or
the attack of a possible enemy. As the Spanish Kings had drawn their
treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the White Czar lay violent
hands on the golden stores of Australia; but here there were no
uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had
dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the
midst of stormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was
quite forgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detective
office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list
of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new
had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver
Whyte would remain a free man. There were only two people in Melbourne
who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip.
Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck
his cowardly blow in the dark, and though there seemed no possible
chance of success, yet they worked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland,
the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and
uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them. The
barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the
death-bed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on
the subject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret
which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer
would soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be found that
would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at the time of
Mark Frettlby's return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for
Fitzgerald's confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked
stealthily in the dark, searching for evidence against Moreland.

On receiving Madge's telegram, Brian determined to go down in the
evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge to that effect.
He did not want to meet Mark Frettlby, but did not of course, tell this
to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself, as her father had gone to
his club, and the time of his return was uncertain. After dinner, she
wrapped a light cloak round her, and repaired to the verandah to wait
for her lover. The garden looked charming in the moonlight, with the
black, dense cypress trees standing up against the sky, and the great
fountain splashing cool and silvery. There was a heavily-foliaged oak
by the gate, and she strolled down the path, and st