a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by
the experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the
good things of this world, videlicet--love, wine, and friendship. I am
afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for
the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law. On
reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as
Praed's Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I
must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and
write sense. I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore
entrusted you with--ah! you see I know her name, and why?--simply
because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been
trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the ARGUS very
cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the
whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of
Whyte's murder, and the reason for it, is known to you, but you refuse,
even in the interests of justice, to reveal it--why, I don't know; but
we all have our little faults, and from an amiable though mistaken
sense of--shall I say--duty?--you refuse to deliver up the man whose
cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life. After your departure from
Melbourne every one said, 'The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the
murderer will never be discovered.' I ventured to disagree with the
wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself, 'Who was this woman
who died at Mother Guttersnipe's?' Receiving no satisfactory answer
from myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In
the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember,
was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore
had come out to Sydney in the JOHN ELDER about a year ago as Mr. and
Mrs. Whyte. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go
through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found
inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about
Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, coming from a
city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her
there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine,
who is a bit of an amateur detective, 'Find out the name and all about
the woman who left England in the JOHN ELDER on the 21st day of August,
18--, as wife of Oliver Whyte.' MIRABIL