engaged to you, and I answered ‘Yes.’ That was all, and then he left the house.”
“Yes, and Brian didn’t go until two hours after,” said Madge, triumphantly. “He never saw Mr. Whyte the whole night.”
“So he says,” replied Mr. Frettlby, significantly. “I believe Brian before any one else in the world,” said his daughter, hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
“Ah! but will a jury?” queried her father.
“You have turned against him, too,” answered Madge, her eyes filling with tears. “You believe him guilty.”
“I am not prepared either to deny or confirm his guilt,” said Mr. Frettlby, coldly. “I have done what I could to help him—I have engaged Calton to defend him, and, if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind at rest.”
“My dear father,” said Madge, throwing her arms round his neck, “I knew you would not desert him altogether, for my sake.”
“My darling,” replied her father, in a faltering voice, as he kissed her, “there is nothing in the world I would not do for your sake.”
Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Jail, thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escape except one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.
“It would kill her; it would kill her,” he said, feverishly, as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones. “Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like a common thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If I engage a lawyer to defend me,” he went on, “the first question he will ask me will be where was I on that night, and if I tell him all will be discovered, and then—no—no—I cannot do it; it would kill her, my darling,” and throwing himself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.
He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and on looking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a great friend of Fitzgerald’s, and Brian was deeply touched by his kindness in coming to see him.
Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian, but there was also a touch of self interest in the matter. He had received a note from Mr. Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald, which he agreed to do with avidity, as he foresaw in this case an opportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australian colonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, but his reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw that Fitzgerald’s trial for murder would cause a great sensation throughout Australia and New Zealand, he determined to take advantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame, wealth, and position. So this tall, keen-eyed man, with the clean shaven face and expressive mouth, advanced into the cell, and took Brian by the hand.
“It is very kind of you to come and see me,” said Fitzgerald; “it is at a time like this that one appreciates friendship.”
“Yes, of course,” answered the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on the other’s haggard face, as if he would read his innermost thoughts. “I came partly on my own account, and partly because Frettlby asked me to see you as to your defence.”
“Mr. Frettlby?” said Brian, in a mechanical way. “He is very kind; I thought he believed me guilty.”
“No man is considered guilty until he has been proved so,” answered Calton, evasively.
Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved an impatient sigh.
“And Miss Frettlby?” he asked, in a hesitating manner. This time he got a decided answer.
“She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear a word said against you.”
“God bless her,” said Brian, fervently; “she is a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed?” he added, bitterly.
“Nothing else talked about,” answered Calton, calmly. “Your arrest has for the present suspended all interest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are at the present moment being discussed threadbare in Clubs and drawing-rooms.”
Fitzgerald writhed. He was a singularly proud man, and there was something inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.
“But this is all idle chatter,” said Calton, taking a seat.
“We must get to business. Of course, you will accept me as your counsel.”
“It’s no good my doing so,” replied Brian, gloomily. “The rope is already round my neck.”
“Nonsense,” replied the lawyer, cheerfully, “the rope is round no man’s neck until he is on the scaffold. Now, you need not say a word,” he went on, holding up his hand as Brian was about to speak; “I intend to defend you, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts, except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate so much that one can place no reliance on them. At all events, I believe from my heart that you are innocent, and you must walk out of the prisoner’s dock a free man, if only for the sake of that noble girl who loves you.”
Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the other grasped warmly.
“I will not deny,” went on Calton, “that there is a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case is such an extraordinary one, that I feel as if I were unable to let slip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don’t care for your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort of thing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting. When you are safe we will look together for the real criminal, and the pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitement when we find him out.”
“I agree with everything you say,” said Fitzgerald, calmly, “but I have no defence to make.”
“No defence? You are not going to confess you killed him?”
“No,” with an angry flush, “but there are certain circumstances which prevent me from defending myself.”
“What nonsense,” retorted Calton, sharply, “as if any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life. But never mind, I like these objections; they make the nut harder to crack—but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now, I want you to answer certain questions.”
“I won’t promise.”
“Well, we shall see,” said the lawyer, cheerfully, taking out his note-book, and resting it on his knee. “First, where were you on the Thursday night preceding the murder?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St. Kilda, and came up to town by the eleven o’clock train.”
“Eleven-twenty,” corrected Brian.
Calton smiled in a gratified manner as he noted this down. “A little diplomacy is all that’s required,” he said mentally.
“And where did you go then?” he added, aloud.
“I met Rolleston in the train, and we took a cab from the Flinders Street station up to the Club.”
“What Club?”
“The Melbourne Club.”
“Yes?” interrogatively.
“Rolleston went home, and I went into the Club and played cards for a time.”
“When did you leave the Club?”
“A few minutes to one o’clock in the morning.”
“And then, I suppose, you went home?”
“No; I did not.”
“Then where did you go?”
“Down the street.”
“Rather vague. I presume you mean Collins Street?”
“Yes.”