eard around, and their own fertile imaginations.

As to the prisoner's guilt, everyone was certain of it. The cabman
Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and
when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than
that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no
defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the
church caught the contagion, and ministers--Anglican, Roman Catholic,
and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor
denominations--took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach
sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only
ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and
immorality was their own particular church. "Gad," as Calton remarked,
after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own church as the
one special vessel of safety, "there seems to be a whole fleet of arks!"

For Mr. Felix Rolleston, acquainted as he was with all concerned, the
time was one of great and exceeding joy. He was ever to the fore in
retailing to his friends, plus certain garnishments of his own, any
fresh evidence that chanced to come to light. His endeavour was to
render it the more piquant, if not dramatic. If you asked him for his
definite opinion as to the innocence or guilt of the accused, Mr. Felix
shook his head sagaciously, and gave you to understand that neither he,
nor his dear friend Calton--he knew Calton to nod to--had yet been able
to make up their minds about the matter.

"Fact is, don't you know," observed Mr. Rolleston, wisely, "there's
more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing--think
'tective fellers wrong myself--don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly
well sure he didn't."

This would be followed invariably by a query in chorus of "who killed
him then?"

"Aha," Felix would retort, putting his head on one side, like a
meditative sparrow; "'tective fellers can't find out; that's the
difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove."

"But do you know anything of the detective business?" some one would
ask.

"Oh, dear yes," with an airy wave of his hand; "I've read Gaboreau, you
know; awfully jolly life, 'tectives."

Despite this evasion, Rolleston, in his heart of hearts, believed
Fitzgerald guilty. But he was one of those persons, who having either
tender hearts or obstinate natures--the latter is perhaps the more
general--deem it incum