d's tragic death, notwithstanding that the papers were full
of it, and that the reward gave an excellent description of his
personal appearance, greatly puzzled Gorby.

The only way in which to account for Moreland's extraordinary silence
was that he was out of town, and had neither seen the papers nor heard
anyone talking about the murder. If this were the case he might either
stay away for an indefinite time or return after a few days. At all
events it was worth while going down to St. Kilda in the evening on the
chance that Moreland might have returned to town, and world call to see
his friend. So, after his tea, Mr. Gorby put on his hat, and went down
to Possum Villa, on what he could not help acknowledging to himself was
a very slender possibility.

Mrs. Hableton opened the door for him, and in silence led the way, not
into her own sitting-room, but into a much more luxuriously furnished
apartment, which Gorby guessed at once was that of Whyte's. He looked
keenly round the room, and his estimate of the dead man's character was
formed at once.

"Fast," he said to himself, "and a spendthrift. A man who would have
his friends, and possibly his enemies, among a very shady lot of
people."

What led Mr. Gorby to this belief was the evidence which surrounded him
of Whyte's mode of life. The room was well furnished, the furniture
being covered with dark-red velvet, while the curtains on the windows
and the carpet were all of the same somewhat sombre hue.

"I did the thing properly," observed Mrs. Hableton, with a satisfactory
smile on her hard face. "When you wants young men to stop with you, the
rooms must be well furnished, an' Mr. Whyte paid well, tho' 'e was
rather pertickler about 'is food, which I'm only a plain cook, an'
can't make them French things which spile the stomach."

The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink colour, and Mrs.
Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr. Gorby's arrival,
there was a soft roseate hue through the room. Mr. Gorby put his hands
in his capacious pockets, and strolled leisurely through the room,
examining everything with a curious eye. The walls were covered with
pictures of celebrated horses and famous jockeys. Alternating with
these were photographs of ladies of the stage, mostly London actresses,
Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars, evidently being
the objects of the late Mr. Whyte's adoration. Over the mantelpiece
hung a rack of pipes, abov