"I--I--what's that?" he
shrieked, as he saw Whyte's coat, all weather-stained, lying on a chair
near him, and which he immediately recognised.
"That is the rope that's going to hang you," said Kilsip, quietly,
coming behind him, "for the murder of Oliver Whyte."
"Trapped by G--!" shouted the wretched man, wheeling round, so as to
face Kilsip. He sprang at the detective's throat, and they both rolled
together on the floor, but the latter was too strong for him, and,
after a sharp struggle, he succeeded in getting the handcuffs on
Moreland's wrists. The others stood around perfectly quiet, knowing
that Kilsip required no assistance. Now that there was no possibility
of escape, Moreland seemed to become resigned, and rose sullenly off
the floor.
"I'll make you pay for this," he hissed between hie teeth, with a white
despairing face. "You can't prove anything."
"Can't we?" said Calton, touching the confession. "You are
wrong. This is the confession of Mark Frettlby made before he died."
"It's a lie."
"A jury will decide that," said the barrister, dryly. "Meanwhile you
will pass the night in the Melbourne Gaol."
"Ah! perhaps they'll give me the same cell as you occupied," said
Moreland, with a hard laugh, turning to Fitzgerald. "I should like it
for its old associations."
Brian did not answer him, but picking up his hat and gloves, prepared
to go.
"Stop!" cried Moreland, fiercely.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339