It was as Madge had predicted—­her father was unable to stay long in one place, and had come back to Melbourne a week after Brian had arrived.  The pleasant party at the station was broken up, and, like the graves of a household, the guests were scattered far and wide.  Peterson had left for New Zealand en Route for the wonders of the Hot Lakes, and the old colonist was about to start for England in order to refresh his boyish memories.  Mr. and Mrs. Rolleston had come back to Melbourne, where the wretched Felix was compelled once more to plunge into politics; and Dr. Chinston had resumed his usual routine of fees and patients.

Madge was glad to be back in Melbourne again, as now that her health was restored she craved for the excitement of town life It was now more than three months since the murder, and the nine days’ wonder was a thing of the past.  The possibility of a war with Russia was the one absorbing topic of the hour, and the colonists were busy preparing for the attack of a possible enemy.  As the Spanish Kings had drawn their treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the White Czar lay violent hands on the golden stores of Australia; but here there were no uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava.  So in the midst of stormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was quite forgotten.  After the trial, everyone, including the detective office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list of undiscovered crimes.  In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver Whyte would remain a free man.  There were only two people in Melbourne who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip.  Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck his cowardly blow in the dark, and though there seemed no possible chance of success, yet they worked on.  Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland, the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them.  The barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the death-bed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on the subject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer would soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be found that would lead to his detection.  So, as the matter stood at the time of Mark Frettlby’s return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for Fitzgerald’s confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked stealthily in the dark, searching for evidence against Moreland.