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Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton's office at eight o'clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums, and found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm his belief. 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 a true one than when dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips. Consequently, when Kilsip made his appearance, Calton was in a perfect fever of excitement, which he concealed under a calm exterior.

"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. 