“Nonsense,” retorted Calton, sharply.  “Why, she hated him and loves Fitzgerald; besides, why on earth should she marry secretly, and make a confidant of a woman in one of the lowest parts of Melbourne?  At one time her father wanted her to marry Whyte, but she made such strong opposition, that he eventually gave his consent to her engagement with Fitzgerald.”

“And Whyte?”

“Oh, he had a row with Mr. Frettlby, and left the house in a rage.  He was murdered the same night, for the sake of some papers he carried.”

“Oh, that’s Gorby’s idea,” said Kilsip, scornfully, with a vicious snarl.

“And it’s mine too,” answered Calton, firmly.  “Whyte had some valuable papers, which he always carried about with him.  The woman who died evidently told Fitzgerald that he did so; I gathered as much from an accidental admission he made.”

Kilsip looked puzzled.

“I must confess that it is a riddle,” he said at length; “but if Mr. Fitzgerald would only speak, it would clear everything up.”

“Speak about what—­the man who murdered Whyte?”

“Well, if he did not go quite so far as that he might at least supply the motive for the crime.”

“Perhaps so,” answered Calton, as the detective rose to go; “but it’s no use.  Fitzgerald for some reason or another, has evidently made up his mind not to speak, so our only hope in saving him lies in finding this girl.”

“If she’s anywhere in Australia you may be sure she’ll be found,” answered Kilsip, confidently, as he took his departure.  “Australia isn’t so over-crowded as all that.”

But if Sal Rawlins was in Australia at all she certainly must have been in some very remote part.  All efforts to find her proved futile.  It was an open question if she was alive or dead; she seemed to have vanished completely.  She was last seen in a Sydney den with a Chinaman whom afterwards she appears to have left.  Since then, nothing whatever was known of her.  Notices offering large rewards for her discovery were inserted in all the newspapers, Australian and New Zealand; but nothing came of them.  As she herself was unable to read there seemed little chance of her knowing of them; and, if, as Calton surmised she had changed her name, no one would be likely to tell her of them.  There was only the bare chance that she might hear of them casually, or that she might turn up of her own accord.  If she returned to Melbourne she would certainly go to her grandmother’s.  She had no motive for not doing so.  So Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, much to Mrs. Rawlins’ disgust, for, with true English pride, she objected to this system of espionage.

“Cuss ’im,” she croaked over her evening drink, to an old crone, as withered and evil-looking as herself, “why can’t ’e stop in ’is own bloomin’ ‘ouse, an’ leave mine alone—­a-comin’ round ‘ere a-pokin’ and pryin’ and a-perwenting people from earnin’ their livin’ an’ a-gittin’ drunk when they ain’t well.”