"Then you remember?" "Yes." "And where were you?" "I can't tell you." "You refuse." "Yes, I do." "Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal." "If necessary, I will pay it." "And you won't tell me where you were?" "No, I won't." Calton was beginning to feel annoyed. "You're very foolish," he said, "sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an ALIBI." No answer. "At what hour did you get home?" "About two o'clock in the morning." "Did you walk home?" "Yes--through the Fitzroy Gardens." "Did you see anyone on your way home?" "I don't know. I wasn't paying attention." "Did anyone see you?" "Not that I know of." "Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o'clock on Friday morning?" "Absolutely!" Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move. "Did you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?" Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale. "No! I did not know," he said, reluctantly. The lawyer made a master stroke. "Then why did you take them from him?" "What! Had he it with him?" Calton saw his advantage, and seized it at once. "Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?" "I did not take it. I didn't even know he had it with him." "Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what 'it' is." Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen. "No! I will not," he answered steadily. "Was it a jewel?" "No!" "Was it an important paper?" "I don't know." "Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face. And was that paper of importance to you?" "Why do you ask?" Calton fixed his keen grey eyes steadily on Brian's face. "Because," he answered slowly, "the man to whom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte." Brian started up, ghastly pale. "My God!" he almost shrieked, stretching out his hands, "it is true after all," and he fell down on the stone pavement in a dead faint. Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and between them they placed him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. He recovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he was unfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside he stopped for a moment and looked back on the grim, grey walls. "Brian Fitzgerald," he said to himself "you did not commit the murder yourself, but you know who did." CHAPTER XII. SHE WAS A TRUE WOMAN. Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been looked upon merely as a common murder, and one of which society need take no cognisance beyond the bare fact of its committal. But now that one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne had been arrested as the assassin, it bade fair to assume gigantic proportions. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished in her bosom a viper which had unexpectedly turned and stung her.