Melbourne society was greatly agitated¹ over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been looked upon merely as a common murder, and one of which society need take no cognisance beyond the bare fact of its committal. But now that one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne had been arrested as the assassin, it bade fair to assume gigantic proportions. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished in her bosom³ a viper⁴ which had unexpectedly turned and stung her.

Morn, noon, and night, in Toorak drawing-rooms and Melbourne Clubs, the case formed the principal subject of conversation. And Mrs. Grundy was horrified⁵. Here was a young man, well born — “the Fitzgeralds, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins” — well-bred — “most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking” and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne — “pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog;” and this young man, who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder — it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to, and what were gaols⁷ and lunatic asylums⁸ built for if men of young Fitzgerald’s calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing⁹ people? And then, of course, everybody asked everybody else who Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met Mr. Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of the insane questions which some people will ask. It was talked about everywhere — in fashionable drawing-rooms at five o’clock tea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, over brandies and

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