the table, and answered deliberately--

"My name is Gorby. I am a detective. I want Mr. Oliver Whyte."

"He ain't here," said Mrs. Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into
trouble, and was in danger of arrest.

"I know that," answered Mr. Gorby.

"Then where is 'e?"

Mr. Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

"He is dead."

Mrs. Hableton grew pale, and pushed back her chair. "No," she cried,
"he never killed 'im, did 'e?"

"Who never killed him?" queried Mr. Gorby, sharply.

Mrs. Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to say, for,
recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively--

"He never killed himself."

Mr. Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a
defiant stare.

"Clever," muttered the detective to himself; "knows something more than
she chooses to tell, but I'll get it out of her." He paused a moment,