erchief, "it is
rather hot, you know, and--"

Mrs. Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate,
opened it with a jerk.

"Use your legs and walk in," she said, and the stranger having done so,
she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting-room,
which seemed to overflow with antimacassars, wool mats, and wax
flowers. There were also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a
cutlass on the wall, and a grimy line of hard-looking little books, set
in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornament, for their
appearance in no way tempted one to read them.

The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and shiny, so
when the stranger sat down in the slippery--looking arm-chair that Mrs.
Hableton pushed towards him; he could not help thinking it had been
stuffed with stones, it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat
opposite to him in another hard chair, and having taken the
handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and
then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.

"Now then," she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it
gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette,
"Who are you? what are you? and what do you want?"

The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on
the table, and answered deliberately--

"My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. Oliver Whyte."

"He ain't here," said Mrs. Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into
trouble, and was in danger of arrest.

"I know that," answered Mr. Gorby.

"Then where is 'e?"

Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

"He is dead."

Mrs. Hableton grew pale, and pushed back her chair. "No," she cried,
"he never killed 'im, did 'e?"

"Who never killed him?" queried Mr. Gorby, sharply.

Mrs. Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to say, for,
recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively--

"He never killed himself."

Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a
defiant stare.

"Clever," muttered the detective to himself; "knows something more than
she chooses to tell, but I'll get it out of her." He paused a moment,
and then went on smoothly,

"Oh, no! he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?" Mrs.
Hableton did not answer, but, rising from her seat, went over to a hard
and shiny-looking sideboard, from whence she took a bottle of brandy