The Mystery of a Hansom Cab by Fergus Hume Read Free Book Online Page B

not. At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back in his chair.
    â€˜No, I have not,’ he said with a yawn. ‘I have been up the country for a few days and only arrived back this evening, so I have not seen him for over a week. Why do you ask?’
    The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young man before him in a thoughtful manner.
    â€˜I hope,’ said Mr Moreland nonchalantly, ‘I hope you will know me again my friend, but I didn’t know Whyte had started a lunatic asylum during my absence—who are you?’
    Mr Gorby came forward and stood under the gas light. ‘My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective,’ he said quietly.
    â€˜Ah! indeed,’ said Moreland coolly looking him up and down. ‘What has Whyte been doing, running away with someone’s wife, eh? I know he has little weaknesses of that sort.’
    Gorby shook his head.
    â€˜Do you know where Mr Whyte is to be found?’ he asked cautiously.
    Moreland laughed.
    â€˜Not I, my friend,’ said he lightly. ‘I presume he is somewhere about here, as these are his headquarters. What’s he been doing? Nothing that can surprise me, I assure you—he was always an erratic individual, and—’
    â€˜He paid reg’lar,’ interrupted Mrs Hableton, pursing up her lips.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜He’s dead!’ said Gorby, abruptly.
    All Moreland’s nonchalance vanished on hearing this, and he started up out of his chair.
    â€˜Dead,’ he repeated mechanically. ‘What do you mean?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Haven’t you seen the papers?’ asked Gorby.
    â€˜Not for the last two weeks,’ replied Moreland. ‘I have been up country, and it was only on arriving back in town tonight 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.
    Mr Gorby was touched by his evident distress, and even Mrs Hableton permitted a small tear to roll down one hard cheek as a tribute of sorrow and sympathy. Presently Moreland raised his head, and spoke to Gorby in a husky tone.
    â€˜Tell me all about it,’ he said, leaning his cheek on his hand. ‘Everything you know.’
    He placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands again, while the detective sat down and related all that he knew about Whyte’s murder. When it was done he lifted up his head, and looked sadly at the detective.
    â€˜If I had been in town,’ he said, ‘this would not have happened, for I was always beside Whyte.’
    â€˜You knew him very well, sir,’ said the detective in a sympathetic tone.
    â€˜We were like brothers,’ replied Moreland, mournfully. ‘I came out from England in the same steamer with him, and used to visit him constantly here.’
    Mrs Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was the case.
    â€˜In fact,’ said Mr Moreland after a moment’s thought, ‘I believe I was with him the night he was murdered.’
    Mrs Hableton gave a slight scream and threw her apron over her face, but the detective sat unmoved,though Moreland’s last remark had considerably startled him.
    â€˜What’s the