locality, by Sal Rawlins.  I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself.  Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan—­took her to the squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill.  Whyte, who had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be removed.  I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady’s story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies.  So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart.  The writer of this letter has a theory—­a fanciful one, if you will—­that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte’s death.  Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest?  I do not say you know who killed Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer.  If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not—­well, I shall find out without you.  I have taken, and still take, a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know.  If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later to discover the secret which led to Whyte’s murder.  If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps, will come round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands So think over what I have said; if I do not hear from you within the next week, I shall regard your decision as final, and pursue the search myself.  “I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you, and draw to a close.  Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to her father.  With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly,

“Duncan Calton.”

When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back in his chair, stared blankly into the dawning light outside.  He arose after a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it quickly.  Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn.  There was a soft crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees.  But Brian did not see the marvellous breaking of the dawn.  He stood staring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton’s letter.