Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gaslight. "My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective," he said, quietly.
"Ah! indeed;" said Moreland, coolly looking up and down. "What has Whyte been doing—running away with some one'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's 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 out of 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."
"Hav'n'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 to-night that I heard about the murder at all, as my landlady gave me a garbled account of it, but I never for a moment connected it with Whyte, and came down here to see him, as I had agreed to do when I left. Poor fellow! poor fellow! poor fellow!" and much overcome, he buried his face in his hands.
