poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law.  On reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as Praed’s Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and write sense.  I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore entrusted you with—­ah! you see I know her name, and why?—­simply because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the Argus very cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the whole affair, I have been learning her past history.  The secret of Whyte’s murder, and the reason for it, is known to you, but you refuse, even in the interests of justice, to reveal it—­why, I don’t know; but we all have our little faults, and from an amiable though mistaken sense of—­shall I say—­duty?—­you refuse to deliver up the man whose cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life.  “After your departure from Melbourne every one said, ’The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer will never be discovered.’  I ventured to disagree with the wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself, ‘Who was this woman who died at Mother Guttersnipe’s?’ Receiving no satisfactory answer from myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly.  In the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney in the John Elder about a year ago as Mr. and Mrs. Whyte.  I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found inconvenient on some future occasion.  Moreland knew nothing about Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, coming from a city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her there.  Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, ’Find out the name and all about the woman who left England in the John Elder on the 21st day of August, 18—­, as wife of Oliver Whyte.’  Mirabile DICTU, he found out all about her, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity London is, you must admit my friend was clever.  It appears, however, that the task I set him was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs. Whyte was rather a notorious individual in her own way.  She was a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and, being a very handsome woman, had been photographed innumerable times.  Consequently, when she very foolishly went with Whyte to choose a berth on board the boat, she was recognised by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of the Frivolity.  Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot tell you.  With reference to men understanding