“That is my theory.”

“It’s ingenious enough,” said the barrister; “but why should Moreland murder Whyte?  What motive had he?”

“Those papers—­”

“Pshaw! another idea of Gorby’s,” said Calton, angrily.  “How do you know there were any papers?”

The fact is, Calton did not intend Kilsip to know that Whyte really had papers until he heard what Fitzgerald had to tell him.

“And another thing,” said Calton, resuming his walk, “if your theory is correct, which I don’t think it is, what became of Whyte’s coat?  Has Moreland got it?”

“No, he has not,” answered the detective, decisively.

“You seem very positive about it,” said the lawyer, after a moment’s pause.  “Did you ask Moreland about it?”

A reproachful look came into Kilsip’s white face.

“Not quite so green,” he said, forcing a smile.  “I thought you’d a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton.  Ask him?—­no.”

“Then how did you find out?”

“The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel.”

“A barman!” echoed Calton; “and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune.  Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte.  Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman—­pshaw! the idea is absurd.”

“Well, you may be right about the matter,” said Kilsip, rather angrily; “and if Gorby makes mistakes I don’t pretend to be infallible.  But, at all events, when I saw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand.”

“Silver isn’t a diamond.”

“No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on.  When I saw that, I determined to search his room.  I managed to do so while he was out, and found—­”

“A mare’s nest?”

Kilsip nodded.

“And so your castle of cards falls to the ground,” said Calton, jestingly.  “Your idea is absurd.  Moreland no more committed the murder than I did.  Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything.”

“Humph—­so he says.”

“Well, men don’t calumniate themselves for nothing.”

“It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one,” replied Kilsip, coolly.  “I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night.  He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements.  Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out.”

“Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?”

“I shall start looking for the coat first.”

“Ah I you think he has hidden it?”

“I am sure of it.  My theory is this.  When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett Street—­”

“But he didn’t,” interrupted Calton, angrily.

“Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did,” said Kilsip, quietly.  “I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett Street, turned to the left down George Street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy Gardens, then, knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away, or rather, hid it, and walked out of the Gardens through the town—­”