“What do ’e want?” asked her friend, rubbing her weak old knees.

“Wants?—­’e wants ’is throat cut,” said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously.  “An’ s’elp me I’ll do for ’im some night w’en ‘e’s a watchin’ round ’ere as if it were Pentridge—­’e can git what he can out of that whelp as ran away, but I knows suthin’ ’e don’t know, cuss ’im.”

She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having taken advantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the broken cup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by the hair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against the wall.

“I’ll have the perlice in at yer,” whimpered the assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as her rheumatics would allow her.  “See if I don’t.”

“Get out,” retorted Mother Guttersnipe, indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup.  “You come a-falutin’ round ‘ere agin priggin’ my drinks, cuss you, an’ I’ll cut yer throat an’ wring yer wicked old ’ead orf.”

The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasant proposal, and tottered out as quickly as possible, leaving Mother Guttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.

Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used every argument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he either maintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered,

“It would only break her heart.”

He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that he had been at Mother Guttersnipe’s on the night of the murder.  After he had left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, as the cabman—­Royston—­had stated, he had gone along Russell Street, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel.  She had taken him to Mother Guttersnipe’s, where he had seen the dying woman, who had told him something he could not reveal.

“Well,” said Mr. Calton, after hearing the admission, “you might have saved us all this trouble by admitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it may be.  Had you done so, we might have got hold of Sal Rawlins before she left Melbourne; but now it’s a mere chance whether she turns up or not.”

Brian did not answer to this; in fact, he seemed hardly to be thinking of what the lawyer was saying; but just as Calton was leaving, he asked—­

“How is Madge?”

“How can you expect her to be?” said Calton, turning angrily on him.  “She is very ill, owing to the worry she has had over this affair.”

“My darling!  My darling!” cried Brian, in agony, clasping his hands above his head.  “I did it only to save you.”

Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

“My dear fellow,” he said, gravely, “the confidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as those between priest and penitent.  You must tell me this secret which concerns Miss Frettlby so deeply.”

“No,” said Brian, firmly, “I will never repeat what that wretched woman told me.  When I would not tell you before, in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now, when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling it.”