"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. "I see that it's all up with me, so I'm not going to lie like a coward. I've played for a big stake and lost, but if I hadn't been such a fool I'd have cashed that cheque the next morning, and been far away by this time."
"It certainly would have been wiser," said Calton.