was engaged in playing one of those detestable pieces of the MORCEAU de Salon order, in which an unoffending air is taken, and variations embroidered on it, till it becomes a perfect agony to distinguish the tune, amid the perpetual rattle of quavers and demi-semi-quavers.  The melody in this case was “Over the Garden Wall,” with variations by Signor Thumpanini, and the young lady who played it was a pupil of that celebrated Italian musician.  When the male portion of the guests entered, the air was being played in the bass with a great deal of power (that is, the loud pedal was down), and with a perpetual rattle of treble notes, trying with all their shrill might to drown the tune.

“Gad! it’s getting over the garden wall in a hailstorm,” said Felix, as he strolled over to the piano, for he saw that the musician was Dora Featherweight, an heiress to whom he was then paying attention, in the hope that she might be induced to take the name of Rolleston.  So, when the fair Dora had paralysed her audience with one final bang and rattle, as if the gentleman going over the garden wall had tumbled into the cucumber-frame, Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.