Part 3 (2/2)

”My dear lady,” said the man at the fence, mildly, ”are you--”

”No, I ain't,” retorted Mrs. Hableton, fiercely, ”I ain't neither a member of the 'Ouse, nor a school teacher, to answer your questions.

I'm a woman as pays my rates an' taxes, and don't gossip nor read yer rubbis.h.i.+n' newspapers, nor care for the Russings, no how, so git out.”

”Don't read the papers?” repeated the man, in a satisfied tone, ”ah!

that accounts for it.”

Mrs. Hableton stared suspiciously at the intruder. He was a burly-looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaven, and his sharp, shrewd-looking grey eyes twinkled like two stars. He was well-dressed in a suit of light clothes, and wore a stiffly-starched white waistcoat, with a ma.s.sive gold chain stretched across it. Altogether he gave Mrs. Hableton finally the impression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted.

”What d'y want?” she asked, abruptly.

”Does Mr. Oliver Whyte live here?” asked the stranger.

”He do, an' he don't,” answered Mrs. Hableton, epigrammatically. ”I ain't seen 'im for over a week, so I s'pose 'e's gone on the drink, like the rest of 'em, but I've put sumthin' in the paper as 'ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let 'im know I ain't a carpet to be trod on, an' if you're a friend of 'im, you can tell 'im from me 'e's a brute, an' it's no more but what I expected of 'im, 'e bein' a male.”

The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs. Hableton, having stopped for want of breath, he interposed, quietly--

”Can I speak to you for a few moments?”

”An' who's a-stoppin' of you?” said Mrs. Hableton, defiantly. ”Go on with you, not as I expects the truth from a male, but go on.”

”Well, really,” said the other, looking up at the cloudless blue sky, and wiping his face with a gaudy red silk pocket-handkerchief, ”it is rather hot, you know, and--”

Mrs. Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate, opened it with a jerk.

”Use your legs and walk in,” she said, and the stranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting-room, which seemed to overflow with antimaca.s.sars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There were also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutla.s.s on the wall, and a grimy line of hard-looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornament, for their appearance in no way tempted one to read them.

The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and s.h.i.+ny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery-looking arm-chair that Mrs.

Hableton pushed towards him; he could not help thinking it had been stuffed with stones, it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, and having taken the handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.

”Now then,” she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, ”Who are you? what are you? and what do you want?”

The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately--

”My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. Oliver Whyte.”

”He ain't here,” said Mrs. Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was in danger of arrest.

”I know that,” answered Mr. Gorby.

”Then where is 'e?”

Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

”He is dead.”

Mrs. Hableton grew pale, and pushed back her chair. ”No,” she cried, ”he never killed 'im, did 'e?”

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