"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.
"If I had been in town," he said, "this would not have happened, for I
was always beside Whyte."
"You knew him very well, sir?" said the detective, in a sympathetic
tone.
"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."
Mr. Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was the case.
"In fact," said Mr. Moreland, after a moment's thought, "I believe I
was with him on 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
startled him considerably.
"What's the matter?" said Moreland, turning to Mrs. Hableton.
"Don't be afraid; I didn't kill him--no--but I met him last Thursday
week, and I left for the country on Friday morning at half-past six."
"And what time did you meet Whyte on Thursday night?" asked Gorby.
"Let me see," said Moreland, crossing his legs and looking thoughtfully
up to the ceiling, "it was about half-past nine o'clock. I was in the
Orient Hotel, in Bourke Street. We had a drink together, and then went
up the street to an hotel in Russell Street, where we had another.
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