o' loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched
youth embezzles money to buy jewellery for his divinity. The career of
Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the
DEMI-MONDE, and, as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with
her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far so good; the motive of
the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his
money in England, and, consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in
Sydney with comparatively very little cash. However, with an
Epicurean-like philosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they
had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate
hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common
one--drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it.
Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne, and finding that a new
generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph--I mean Musette--she
drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel
with Mr. Whyte, to view Melbourne by night--a familiar scene to her, no
doubt. What took her to Little Bourke Street I don't know. Perhaps she
got lost--perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days;
at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavoury locality, by
Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal
acted the part of the good Samaritan--took her to the squalid den she
called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who
had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be
removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an
encumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which,
judging from the landlady's story, he must have occupied for some time,
while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel
Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but
one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna
Moore dies. So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for
before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and
reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer
of this letter has a theory--a fanciful one, if you will--that the
secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte's
death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do
you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed
Whyte, but I do say you