“He had some one with him well-known in the locality,” finished Calton, rapidly.  “Exactly, that woman who delivered the letter at the Club guided him.  Judging from the waiter’s description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums.”

“Well,” said Kilsip, rising and looking at his watch, “it is now nine o’clock, so if you like we will go to the old hag’s place at once—­dying woman,” he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, “there was a woman who died there about four weeks ago.”

“Who was she?” asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.

“Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe’s, I fancy,” answered Kilsip, as they left the office.  “I don’t know exactly what she was—­she was called the ‘Queen,’ and a precious handsome woman she must have been—­came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England, died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder.”

CHAPTER XV.

A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE.

Bourke Street is a more crowded thoroughfare than Collins Street, especially at night.  The theatres that it contains are in themselves sufficient for the gathering of a considerable crowd.  It is a grimy crowd for the most part.  Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, waiting till some kind friend shall invite them to step inside.  Further on a knot of horsey-looking men are to be seen standing under the Opera House verandah giving and taking odds about the Melbourne Cup, or some other meeting.  Here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, “’ERALD, third ’dition, one penny!” until the ear wearies of the constant repetition.  Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here, a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club—­there, a dingy-looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street.  Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds.  Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement, three violins and a harp are playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators.  If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music.  Their fondness for it is only equalled by their admiration for horse-racing.  Any street band which plays at all decently, may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their performance.  Some writer has described Melbourne, as Glasgow with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful