to-night?" he asked, sinking into a chair, and
taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article
of furniture.

"Haven't you seen him lately?" asked the detective quickly. Mr.
Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few
moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or not.
At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one
glove he leaned back in his chair.

"No, I have not," he said with a yawn. "I have been up the country for
a few days, and arrived back only this evening, so I have not seen him
for over a week. Why do you ask?"

The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young man before
him in a thoughtful manner.

"I hope," said Mr. Moreland, nonchalantly, "I hope you will know me
again, my friend, but I didn't know Whyte had started a lunatic asylum
during my absence. Who are you?"

Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gas light.

"My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective," he said quietly.

"Ah! indeed," said Moreland, coolly looking him up and down. "What has
Whyte been doing; running away with someone's wife, eh? I know he has
little weaknesses of that sort."

Gorby shook his head.

"Do you know where Mr. Whyte is to be found?" he asked, cautiously.

Moreland laughed.

"Not I, my friend," said he, lightly. "I presume he is somewhere about
here, as these are his head-quarters. What has he been doing? Nothing
that can surprise me, I assure you--he was always an erratic
individual, and--"

"He paid reg'ler," interrupted Mrs. Hableton, pursing up her lips.

"A most enviable reputation to possess," answered the other with a
sneer, "and one I'm afraid I'll never enjoy. But why all this
questioning about Whyte? What's the matter with him?"

"He's dead!" said Gorby, abruptly.

All Moreland's nonchalance vanished on hearing this, and he started up
from his chair.

"Dead," he repeated mechanically. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Mr. Oliver Whyte was murdered in a hansom cab." Moreland
stared at the detective in a puzzled sort of way, and passed his hand
across his forehead.

"Excuse me, my head is in a whirl," he said, as he sat down again.
"Whyte murdered! He was all right when I left him nearly two weeks ago."

"Haven't you seen the papers?" asked Gorby.

"Not for the last two weeks," replied Moreland. "I have been up
country, and it was only on arriving back in town tonight that I heard
ab