"He is dead."
Mrs. Hableton got quite pale, and pushed back her chair. "No," she cried, "he never killed 'im, did 'e?"
"Who never killed him?" queried Mr. Gorby, sharply.
Mrs. Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to tell, for recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively—
"He never killed himself."
Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.
"Clever," muttered the detective to himself; "knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I'll get it out of her." He paused a moment, and then went on smoothly:
"Oh, no! he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?"
Mrs. Hableton did not answer, but, rising from her seat, went over to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard, from whence she took a bottle of brandy and a small wine-glass.
Half filling the glass, she drank it off, and returned to her seat. "I don't take much of that stuff," she said, seeing the detective's eyes fixed curiously on her, "but you 'ave given me such a turn that I 'ad to take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?"
"Tell me all you know," said Mr. Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, which thereupon changed, and grew a shade paler.
"Where was Mr. Whyte killed?" she asked.
"He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St. Kilda Road."
"In the open street?" she asked, in a startled tone
"Yes, in the open street."
"Ah!" she drew a long breath, and closed her lips firmly. Mr. Gorby said nothing as he saw that she was deliberating whether to tell or not, and a word from him might seal her lips, so, like a wise man he kept silent. He obtained his reward sooner than he expected.
"Mr. Gorby," she said at length, "I 'ave 'ad a 'ard struggle all my life which it came along of a bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, I ain't got much inducement to think well of the lot of you, but—murder," she shivered slightly, though the room was quite warm, "I didn't think of that."
