When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have
confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name
of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had
received hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times before Calton
had been on the point of going to her and trying to get the secret out
of her--that is, if she knew it; but now fate appeared to be playing
into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be
true than one dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips.
By the time Kilsip made his appearance Calton was in a high state of
excitement.
"I suppose we'd better go at once," he said to Kilsip, as he lit a
cigar. "That old hag may go off at any moment."
"She might," assented Kilsip, doubtfully; "but I wouldn't be a bit
surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine
lives like a cat."
"Not improbable," retorted Calton, as they passed into the
brilliantly-lighted street; "her nature seemed to me to be essentially
feline. But tell me," he went on, "what's the matter with her--old
age?"
"Partly; drink also, I think," answered Kilsip. "Besides, her
surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have
pretty well settled her."
"It isn't anything catching, I hope," cried the barrister, with a
shudder, as they passed into the crowd of Bourke Street.
"Don't know, sir, not being a doctor," answered the detective,
stolidly.
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