they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, "The Last Rose of Summer," and then a volley of curses from Mother Guttersnipe.
The street door was open, and after groping their way along the dark passage with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.
"Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!"
"At all events our journey has not been wasted," said the detective as they walked along. "We've found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was the night of the murder, so he will be safe."
"That depends upon Sal Rawlins," answered Calton, gravely; "but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience of low life."
CHAPTER XVI.
MISSING.
The next day Kilsip called at Calton's office late in the afternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him. The detective's face, however, looked rather dismal, and Calton was not reassured by its expression.
"Well!" he said, impatiently, when Kilsip had closed the door and taken his seat. "Where is she?"
"That's just what I want to know," answered the detective, coolly; "I went to the Salvation Army headquarters and made inquiries about her. It appears that she had been in the Army as a hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in a week, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney. She carried on her old life of dissipation, but, ultimately, her friend got sick of her, and the last thing they heard about her was that she had taken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums. I telegraphed at once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of the name of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said they would make inquiries, and let me know the result."
"Ah! she has, no doubt, changed her name," said Calton, thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I wonder what for?"
"Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect," answered
