“He’s dead!” said Gorby, abruptly.

All Moreland’s nonchalance vanished on hearing this, and he started up from his chair.

“Dead,” he repeated mechanically.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Mr. Oliver Whyte was murdered in a hansom cab.”  Moreland stared at the detective in a puzzled sort of way, and passed his hand across his forehead.

“Excuse me, my head is in a whirl,” he said, as he sat down again.  “Whyte murdered!  He was all right when I left him nearly two weeks ago.”

“Haven’t you seen the papers?” asked Gorby.

“Not for the last two weeks,” replied Moreland.  “I have been up country, and it was only on arriving back in town tonight that I heard about the murder at all, as my landlady gave me a garbled account of it, but I never for a moment connected it with Whyte, and I came down here to see him, as I had agreed to do when I left.  Poor fellow! poor fellow! poor fellow!” and much overcome, he buried his face in his hands.

Mr. Gorby was touched by his evident distress, and even Mrs. Hableton permitted a small tear to roll down one hard cheek as a tribute of sorrow and sympathy.  Presently Moreland raised his head, and spoke to Gorby in a husky tone.

“Tell me all about it,” he said, leaning his cheek on his hand.  “Everything you know.”

He placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands again, while the detective sat down and related all that he knew about Whyte’s murder.  When it was done he lifted up his head, and looked sadly at the detective.

“If I had been in town,” he said, “this would not have happened, for I was always beside Whyte.”

“You knew him very well, sir?” said the detective, in a sympathetic tone.

“We were like brothers,” replied Moreland, mournfully.

“I came out from England in the same steamer with him, and used to visit him constantly here.”

Mr. Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was the case.

“In fact,” said Mr. Moreland, after a moment’s thought, “I believe I was with him on the night he was murdered.”

Mrs. Hableton gave a slight scream, and threw her apron over her face, but the detective sat unmoved, though Moreland’s last remark had startled him considerably.

“What’s the matter?” said Moreland, turning to Mrs. Hableton.

“Don’t be afraid; I didn’t kill him—­no—­but I met him last Thursday week, and I left for the country on Friday morning at half-past six.”

“And what time did you meet Whyte on Thursday night?” asked Gorby.

“Let me see,” said Moreland, crossing his legs and looking thoughtfully up to the ceiling, “it was about half-past nine o’clock.  I was in the Orient Hotel, in Bourke Street.  We had a drink together, and then went up the street to an hotel in Russell Street, where we had another.  In fact,” said Moreland, coolly, “we had several other drinks.”