“But he’s dead,” said Brian.

“I’m speaking of Roger Moreland,” retorted Kilsip.  “For he and no other murdered Oliver Whyte.”

“That’s a much more likely story,” Chinston said.

“I tell you no,” said Calton, vehemently.  “God knows I would like to preserve Mark Frettlby’s good name, and it is with this object I have brought you all together.  I will read the confession, and when you know the truth, I want you all to keep silent about it, as Mark Frettlby is dead, and the publication of his crime can do no good to anyone.”

“I know,” resumed Calton, addressing the detective, “that you are fully convinced in your own mind that you are right and I am wrong, but what if I tell you that Mark Frettlby died holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime was committed?”

Kilsip’s face lengthened considerably.

“What were the papers?”

“The marriage certificate of Mark Frettlby and Rosanna Moore, the woman who died in the back slum.”

Kilsip was not often astonished; but he was so now.  And Dr. Chinston fell back in his chair, staring at the barrister in blank amazement.

“And what’s more,” went on Calton, triumphantly, “do you know that Moreland went to Frettlby two nights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush-money?”

“What!” cried Kilsip.

“Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently saw Frettlby, and threatened to expose him unless he paid for his silence.”

“Very strange,” murmured Kilsip, to himself, with a disappointed look on his face.  “But why did Moreland keep still so long?”

“I cannot tell you,” replied Calton, “but, no doubt, the confession will explain all.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake read it,” broke in Dr. Chinston, impatiently.  “I’m quite in the dark, and all your talk is Greek to me.”

“One moment,” said Kilsip, dragging a bundle from under his chair, and untying it.  “If you are right, what about this?” and he held up a light coat, very much soiled and weather-worn.

“Whose is that?” asked Calton, startled.  “Not Whyte’s?”

“Yes, Whyte’s,” repeated Kilsip, with great satisfaction.  “I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near the gate that opens to George Street, East Melbourne.  It was up in a fir-tree.”

“Then Mr. Frettlby must have got out at Powlett Street, and walked down George Street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardens into town,” said Calton.

Kilsip took no heed of the remark, but took a small bottle out of the pocket of the coat and held it up.

“I also found this,” he said.

“Chloroform,” cried everyone, guessing at once that it was the missing bottle.

“Exactly,” said Kilsip, replacing it.  “This was the bottle which contained the poison used by—­by—­well, call him the murderer.  The name of the chemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who bought it.  Now, who do you think?” with a look of triumph.