“Yes, and she now occupies the place which Sal Rawlins—­or rather Sal Frettlby ought to.”

“Poor girl,” said Calton, a little sadly.  “But all this does not explain the mystery of Whyte’s murder.”

“I will tell you that,” said Fitzgerald, quickly.  “When Rosanna left her husband, she ran away to England with some young fellow, and when he got tired of her she returned to the stage, and became famous as a burlesque actress, under the name of Musette.  There she met Whyte, as your friend found out, and they came out here for the purpose of extorting money from Frettlby.  When they arrived in Melbourne, Rosanna let Whyte do all the business, and kept herself quiet.  She gave her marriage certificate to Whyte, and he had it on him the night he was murdered.”

“Then Gorby was right,” interposed Calton, eagerly.  “The man to whom those papers were valuable did murder Whyte!”

“Can you doubt it?  And that man was—­”

“Not Mark Frettlby?” burst out Calton.  “Surely not Mark Frettlby?”

Brian nodded, “Yes, Mark Frettlby.”

There was a silence for a few moments, Calton being too much startled by the revelation to say anything.

“When did you discover this?” he asked, after a pause.

“At the time you first came to see me in prison,” said Brian.  “I had no suspicion till then; but when you said that Whyte was murdered for the sake of certain papers, I, knowing full well what they were and to whom they were of value—­guessed immediately that Mark Frettlby had killed Whyte in order to obtain them and to keep his secret.”

“There can be no doubt of it,” said the barrister, with a sigh.  “So this is the reason Frettlby wanted Madge to marry Whyte—­her hand was to be the price of his silence.  When he withdrew his consent, Whyte threatened him with exposure.  I remember he left the house in a very excited state on the night he was murdered.  Frettlby must have followed him up to town, got into the cab with him, and after killing him with chloroform, must have taken the marriage certificate from his secret pocket, and escaped.”

Brian rose to his feet, and walked rapidly up and down the room.

“Now you can understand what a hell my life has been for the last few months,” he said, “knowing that he had committed the crime; and yet I had to sit with him, eat with him, and drink with him, with the knowledge that he was a murderer, and Madge—­Madge, his daughter!”

Just then a knock came to his door, and Mrs. Sampson entered with a telegram, which she handed to Brian.  He tore it open as she withdrew, and glancing over it, gave a cry of horror, and let it flutter to his feet.

Calton turned rapidly on hearing his cry, and seeing him fall into a chair with a white face, snatched up the telegram and read it.  When he did so, his face grew as pale and startled as Fitzgerald’s, and lifting his hand, he said solemnly—­