“But I say,” began Felix, but the cab had already rattled away, so Mr. Rolleston turned angrily away.

“I never saw anything like these lawyers,” he said to himself.

“Calton’s a perfect whirlwind, by Jove.”

Meanwhile Calton was talking to Madge.

“You were right,” he said, “there must have been a message for him at the Club, for he got none from the time he left your place.”

“And what shall we do now?” asked Madge, who, having heard all the conversation, did not trouble to question the lawyer about it.

“Find out at the Club if any letter was waiting for him on that night,” said Calton, as the cab stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club.  “Here we are,” and with a hasty word to Madge, he ran up the steps.

He went to the office of the Club to find out if any letters had been waiting for Fitzgerald, and found there a waiter with whom he was pretty well acquainted.

“Look here, Brown,” said the lawyer, “do you remember on that Thursday night when the hansom cab murder took place if any letters were waiting here for Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“Well, really, sir,” hesitated Brown, “it’s so long ago that I almost forget.”

Calton gave him a sovereign.

“Oh! it’s not that, Mr. Calton,” said the waiter, pocketing the coin, nevertheless.  “But I really do forget.”

“Try and remember,” said Calton, shortly.

Brown made a tremendous effort of memory, and at last gave a satisfactory answer.

“No, sir, there were none!”

“Are you sure?” said Calton, feeling a thrill of disappointment.

“Quite sure, sir,” replied the other, confidently, “I went to the letter rack several times that night, and I am sure there were none for Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Ah!  I thought as much,” said Calton, heaving a sigh.

“Stop!” said Brown, as though struck with a sudden idea.  “Though there was no letter came by post, sir, there was one brought to him on that night.”

“Ah!” said Calton, turning sharply.  “At what time?”

“Just before twelve o’clock, sir.”

“Who brought it?”

“A young woman, sir,” said Brown, in a tone of disgust.  “A bold thing, beggin’ your pardon, sir; and no better than she should be.  She bounced in at the door as bold as brass, and sings out, ‘Is he in?’ ‘Get out,’ I says, ‘or I’ll call the perlice.’  ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says she.  ‘You’ll give him that,’ and she shoves a letter into my hands.  ’Who’s him?’ I asks.  ‘I dunno,’ she answers.  ’It’s written there, and I can’t read; give it him at once.’  And then she clears out before I could stop her.”

“And the letter was for Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“Yes, sir; and a precious dirty letter it was, too.”

“You gave it to him, of course?”

“I did, sir.  He was playing cards, and he put it in his pocket, after having looked at the outside of it, and went on with his game.”