e got to
say," he said, leaning back in his chair, "but I may as well tell you
that I am satisfied that I know half your secret already."

"Indeed!" Fitzgerald looked astonished. "In that case, I heed not--"

"Yes, you need," retorted Calton. "I told you I only know half."

"Which half?"

"Hum--rather difficult to answer--however, I'll tell you what I know,
and you can supply all deficiencies. I am quite ready--go on--stop--"
he arose and closed the door carefully.

"Well," resuming his seat, "Mother Guttersnipe died the other night."

"Is she dead?"

"As a door nail," answered Calton calmly. "And a horrible death-bed it
was--her screams ring in my ears yet--but before she died she sent for
me, and said--"

"What?"

"That she was the mother of Rosanna Moore."

"Yes!"

"And that Sal Rawlins was Rosanna's child."

"And the father?" said Brian, in a low voice.

"Was Mark Frettlby."

"Ah!"

"And now what have you to tell me?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing," echoed Calton, surprised, "then this is what Rosanna Moore
told you when she died?"

"Yes!"

"Then why have you made such a mystery about it?"

"You ask that?" said Fitzgerald, looking up, in surprise. "If I had
told it, don't you see what difference it would have made to Madge?"

"I'm sure I don't," retorted the barrister, completely mystified. "I
suppose you mean Frettlby's connection with Rosanna Moore; well, of
course, it was not a very creditable thing for her to have been
Frettlby's mistress, but still--"

"His mistress?" said Fitzgerald, looking up sharply "then you don't
know all."

"What do you mean--was she not his mistress?"

"No--his wife!" Calton sprang to his feet, and gave a cry of surprise.

"His wife!"

Fitzgerald nodded.

"Why, Mother Guttersnipe did not know this--she thought Rosanna was his
mistress."

"He kept his marriage secret," answered Brian, "and as his wife ran
away with someone else shortly afterwards, he never revealed it."

"I understand now," said the barrister, slowly. "For if Mark Frettlby
was lawfully married to Rosanna Moore--Madge is illegitimate."

"Yes, and she now occupies the place which Sal Rawlins--or rather Sal
Frettlby ought to."

"Poor girl," said Calton, a little sadly. "But all this does not
explain the mystery of Whyte's murder."

"I will tell you that," said Fitzgerald, quickly. "When Rosanna left
her husband, she ran away to England with some young fellow, and when
he got tired of he