As to the prisoner’s guilt, everyone was certain of it.  The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead.  There could be no stronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court.  Even the church caught the contagion, and ministers—­Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—­took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immorality was their own particular church.  “Gad,” as Calton remarked, after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own church as the one special vessel of safety, “there seems to be a whole fleet of arks!”

For Mr. Felix Rolleston, acquainted as he was with all concerned, the time was one of great and exceeding joy.  He was ever to the fore in retailing to his friends, plus certain garnishments of his own, any fresh evidence that chanced to come to light.  His endeavour was to render it the more piquant, if not dramatic.  If you asked him for his definite opinion as to the innocence or guilt of the accused, Mr. Felix shook his head sagaciously, and gave you to understand that neither he, nor his dear friend Calton—­he knew Calton to nod to—­had yet been able to make up their minds about the matter.

“Fact is, don’t you know,” observed Mr. Rolleston, wisely, “there’s more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing—­think ’tective fellers wrong myself—­don’t think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly well sure he didn’t.”

This would be followed invariably by a query in chorus of “who killed him then?”

“Aha,” Felix would retort, putting his head on one side, like a meditative sparrow; “’tective fellers can’t find out; that’s the difficulty.  Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove.”

“But do you know anything of the detective business?” some one would ask.

“Oh, dear yes,” with an airy wave of his hand; “I’ve read Gaboreau, you know; awfully jolly life, ’tectives.”

Despite this evasion, Rolleston, in his heart of hearts, believed Fitzgerald guilty.  But he was one of those persons, who having either tender hearts or obstinate natures—­the latter is perhaps the more general—­deem it incumbent upon them to come forward in championship of those in trouble.  There are, doubtless, those who think that Nero was a pleasant young man, whose cruelties were but the resultant of an overflow of high spirits; and who regard Henry VIII. in the light of a henpecked husband unfortunate in the possession of six wives.  These people delight in expressing their sympathy with great scoundrels of the Ned Kelly order.  They view them as the embodiment of heroism, unsympathetically and disgracefully treated by the narrow understanding of the law.  If one half the world does kick a man when he is down, the other half invariably consoles the prostrate individual with halfpence.