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The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn

by Robert Machray · English · Gutenberg #40464 · 501,099 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn

Author: Robert Machray


        
Release date: August 9, 2012 [eBook #40464]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF LINCOLN'S INN ***

                      THE MYSTERY OF LINCOLN'S INN

                           BY ROBERT MACHRAY

           AUTHOR OF "GRACE O'MALLEY," "THE VISION SPLENDID,"
                     "A BLOW OVER THE HEART," ETC.


    TORONTO
    THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
    1910

    PRINTED BY
    WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
    LONDON AND BECCLES.




THE MYSTERY OF LINCOLN'S INN




CHAPTER I


It was at half-past ten in the forenoon of a Saturday in July that Mr.
Cooper Silwood, precise in attire, composed in appearance, and punctual
as usual to the minute, walked into his room on the first floor of 176
New Square, Lincoln's Inn, where were the offices of Eversleigh, Silwood
and Eversleigh, the well-known and long-established firm of solicitors
of which he was a partner.

He was met, as was customary, on his entrance by the head-clerk, John
Williamson, who had already opened and sorted out methodically the
letters received over-night. An admirable specimen of his class,
Williamson generally wore an air of great imperturbability, but this
morning his face had a troubled expression.

"Anything special, Mr. Williamson?" asked Silwood quietly, putting away
his hat and gloves.

"There are two or three important matters to attend to, sir," replied
the man quickly. "The most important is a letter from Mr. Morris
Thornton," he continued, but in a markedly different tone; at the same
time, he looked at his principal with an anxiety he tried hard but just
failed to dissemble.

"From Mr. Thornton," observed Silwood, calmly; he noticed, but was in no
wise disconcerted by, the head-clerk's manner.

"Yes, sir; he writes from Vancouver."

"And what does he say?" inquired Silwood.

"He states that he is coming home immediately," answered Williamson, and
now there was unmistakable anxiety in his voice as well as in his face.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Silwood, who had given a slight yet perceptible
start on hearing the news. "It's surely very sudden," he went on after a
pause of a few seconds. "In his last letter--let me see; we got it about
a fortnight ago--he said nothing about returning soon to England."

"He did not mention it at all, sir, I am certain. But you will see from
this last letter of his that he has a very strong reason for leaving
British Columbia; he is seriously ill--so ill that he has been warned by
his doctor to set his affairs in order. One knows what that means--he is
in a critical condition."

And again Williamson scanned his master's face apprehensively.

"Ah, very sad," said Silwood, but he spoke in a strange, hollow tone,
glancing the while at Williamson with a curious glittering light in his
eyes that was sinister and menacing. It suddenly faded away, however,
and he asked quite evenly, "Does he say when he is coming?"

"Oddly enough, sir, he gives no precise date. But here is his letter,"
said Williamson, picking it out from the pile on Silwood's table.

Silwood, knowing Williamson was watching him narrowly, and conscious
that it was necessary to preserve an aspect of calmness, read Thornton's
letter with the utmost deliberation and with no more concern than was
natural in the pitiful circumstances of the case.

"Very sad, very sad," he said, when he had perused the letter, which he
put down in front of him with elaborate carelessness; "very
distressing!" he added, shaking his head.

There was a moment of silence, and then Silwood remarked to Williamson
that he might go, but as the head-clerk was withdrawing he called him
back.

"Has Mr. Eversleigh come in yet?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; a few minutes ago."

"Have you told him about this letter from Mr. Thornton?"

"No, sir."

"That's right, Mr. Williamson. I'll tell him about it myself."

Silwood nodded Williamson's dismissal, and the clerk, who had
undoubtedly been studying his principal intently and wonderingly during
their conversation, bowed and went out.

"It's plain that Williamson has his suspicions," said Silwood to
himself, after the door had closed upon the head-clerk. "He is inclined
to think there's something wrong--I could see it in his manner--it
suggested he was afraid there was some trouble impending. But he knows
nothing--he can know nothing."

He assured himself, however, that what Williamson knew or suspected did
not matter much.

But what did matter, what did matter enormously, was this letter of
Thornton's.

Taking it up again, he read it over very carefully twice or thrice;
then, still holding it in his hand, he walked up and down the floor many
times, absorbed in thought. His small, hard, keen eyes gleamed angrily,
the lines of his cold, pale, clean-shaven face seemed to become deeper,
and his hands opened and shut convulsively as he paced his room. Now and
again he looked at a large japanned box which stood in one corner. With
a quick, nervous movement peculiar to him in moments of doubt, he
stopped and pushed up the heavy brown wig which he always wore by day,
and sat down at his table. Once more he re-read Thornton's letter.

"Thornton's coming back in this unexpected way," he said to himself,
"upsets my plan--that is quite clear; my hand is forced. What is to be
done now? The worst of it is that Thornton does not say when he is
coming--which is more than a little strange. He is well on his way, no
doubt, by this time; he may drop in upon us any day. I must prepare for
it. I never looked for his return--at least, not for a long time. His
coming precipitates the crisis. Well, it was bound to come sooner or
later. I must consider my position coolly."

He knew he would not be disturbed for an hour, as it was a fixed rule of
the office that no one was to be shown in to him till half-past eleven.
He thought best, pen in hand, seated at his table, and there he sat, a
still, immovable figure, save when he jotted something on his
blotting-pad, for several minutes. But his was a nimble brain, and his
mind was soon made up.

"I must see Eversleigh," he told himself, "and acquaint him
with--everything." As he thought this, he half smiled, and his eyes for
an instant had in them the same threatening gleam that had flashed upon
Williamson.

Next he went to the large japanned box that stood in the corner, and
touching a spring cleverly concealed in the moulding round its base,
gained access to a narrow, shelf-like cavity at the bottom, which was
stuffed with papers. From this secret place he extracted a folio sheet
covered with figures, against which were various initials, "M.T." being
conspicuous from their frequency amongst them.

He went over this document very carefully, added up the figures opposite
the "M.T."s, and put down the total on his pad.

"A quarter of a million," he whispered almost aloud. "It's an immense
sum. What a thing to have to tell Eversleigh!"

Then he folded up and replaced the sheet of figures in the receptacle
hidden at the bottom of the big box, but when he tried to close up the
aperture he experienced great difficulty in getting the spring to act;
finally, however, he succeeded.

"I ought to see to that at once," he said with decision, "but I dare
not."

He now proceeded to skim over the rest of his correspondence with
extraordinary rapidity but with little real attention; at the back of
his mind he was still occupied with the return of Morris Thornton.

All at once a thought struck him.

"I wonder if Kitty Thornton has heard from her father by the same post?
If so, she may know the date on which to expect him," was what he said
to himself, adding, "if she knows, Eversleigh will know." For Miss
Kitty Thornton lived practically as a member of the family of Francis
Eversleigh, the senior partner of the firm.

Silwood went to the door of his room, opened it quietly, and looked out.
A young and handsome man was springing lightly up the stairs; the two
men exchanged somewhat cold nods.

"Good morning, Gilbert," said Silwood, but without much cordiality.

"Good morning," returned the other, with a distant air.

"Going up to see your father, I suppose?" asked Silwood.

"Yes. Mr. Williamson, whom I met in the square, told me he was in,"
replied Gilbert Eversleigh, and with another nod went on upstairs.

"I'll just give you five minutes," said Silwood, under his breath,
addressing the back of the unconscious Gilbert, who knocked at a door on
the second floor and was admitted.

"I thought I'd look in, sir, to ask how they all are at home," said
Gilbert to his father, Francis Eversleigh. Gilbert had his own chambers
in the Temple, of which he was a member, and for the past three years
had not lived at his father's house in Surbiton.

Francis Eversleigh gazed at his son before answering the implied
question, and a father's pride expressed itself clearly in his face. The
son was dear to the father's heart.

"They're all very well at home--your mother and your sister and Kitty,"
responded Francis Eversleigh, lingering somewhat on the last word.
Glancing away from his son to the window, he remarked casually,
"Really, I think Miss Kitty grows prettier and more charming every day."

"She is lovely," cried Gilbert, with rising colour.

"By the way," observed the father, pointedly, "Harry Bennet came in last
evening, and it was not hard to see the attraction."

"Miss Kitty?"

"Yes."

"But Harry Bennet!" said Gilbert, in a voice of protest.

"Yes. He stayed quite late."

"But you know, sir," objected Gilbert, with a frown, "that Harry is said
to be going the pace--making the sparks fly furiously."

Francis Eversleigh did not reply. He thought he had given his son a
plain enough hint; besides, Bennet was a client of his own, and he did
not wish to pursue the subject further. Gilbert walked over to the
window and stood there, while his father covertly watched him. Presently
he faced round; the frown had disappeared; his expression was confident
and eager.

Father and son looked at each other. Seen thus together, the family
likeness between them was pronounced; seen apart, the differences became
prominent.

Francis Eversleigh was a tall, stout, florid, handsome man; genial,
easy-going, unsuspicious, self-indulgent--not a typical solicitor in
appearance or character. Inheriting early in life a fine business, he
had gradually allowed himself to give way to a constitutional indolence,
a fatality of temperament which Gilbert happily had escaped. Gilbert was
tall and fair and good-looking, but he was more slimly made than his
father, and was charged with far more vitality and force. He was alert,
active, resolute. In brief, he was strong and keen where his father was
weak and slack.

"It's a glorious day, sir," said Gilbert, "and as it's a Saturday and I
have nothing on of importance, I think I'll run over to Surbiton and
spend the afternoon and evening. I'll wire mother I'm coming."

"What! No work to do!" the father made laughing demur. But he
immediately followed with the words, "Well, well, my boy, go and enjoy
yourself. It's fine to be young!"

What he really meant, of course, was, "Go and see Kitty, you lucky young
dog, and good fortune go with you." He knew that Gilbert loved the girl,
and there was nothing in all the world he desired more than that Gilbert
should succeed in his court to her.

As Gilbert turned to leave the room, Cooper Silwood entered it, carrying
an open letter in his hand. After Gilbert had withdrawn, Silwood took
care to see the door was shut.




CHAPTER II


"Here is a letter from Morris Thornton," said Silwood, shooting a keen,
swift glance at his partner, but it escaped the other's notice.

Francis Eversleigh's thoughts, in fact, played pleasantly around his son
Gilbert and Kitty Thornton, or if he had seen that look it might have
startled him out of the complacent musings which forecast a fortunate
ending only.

"Yes," he said, rather apathetically. For though the mention of the name
of Kitty's father chimed in agreeably with his reflections, the firm
received communications frequently from Morris Thornton--which was only
natural, as he was by far the most important client it possessed, and
therefore the arrival of this particular letter excited no special
interest in his breast. "Is it more money for investment?" he inquired,
tranquilly.

But Silwood did not answer the question. Instead of doing so, he scanned
the letter with those little, sharp eyes of his, while his smooth,
pallid face was as void of expression as a block of stone.

"What does Morris say?" asked Eversleigh, after a pause.

"Did you see Miss Kitty this morning?" Silwood queried, ignoring the
other's words; moreover, he spoke in such a tone as was significant of
the relations between the two partners--it suggested the idea that he
was accustomed to direct Eversleigh, and not to be directed by him.

"Certainly, I saw her this morning," replied Eversleigh, beginning to
wonder a little.

"Did she have nothing to tell you about her father?"

"She did not allude to him at all."

"Do you happen to know if she received a letter from him this morning?"

"I'm pretty sure she did not; if she had, she would doubtless have
mentioned it," said Eversleigh, looking blankly at the questioner. "But
what are you driving at, Cooper?" he asked.

"Morris Thornton informs us in this letter that he is coming back to
England----"

"Indeed!" cried Eversleigh, breaking in; "that's good news. I shall be
very glad to see him again."

And there was a pleasant smile on Eversleigh's face.

"Yes, he's coming home," Silwood went on; "but he doesn't state exactly
when. I thought he probably would write Miss Kitty about the same time
that he wrote us, giving the precise date--say, of his sailing from New
York; he generally comes by that route."

"I should think he has written her," said Francis Eversleigh, "but she
had not received a letter this morning up to the time of my leaving
Surbiton, so far as I know. Did the letter to us come by the first
delivery or the second? If it came by the latter, then most likely she
would get her letter, if there was one for her, by it also. But that
would be after I had left Surbiton."

"That's it, I believe," observed Silwood, who had been examining the
postmarks on the envelope in which Thornton's letter had been enclosed;
"our letter came by the second delivery. I am convinced that when you
return to Surbiton you will find Miss Kitty has heard from her father.
He will certainly have told her when to expect him, and we must get to
know the exact date he specifies; it is most important."

"It is certainly very odd," remarked Eversleigh, leisurely and without
much curiosity, "that so business-like a man as Morris does not give a
positive date either for leaving New York or for arriving here; but I
don't know, after all, that it is so particularly important. The
important thing, of course, is that he is coming back again, and I'm
heartily pleased to hear it. He's been away a long time without a
holiday at home--seven years, isn't it? Kitty was only fourteen,"
continued Eversleigh, in a vein of reminiscence, "when he left her in my
wife's charge, and now she is twenty-one. How happy the news will make
the child! Strange he doesn't mention a date--strange, as you say,
Cooper. But can't you make a pretty fair guess at the approximate date
from his letter? You haven't yet told me what he says in it. What does
he say?"

Cooper Silwood glanced at the letter as if to refresh his memory, yet he
knew its contents so perfectly that he could have repeated it word for
word.

"He tells us," said Silwood, deliberately, "that the reason for his
returning to England is the state of his health, which is now most
precarious."

"Dear me!" interrupted Eversleigh, with lively concern.

"He says he is subject to exceedingly serious heart-trouble, and has
been warned by his doctor that he may not have long to live."

"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Eversleigh, his face suddenly grown grave.
The friendship between him and Morris Thornton had lasted many years;
indeed, they had been boys together at Rugby, and the sad tidings pained
him greatly. "Poor Morris!" he said, in a low, hushed voice; "how
dreadful! I thought I should be so glad to see him once more, but--but
this is too terrible--too terrible!"

Silwood had been almost as much of a friend to the doomed man as his
partner, but he uttered no words of regret, far less of sorrow. While
Eversleigh was speaking, he turned away, with a slight gesture of
impatience, and fixed his eyes on some shelves filled with law-books.

There was a short silence, and then Eversleigh, still in that small,
hushed voice, asked if there was anything more in Thornton's letter.

"He intends to consult Sir Anthony Mortimer, the great heart specialist,
but he has no real hope of recovery," replied Silwood, with another
glance at the letter. "Then he goes on to say that he will devote the
whole of the time left him to putting all his affairs in thorough order,
so that Miss Kitty will have no trouble in the future. He thanks us for
the care and judgment we have shown in investing the sums of money he
has from time to time remitted us from Canada, and, as a matter of form,
he would like to check over the securities, certificates of shares,
etc., we hold for him. He concludes by stating that when his agents have
realized the remainder of his estate in British Columbia the proceeds
will be placed in our hands, and that he will leave instructions to this
effect."

Though Eversleigh had asked for the information Silwood thus gave him,
his mind was so stunned by the grave news concerning the condition of
his friend that he hardly took in what his partner said. Silwood saw
that Eversleigh was not following him. He now spoke sharply and
abruptly, so that Eversleigh was compelled to listen.

"Morris, I take it," said he, "wishes to make an examination into his
affairs--an investigation, one might call it; _that_ is the meaning of
his desire to check over the securities, certificates of shares, etc.,
in our hands."

"Well, it's very natural in the circumstances," observed Eversleigh.
"Poor Morris! Poor fellow! To have fought all these long years for his
fortune--to have won--and now to be robbed of the fruits of the
struggle; it must be bitter--bitter! Such a fine fortune, too! Thanks to
your financial ability, Cooper," continued Eversleigh, with returning
complacency, "his estate is in a highly satisfactory condition;
everything is in apple-pie order; he will be delighted with your
admirable management. It's a great fortune," he added, meditatively.
"What we hold of it, Cooper, is something like a quarter of a million,
is it not?"

"Yes, yes," assented Silwood, speaking rapidly. "Francis," he went on,
his manner for the first time showing a trace of nervousness, his speech
a touch of incoherence, "that's what I must talk to you about--there's a
very good reason why I am so anxious as to the date of Morris Thornton's
arrival--something must be done at once."

"What do you mean, Cooper?" asked Eversleigh, his attention aroused; "I
don't understand you."

Silwood had up to this point been standing; he now seated himself and
gazed fixedly at his partner, on whose face was to be seen some
uneasiness but no great alarm--rather a vague wonder.

"Frank," said Silwood, steadily, and now master of himself, "prepare
yourself--I have something to say--I have a confession to make."

As he heard these words, Eversleigh, with a sudden movement, pushed his
chair back from the table. Fearful of what was coming, he stared at
Silwood, his mild eyes big with surprise and terror.

"What is it?" he stammered, in increasing agitation--"what is it?" And
he jumped up to his feet excitedly, exclaiming, "A confession to make!
You! Am I going out of my senses? My God! What do you mean, Cooper?"

"What I mean is this," said Silwood, keeping his eyes fastened
snake-like on Eversleigh as if to magnetize him: "when Morris Thornton
comes to look into his affairs and ask for the securities and so forth
we are supposed to hold----"

"Supposed to hold!" cried Eversleigh, in tremulous accents.

"When he asks us for his property he will discover----"

"No, no, no--never that, Cooper!" interrupted Eversleigh, at last
perceiving the other's drift.

"He will discover that his estate has vanished; it does not exist," said
Silwood.

"What!" ejaculated Eversleigh, staring wildly at his partner, and still
only half believing his ears, still only half comprehending the sweep
of the calamity in which he was involved.

"The truth is, Frank, that, unknown to you, I've been speculating on the
Stock Exchange, and I've lost everything, or practically everything. If
we were called upon to-day," Silwood went on in a hard, penetrating tone
which forced conviction on the mind of the miserable man to whom he
spoke, "to produce our clients' securities, bonds, shares and monies, we
should have very little to give them--the bulk has disappeared."

"We are defaulters," moaned Eversleigh, in accents of horror. And as he
spoke, realizing and overwhelmed by the disaster that had overtaken him,
the big, soft man seemed to shrivel and shrink up. With a pitiful sound,
plaintive, appealing, like the cry of a hurt child, he covered his face
with his hands and sank into his seat.

"Some years ago," Silwood resumed, "I was tempted to speculate. It
appeared to be a certainty, but I lost. To gain back what I had
ventured, I speculated again, with no better result. And this happened
over and over again. I did not always lose, or I might have become
discouraged. So I kept hoping and hoping to right myself, but I only
sank deeper and deeper in the mire."

While Silwood was speaking, a dark painful flush overspread Eversleigh's
face, then the blood ebbed slowly away from it, and left the cheeks
deathly pale.

"I have put off telling you of our position," continued Silwood, in the
same measured, monotonous, curiously callous voice that he had spoken in
during most of the interview, "but the early coming--he may be here any
day--of Morris Thornton compels me to state exactly how we stand. You
see now why I am so anxious to know the date of his return to England."

Eversleigh slowly raised his head and looked at Silwood the reproach,
anger, and rage he felt but could not express--he was so overcome, so
dazed, that his tongue could not find words. He saw with appalling
clearness, as in a flash of lightning, all that Silwood's disclosure
meant--dishonour, ruin, and the convict's cell for himself, the brand of
shame and infamy for his family. He had blindly trusted Silwood all
these years, and, though he himself had taken not a penny of the
clients' funds, the law would hold him equally guilty with his partner.

"Something must be done," urged Silwood.

"There is only one thing to do," said Eversleigh, finding words at last;
"we must make the truth known at once."

"No," said Silwood, emphatically; "that would be sheer folly; it will be
soon enough to act in that way when we must. Besides, is there no scheme
that we can devise to----"

"What scheme could be devised?"

"I have thought of one," said Silwood, and for several minutes he spoke
to Eversleigh in low tones of persuasion, but Eversleigh refused to
agree to what he proposed.

"No," said Eversleigh, finally; "I'll never consent to that--never, come
what may."

"Think it over, Frank," Silwood pressed him--"think it over calmly; and,
in any case, there is no need for precipitancy."

"If I did my duty," said Eversleigh, with a groan, "I should hand you
and myself over to the police!"

"That would be madness," replied Silwood. "Think of it, man! You will
never be such a fool."

Eversleigh rose to his feet with a sudden pathetic dignity.

"Leave me!" he commanded Silwood; "I can bear no more."

And Cooper Silwood hesitated, then obeyed. When he was gone out of the
room, Eversleigh sat staring, staring at the door.

It seemed to him incredible, impossible, that a few brief minutes could
work such havoc, such disaster, such irremediable ruin. Only a short
time before, that fine young man, that handsome and debonair son of his,
of whom he was so proud, had stood in this room, and had gone away
smiling and hopeful; and now----

Eversleigh felt like one in a nightmare falling through immeasurable
depths.




CHAPTER III


That afternoon Gilbert Eversleigh went over, as he had intended, to
Ivydene, his father's residence in Surbiton, a large and commodious
villa standing among trees and shrubs in its own grounds on the road
from Kingston to Thames Ditton, about three-quarters of a mile from the
market-place of the former. From its upper windows there were to be got
pleasant glimpses of the river and of the Home Park beyond. The
Eversleighs were very fond of their house, and, in an unassertive way,
proud of it. Certainly it was the centre of as sweet and well-ordered a
home-life as any in England.

Gilbert's telegram to his mother had prepared her for his coming, and
when he arrived he was warmly greeted by her and his sister Helen, a
fair girl with the family good-looks, who inquired if he was going to
spend the rest of the day with them. Gilbert replied that he did not
purpose returning to town till the last train, and suggested it would be
"very nice on the river."

While he was speaking, Miss Kitty Thornton made her appearance, and as
she shook hands with him his eyes sparkled with admiration--and small
wonder!

For Miss Kitty was a splendid piece of flesh and blood, full of life and
the joy and the spirit of youth. A little over twenty-one, she was old
enough to be a woman and young enough to be a girl. She was not too tall
nor too slim. She belonged to the dark type. She had black hair and
plenty of it, and big black expressive eyes which often spoke her
thoughts when her tongue was silent; on each cheek glowed a spot of
bright colour as large as a half-opened wild rose, but of a deeper
shade; her lips were of a deeper shade still; her skin was of a warm
dusky tint.

It was a strikingly brilliant face, but it had a delicacy of feature, a
fineness of line not common in dark women. When it was in repose it was
beautiful, yet somehow it hinted sorrow, melancholy, unhappy love,
tragedy; but it was seldom in repose, and when it was lit up with
animation, with feeling or laughter, as it usually was, it was as
radiantly lovely as mortal man could wish to see.

There was a great heart in her too, but it had not yet been tried and
proved. Hitherto she had moved in a sheltered world; of evil, and the
unending struggle and strife of men and women outside, she had only a
faint conception; the din of life had never clashed upon her ears.

Her father, on the death of her mother, had brought her over from Canada
to Mrs. Eversleigh, begging the wife of his old friend to take care of
her for him. And Mrs. Eversleigh, a gracious woman, had gladly assented
to his request. Kitty thus became a member of the family, and was
educated along with Helen both in England and on the continent. The
girls were like sisters. Kitty was deeply attached to Mrs. Eversleigh,
and, in a less degree, to Francis Eversleigh. She was very happy with
the Eversleighs.

"Have they told you the good news, Gilbert?" asked Kitty, a note of
rejoicing in her voice.

"Not yet," interposed Helen Eversleigh; "there hasn't been time."

"Tell me," said Gilbert, with a smile. "What is it?"

"I got a letter from my father this morning, and he says that he is
returning to England very soon," said Kitty, gleefully.

"That is indeed good news for you," Gilbert agreed. "I thought you
looked very much pleased about something," he added.

"Pleased! I should say I am!"

"And when is he coming?" asked Gilbert.

"He says he will be here very soon," answered Kitty--"in a few days
after his letter. He does not say quite when, but he writes, 'I will pop
in and surprise you some day in the week next after that in which you
receive this.' The very uncertainty as to the date," remarked the girl,
brightly, "gives a keener edge to one's pleasure."

"I dare say that is what he intended," said Mrs. Eversleigh.

The three ladies looked delighted--as indeed they were. Gilbert seemed
delighted also, but inwardly the news made him feel downcast.

Passionately as he loved Kitty Thornton, the thought of the large
fortune she would inherit, which Morris Thornton's approaching visit
brought home to him afresh, had been a check upon him; so, too, was the
fact that she was the ward, in a measure, of his father. These
considerations had imposed upon him silence and a certain self-control;
still he had an idea that Kitty could not be altogether unconscious of
his love for her. He knew she liked him, and it was his fond hope that
he might "drive this liking to the name of love." But so far he had not
ventured to voice his hope in words. And now he wondered if her father's
return would make a difference, and what her father would think of him
and his suit.

"He will think I am not good enough for her," he said to himself, "and
of course I'm not. Besides, as she's a great heiress, he will expect her
to make some splendid match--and I am only a young barrister with my
career just beginning."

All this passed through his mind on hearing Kitty's "good news," which
he felt might not be equally good news so far as he was concerned, but
he strove to look as happy over it as she was.

"We shall all be very glad to see him," said he to the girl,
mendaciously.

"What shall we do with ourselves this afternoon?" asked Kitty, changing
the topic. "Now you are here, Gilbert, we must make some use of you."

"He was talking of going on the river," remarked Helen.

"Yes, yes," said Kitty, eagerly. "I never tire of the river."

"Will you come, mother?" inquired Gilbert of Mrs. Eversleigh.

But Mrs. Eversleigh declined on the plea of having some household
matters to attend to.

"I can't go with you," she said, "but I'll tell you what to do. You two
girls can take your cycles, and Gilbert can borrow his brother Ernest's
wheel, and ride to Molesey."

"And get a punt there. The very thing," said Gilbert, in the mood to
welcome hard exercise, and so to work off his trouble. "I suppose," he
said to his mother, "I'll find some of Ernie's boating things in his
room?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Eversleigh, and he went off to change his clothes.

Presently the three young people were cycling to Molesey, which they
soon reached. A punt was quickly procured, and, in a few seconds more,
Gilbert was poling it up-stream with remarkable vigour considering the
heat of the day.

"You are working hard," said Kitty, noting his extraordinary exertions.

"Oh, never mind him," sweetly remarked his sister. "It's good for him."

"But won't you over-heat yourself, Gilbert?" asked Kitty. And though he
replied with thanks that he was all right, she insisted after a short
while that he must take an easy, and moor the punt under a shady bank.

He obeyed her, and then Kitty, to his secret discomfiture, must needs
talk about the coming of her father, her heart being full of the
subject. And as she talked his trouble seemed to melt away, for she
spoke of the happy times they all would have when Morris Thornton was in
England, and obviously included Gilbert in her notion of these happy
times. The three chatted gaily for an hour, and then they set off
down-stream.

They had gone several hundred yards, perhaps, when they met, moving at
top speed, a racing-skiff, the occupant of which bowed to them with a
rapid inclination of his head, but did not stop.

"It's Harry Bennet," said Helen Eversleigh, gazing after him, and waving
her hand.

"How are you, Harry?" Gilbert had shouted, as the boat went past.

Bennet, now some distance away, rested on his oars, and waved his hand
to Helen, who was still regarding him, as was also Kitty; but it was the
latter at whom he looked. However, he did not seek to talk, but watched
the punt until it disappeared round a bend of the stream. His face
thereupon expressed mingled feelings--a tremendous admiration of Kitty
Thornton, and an intense hatred of Gilbert Eversleigh, whom he proceeded
to curse aloud when out of sight, being the chief.

"He's a fine oarsman, a fine athlete," observed Helen, as the punt went
on down-stream. She referred to Harry Bennet, whom she had known all her
life, and for whom she had a liking. "I can't believe he is the bad lot
they say he is. If only he was not so keen on racing and betting! It's
said that he is losing all his money and ruining himself. It seems such
a pity!" And she sighed.

"Yes," said Kitty, glancing at her friend; but she did not continue the
conversation. She knew of Helen's feeling for Bennet, but it was a
feeling she herself did not share.

As for Gilbert, he said nothing at all either good or bad about the man
whom he understood very well was his rival. But he had heard what was
being said about Bennet quite openly, the sum and substance of which was
that Harry had become a reckless and inveterate gambler.

The girls had heard something of this too, but only in the most general
way. All three, however, were cognisant of the main facts of Bennet's
life: how his father had died when he was a child, and how he had been
petted, spoiled, and indulged by a foolish doting mother; how he had
consequently grown into a wilful, headstrong, intractable boy; how, as
he neared man-hood, he showed a gift of marvellous physical strength, in
the development of which there for a time lay an illusory hope of his
improvement; how, in his first year at the university, he had been a
member of the crew which, after a long series of Oxford triumphs, had at
last given a victory to the light blues; and how, on coming into his
property a few months later, he had forthwith left Cambridge and taken
to racing with frantic zest.

"It is such a pity," Helen went on; "but I think that so long as he
keeps up his rowing there is a chance for him."

But now they were back at Molesey, and nothing more was said of Bennet
at the time. At dinner in the evening, however, Helen spoke of their
having seen him on the river, and repeated what she had said about it
being a hopeful sign that he kept up his rowing.

"I think he doesn't row very much now," said her brother Ernest, who was
a solicitor like his father, and expected soon to be a partner in the
Lincoln's Inn firm. "He simply can't have the time. His stable and his
horses and his betting-book absorb him entirely. I wonder what that new
horse of his--he calls it 'Go Nap'--will do for him. He's sure to back
it heavily."

"'Go Nap'!" said Gilbert. "That's rather suggestive of a plunge."

"Isn't it? Harry is a terrific plunger anyway."

"Oh, don't let us talk about Harry Bennet," said Francis Eversleigh,
from the head of the table, where he had been sitting in moody silence.
He was so utterly unlike himself, indeed, that his wife was alarmed, but
when she asked what ailed him he said he had "a rather bad headache"--a
statement which scarcely reassured her, as she knew he never had
headaches; and when she pressed him further, he replied sharply and
irritably. But the wretched man hardly knew what he was saying or doing.

One part of Silwood's advice he had made up his mind to accept and act
upon, and this was that he would do nothing to forestall the fate which
must over-take the firm, but to let things drift till the crash came.
And, having come to this conclusion, the unfortunate solicitor told
himself that he must try to behave as usual in his family circle. But he
found it impossible. The tragic swiftness and completeness of the stroke
dealt him by Silwood was too much for him. Now, as he thought of his
home, and of his wife and children, and of the frightful secret he
carried in his breast of the ruin hanging over them, a bitterness worse
than that of death possessed him. Generally full of easy agreeable
small-talk, that night he was gloomy and dumb.

He made one effort only to talk.

Kitty mentioned having had a letter from her father, whereupon he stated
that the firm had also had one from Mr. Thornton.

"By the way," he said, striving to speak in his ordinary tones, "your
father made a curious omission in his letter to us; he does not specify
when he is coming--gives no precise date. I dare say it was an
oversight. I suppose he tells you in your letter just when to expect
him, Kitty?"

"No, he doesn't, Mr. Eversleigh--at least, not very precisely. He says
he'll come soon after his letter, but he does not fix any date, as he
wants to give me a little surprise. Still, I think he'll be here some
day next week."

"Next week!" said Eversleigh, slowly and painfully. To him it was the
voice of doom, and he relapsed into silence again.




CHAPTER IV


Dinner over, Francis Eversleigh retired to his room, again excusing
himself on the plea of headache, adding in a very uncertain voice that
he would no doubt be better in the morning; but he looked harassed,
worn, and ill. His wife concealed her consternation at his state as well
as she could, and mentally tried to assign some cause for it; on
reflection she thought that his reference at table to Harry Bennet,
whose affairs, now much involved, she knew to be in the hands of the
firm, probably suggested the correct explanation. Anxious to minister to
her husband, and to find out if possible what distressed him so sorely,
she wished to be alone with him, and she urged the others to go out for
a stroll by the river.

As the young people, nothing loth, went out, the two brothers exchanged
a few words, Gilbert asking Ernest if he knew of anything in the office
that had upset their father.

"I saw him in the forenoon," he remarked, "and he was looking as well as
could be then. I hope he's not going to have an illness."

"I know of nothing particularly worrying in the office," returned
Ernest. "How should there be? I fancy it is just as he says--he's got a
bad headache, perhaps from the heat. I don't fancy that there is
anything else the matter with him. He'll be all right to-morrow, you'll
see."

Now, when Gilbert was at Surbiton, there was an unwritten law that when
they took their walks abroad he should pair off with Kitty, and Ernest
with Helen. This arrangement was so well understood that Ernest never
thought of even grumbling at it. So Gilbert and Kitty led the way to the
terrace or esplanade on that side of the Thames, where they found a
sequestered seat. And there they were left by the other two, who walked
on towards the waterworks.

It was a delightful summer evening. The air was soft, balmy, sweet; a
light breeze whispered delicate suggestions, and wooed to pleasant
thoughts and tender fancies; a crescent moon, shining low over the trees
on to the water, brought to the scene that touch of sentiment which is
the very breath of poetry and romance. It was a night for lovers! Love,
passion, sighs, smiles, fond hopes, fervent vows, eloquent prayers, the
gentle rain of happy tears--all were in the enchanted atmosphere of the
place that night.

It was one of those magical nights on which the heart is likely to be
easily and perhaps profoundly stirred, and Gilbert Eversleigh, with the
woman he loved by his side, was in a frame of mind to respond only too
quickly to its influence. He longed to speak to Kitty, to tell her that
he loved her, to ask her to unite her life with his, to press her dear
hand, to taste the sweetness of her lips; but he forced himself to
silence, though the restraint he imposed on his desire for utterance
made it but gain the greater strength.

It may be that Kitty suspected she was on the edge of a crisis, for she
too was quiet, and for the first time in her life somehow felt shy with
Gilbert. Of course she did not require any one to tell her that he loved
her, and more than once she had asked herself if she loved him, and she
had answered "Yes." Thus, though words of love had never passed between
them, she was none the less conscious of the existence of their love.
And this made life joy, even if there was at the back of her mind a
tremulous maidenly sensitiveness which made her half afraid of her
happiness. An instinct of reserve now warned her to say or do nothing
which could be taken by Gilbert as an opening.

Therefore a sort of constraint fell upon them, but still there was a
sweetness about it; for was there not a nearness and an intimacy in the
dreamy brooding silence, the outward sign of this constraint, which was
only possible between true lovers?

And thus they sat for some minutes, apart and yet together.

It was Kitty herself who spoke first. Her thought of Gilbert associated
itself with that other subject about which she was also so glad--the
coming of her father, and it was of him she spoke.

"Do you remember my father, Gilbert?" she asked.

"Perfectly," replied Gilbert. "I had just come back from school for the
last time, and--he was very kind to me. Of course, I remember him quite
well. And--and--it was then that he brought you to our house."

"That was seven years ago," said Kitty. "Seven years! I haven't seen him
for all these years. I wonder if he is much changed? He will see a great
change in me. I was only a girl, a little girl, then, and now I am a
woman."

As she uttered the last words she glanced a little apprehensively at her
companion, for she felt she had perhaps given him an opportunity. She
saw his face was clouded; his eyes were fixed on a point in the
distance, and he did not speak.

"Your father's return," at length said he, with a sigh, "will make a
difference, I fear."

"In what way?" inquired Kitty, not at once following hard on the track
of what was passing in his mind.

"He will take you from us," said Gilbert; and then he added,
inconsequently and involuntarily, "I wonder if he will like me?"

And the girl now understood.

"Like you! Of course he will," she exclaimed, in a tone which made him
proud and happy.

There was an emphasis in her voice which seemed to assert that it would
be impossible for her father to criticise him--at all events adversely.

"It would mean so much to me," he exclaimed, turning towards her.

Kitty stole a glance at him, and she observed that his face was no
longer clouded, but bore a grave, questioning expression like that of a
man in doubt with regard to some deeply serious matter.

"It would mean all the world to me," he said, meeting her glance.

"Why?" rose to Kitty's lips, but the words went no further. For as
Gilbert kept his gaze fastened upon her, a subtle change was worked in
his eyes; they were no longer shaded with doubt or anxious inquiry; they
searched and challenged her with passionate appeal; they unmistakably
asked the question of questions man can put to woman.

And though no sound passed Kitty Thornton's lips, she made no pretence
of misunderstanding him. All the woman in her instantaneously rose up in
quick response. All the love in her heart suddenly surged up in a great
wave of feeling which flooded her eyes, now deep pools of light, with an
unmistakable answer to the unmistakable question in his, thus bent upon
her. Yet she trembled slightly, for she felt herself in the grasp of
something new and strange and delightful, but just a little terrible and
alarming.

And when Gilbert Eversleigh saw what he saw in Kitty's eyes,
self-control became impossible, and he could restrain himself no longer.

"Kitty, Kitty," he said, in a deep earnest voice which thrilled the girl
as she listened--"Kitty, my darling, I love you, I love you!"

Kitty trembled still more, and lowered her eyes shyly--perhaps to hide
the light that glowed in them.

"Kitty," he said, his voice somewhat uncertain for an instant as he
looked at her downcast face--"Kitty, my dear, you must know that I love
you. Now that I have said it, I should like to go on for ever saying 'I
love you, I love you!' You are everything to me--everything to me," he
repeated, with a lover's fond iteration. "Oh, my dear, tell me that you
love me!"

Kitty raised her eyes.

"Listen to me a moment, Kitty," said Gilbert, who had seen the message
she flashed to him, and was greatly encouraged thereby. "Let me tell you
all that is in my heart."

The girl now looked at him, some wonder in her glance, as she asked
herself if he had not said already all that was in his heart, but as he
went on she saw what he meant.

"I love you better than life," he began, "but I am not sure that I have
done right in saying to you what I have said. I had not intended----I
was carried away ..." And he paused.

"What is it?" asked Kitty, and there was such childlike trust and
innocence in the way she made this inquiry that he had to put strong
compulsion on himself to keep from placing his arm round her waist and
drawing her toward him.

"You have spoken two or three times to-day about your father," replied
Gilbert, "and each time you gave me, without knowing it, a pang,
because, Kitty dear, I am afraid that he may not think me good enough
for you, not rich enough, not placed high enough, for you. I had
intended to wait until he came before speaking to you--I suppose I ought
to have asked his permission to address you first. Do you see, Kitty?
But to-night--well, I found I could wait no longer, and so must tell you
all that was in my heart. Your father may blame me, Kitty. He might say
that you should see far more of life than you have before even thinking
of marriage. Yet, Kitty, after all it rests with you. Kitty, Kitty, what
do you say, my darling? I cannot help loving you--I can never cease to
love you. Tell me, do you love me? Say you love me!"

And he put forth his hand with a gesture of entreaty.

Long before this Kitty's shyness had fallen from her, her maidenly
hesitation had disappeared. She had a feeling that Gilbert Eversleigh
had been fore-ordained her lover before the foundations of the earth
were laid--so vast was the certainty that filled her mind. The very
statement of the difficulty in which he found himself with regard to her
father helped her inevitably to this conclusion. It was noble of him,
she thought, to take this attitude, and if he had not been able to stick
to it, was she the one to condemn him for it? No, indeed.

"You are more to me, Gilbert," she said, quietly but firmly, "than my
father--than all the fathers in the world. You are everything to me,
just as I am everything to you."

As she spoke, she inclined towards him with a beautiful movement of
surrender and invitation.

He caught her in his arms and strained her yielding form in his embrace;
their lips met and met again; a sweet agitation which grew into an
ecstasy possessed them both; they seemed to reach and stand on a
pinnacle of brightness and delight far removed from the grey levels on
which moved ordinary men and women through the shadows of life; they
murmured to each other the sweet foolish things that lovers always
murmur, and in their ears never was diviner music.

And as for Morris Thornton--why, Kitty said that he would be proud of
Gilbert, and the very first thing she would do on his arrival would be
to tell him that she was engaged.

"Of course," added Kitty, "he will be pleased, because I am pleased."

"Are you still here?" asked Ernest Eversleigh, who with his sister now
walked up to the bench where the lovers were sitting. "We thought you
were coming on after us, and we waited for you for some time, but as you
did not turn up we came back again."

And thus were the lovers brought down to the everyday world.

"Is it time to go in?" asked Gilbert, who was unamiably wishing his
brother at Jericho.

"I should think it is--particularly if you intend to catch a train to
town to-night," replied Ernest.

"Let us go in," said Kitty, rising from the seat and linking her arm
with that of Helen, somewhat to Gilbert's astonishment, until it
occurred to him that she might wish to tell the other girl what had
happened.

The party--the girls first, the brothers in the rear--now returned to
Ivydene, where on their entrance into the house they encountered Francis
Eversleigh, looking haggard and ghastly; he had felt too unutterably
wretched to stay in his room where his wife in vain sought to tend and
soothe him, and had come downstairs to see if he could not find some
distraction.

Gilbert moved up to Kitty's side, and, as the two stood together, their
faces were tell-tale.

"Father," said Gilbert, blushing furiously, "Kitty has promised to be my
wife."

Helen Eversleigh rushed forward and threw her arms round Kitty's neck,
exclaiming, "Oh, you dear!" while Ernest warmly shook his brother's
hand, but their father stood stock-still. He tried to speak, but the
words were choked in his throat. Again he essayed to say something, but
could not. With a groan he suddenly turned from them and fled upstairs.

"Father!" exclaimed Gilbert, calling after him. "What can be the matter
with him, I wonder?" he said to Ernest, who merely answered that he
could not tell.

And then the two lovers looked at each other. They both felt that
Francis Eversleigh had behaved very strangely.

"I'm afraid Mr. Eversleigh is not at all well," said Kitty. "I am so
sorry."

"Yes, father must be ill," agreed Gilbert; "still, I think it can't be
anything very serious. And now, I suppose I must go," he added with a
sigh.

The lovers bade each other good-bye in the porch. Absorbed in their
happiness, they thought no more of Francis Eversleigh.

And when Gilbert spent the following day, which was a Sunday, at
Surbiton, it was only to be expected that the lovers, after the
immemorial manner of lovers, should concern themselves with themselves
and their own affairs.

Francis Eversleigh remained in his room the whole day; he could not bear
to see any one.




CHAPTER V


On the Monday morning Francis Eversleigh did not appear at breakfast.

Mrs. Eversleigh told Ernest that his father was asleep after having
passed a wakeful night, and she was sure he would not feel equal to
going to the office. When Ernest inquired, as was natural, if she
intended sending for a doctor, she replied that a suggestion she had
made in the night to that effect had been peremptorily negatived by her
husband, who maintained that he was suffering from a slight attack for
which it was absurd to call in a physician.

"I am very anxious, however, about him," she said. She paused and looked
meditatively at her son. "Do you know, Ernest," she continued, "if your
father has on hand some exceptionally difficult business just now, or if
there is some client who is giving him cause for unusual anxiety?" She
was thinking of Bennet.

"I am quite certain there is absolutely nothing of such gravity as to
make him ill," replied Ernest, with conviction. "Why, work goes on at
the office from day to day and from month to month with the ease and
regularity of machinery. But why do you ask this, mother?"

"Because it has occurred to me that there is something on your father's
mind, and it is that which is making him ill."

"Indeed! Oh, I think you must be mistaken, mother."

"I hope so," she rejoined, but not in a really hopeful tone. "One of the
things which perplex me is that he seems to take very little pleasure in
the engagement of Kitty and Gilbert--that is strange, is it not? Then
again, you would suppose he would be looking forward with interest to
seeing his old friend Morris Thornton once more, yet, when I referred to
it, he spoke in such a queer way. I can't understand him at all."

As Ernest was about to speak Miss Kitty Thornton entered the room, and
conversation passed to other topics. And as for Kitty herself, her
brilliant beauty appeared to have been enhanced by the happy event of
her engagement, for never had she looked so lovely as she did that
morning, and there was on her face a light of happiness which was good
to see.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Ernest asked Kitty. "Can I carry a
message, for instance," he went on, with a grin, rising to leave the
room, "to a certain barrister in the Temple?"

But Miss Kitty merely smiled and shook her pretty head.

"I won't have her teased," said Mrs. Eversleigh; but the offender had
already vanished.

When Silwood reached his room in New Square he found not only Williamson
waiting as usual, but also Ernest Eversleigh.

"I am sorry to have to tell you," said Ernest, "that my father is
indisposed. He will not be here to-day."

"Mr. Eversleigh ill!" exclaimed Silwood, and stopped; inwardly he
termed Eversleigh a poor weak fool without a particle of grit. Aloud he
said, clicking out the words stiffly, "I am very sorry to hear it. What
is the trouble?"

"I don't think it is anything serious; he'll be all right by to-morrow."

"He did not send me any message?"

"He was asleep when I left the house. Mother told me he had been awake
most of the night, but had dozed off towards morning."

"I see. There was something I expected to hear from him, but it's
possible you can tell me. It's just this. We received a letter on
Saturday from Mr. Morris Thornton, in which he informed us that he was
leaving Canada for England. Well, though he spoke of being here very
soon, he did not give us any exact date. Of course, it is no great
matter, but it seems just a little curious."

"It must have been an oversight," said Williamson.

"Perhaps so," assented Silwood.

"I am not certain of that," remarked Ernest.

"You have heard something?" queried Silwood.

"Miss Thornton has heard from her father----"

"I had an idea she might have definite word as to the date of her
father's arrival," interposed Silwood. "Not, as I told you before, that
it matters; it is only that one likes to satisfy one's curiosity
sometimes."

Thus carefully did Silwood minimize the interest he took in the date of
Thornton's arrival in London. Certainly, Ernest Eversleigh had no
suspicion of the vital importance the subject possessed, and Silwood's
manner was so natural that even Williamson was put off the scent.

"Miss Thornton," said Ernest, "had a letter also on Saturday; but her
father did not specify the date of his coming to her either, the reason
being, he told her, that he wishes to give her a pleasant surprise by
dropping in on her when she isn't expecting him. Still, he said enough
to make her expect him some day next week."

"Some day next week!" repeated Silwood, with an indrawing of the breath.
Then he continued in an ordinary tone, "He wishes to give her a
surprise; that seems to me rather odd."

"It is," agreed Ernest; and then he smiled.

"There is something more," suggested Silwood, seeing the smile.

"I was thinking," rejoined Ernest, laughing a little, "that the surprise
will not be all on one side. Miss Kitty has prepared a surprise for him
too."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. Kitty and Gilbert are engaged to be married."

"Oh! Since when?"

"Saturday night. I wonder what Mr. Thornton will say about it!"

"I wonder!" echoed Silwood; but this subject did not concern him
greatly, and he turned to his letters.

Ernest took the hint, and left Silwood with Williamson. After a short
talk about current business, Silwood sent away the head-clerk, having
given him instructions to attend to any urgent matter in Francis
Eversleigh's department which required immediate attention.

"So Morris Thornton comes next week," he said to himself when
alone--"next week--next week. The time is short--very short--and there
is much to do."

Silwood, to all appearance, went on with his work as usual, but in
reality he was thinking out the situation. What, he asked, did Francis
Eversleigh mean by absenting himself from the office--the plea of
illness was transparently absurd; and did he intend to go on absenting
himself? That could not be allowed, thought Silwood; it would never do.
And Thornton was to be in London next week! Silwood, therefore, resolved
to go to Surbiton that afternoon to see Eversleigh.

His resolve did not need any strengthening, but something occurred which
would have supplied it had it been required.

This was the receipt of a telegram from Harry Bennet, telling the firm
that he had passed a demand draft on it for two thousand pounds.

Silwood, having explained to Ernest that he particularly wished to see
his father, not only to see how he was, but also to consult him with
respect to Bennet's affairs, accompanied the young man to Ivydene.

Silwood had not seen Francis Eversleigh since he had made his confession
to him on the Saturday forenoon, and even his phlegm was disturbed by
the change worked in twenty-four hours on Francis, who looked broken and
seriously ill. The meeting was an intensely painful one to Eversleigh;
indeed, he thought at first of declining to see Silwood, but changed his
mind.

Silwood saw Eversleigh in the latter's bedroom.

"Francis," said he, in a stiff, formal tone, "I am very sorry to see you
like this. You take things too much to heart. It's a bad blow, I know--a
terrible blow. I can't tell you how bitterly I regret what I've
done--how I repent of it."

Eversleigh looked at him strangely. Ever since Silwood had confessed his
guilt there had been moments when Eversleigh felt he could murder
Silwood. And now that Silwood was before him, he fiercely asked himself
why he should not kill like a rat this man whom he had trusted so
implicitly, and who had betrayed that trust so shamefully. Did the man
not deserve death? Was anything too bad for him? And these questions
were in his eyes as they fixed themselves on Silwood.

"I don't suppose you came here," he said, in a strained voice that had a
curious hissing sound about it, "to tell me this."

"To tell you this, Frank," observed Silwood, meeting fully the other's
gaze, "and other things too."

"What other things?" he asked hoarsely, glancing away from Silwood.
Already his impulse of murder was passing away from his wavering mind;
he was telling himself that if he killed Silwood the lot of his wife and
family would only be the more desperate.

Silwood all the while was regarding him intently. He was trying to read
Eversleigh's mind, and he came to the conclusion that Eversleigh was
capable of committing suicide or some other rash act.

"Before speaking of these, Frank," replied Silwood, "let me beg of you
not to fret too much. What is the use of dwelling on what is past and
cannot now be mended?"

"How can I help it?"

"You must try. For one thing, you must come to the office. It is surely
better to attend to your work at the office----"

"To attend to my work!" broke in Eversleigh. "How can I, when all my
thoughts are centred on one thing--the ruin that is coming upon me and
those innocent ones who must suffer? To attend to my work is
impossible!"

"Surely not."

"You know--no one better--that for years I have never attended to my
work properly. Do not think that I consider myself free from blame. I
ought never to have allowed you to get control of the whole finances of
the firm. It was my duty to have made inquiry, and to have seen that
everything belonging to our clients was in perfect order. I have been
criminally neglectful--I see that very clearly;" and as he spoke his own
condemnation there was a sob in his throat.

"Yes; but how does all this prevent you from coming to the office? Is it
not just the other way? And for a short time there is no reason to be
afraid. What we have to dread most is the coming of Morris Thornton, and
that, I hear, will not be till some time next week. That gives us a
little breathing-space."

"Till some time next week!" said Eversleigh. "That's not much of a
respite."

"Still, it's something. But there is another thing I have to tell you."

"What's that?" dully asked Eversleigh, telling himself that at any rate
he knew the worst.

"We got a telegram from Bennet saying he was drawing on us for two
thousand pounds."

"Well, can't we pay it?"

"Certainly; but it is inconvenient. The withdrawal of this sum from our
bank account seriously reduces our balance."

"What is our balance?"

"About six thousand. With care, and if it were not for the coming of
Thornton, we might be able to carry on for a long time."

"I have been thinking over our affairs," said Eversleigh, "since you
spoke to me yesterday, and it seems to me we ought to call in a
first-class accountant to make a thorough investigation."

"And what would be the inevitable result?" asked Silwood, drily.

"We should know--I should know--how we stand."

"But I know quite well."

"I suppose so. What is the amount of your--of our, I suppose I must
say--defalcations?"

"About four hundred thousand. That would be a nice thing for an
accountant to discover, to certify to! No, Francis, it is absurd to call
in an accountant. It would not be long before he found out we were
insolvent, and--defaulters. What service would that be to you or to the
firm? None whatever."

"No, perhaps it would not do," acquiesced Eversleigh, weakly. "You said
four hundred thousand. How could you have been such a fool as to lose so
much money? Four hundred thousand!"

"I was a fool, Frank. But it's easy enough for a wise man to lose more
than that on the Stock Exchange."

"Well," sighed Eversleigh, hopelessly, "I don't know what's to be done."

"Why, nothing at present. And perhaps, Francis, your personal position
is not so bad. Ernest told me of the engagement of Miss Thornton to
Gilbert. That, surely, is an excellent thing for you. When her father
finds out the state of affairs he will be silent. He will certainly not
care to prosecute the father of his daughter's accepted husband, will
he?"

"He will insist on the engagement being broken off."

"Perhaps, but perhaps not. Leaving that aside, have you thought of the
scheme I mentioned----?"

"Yes, yes; I have considered it," replied Eversleigh; then he looked at
Silwood wonderingly, and said, "You take our position--my position--very
coolly, Cooper. One would think you had no real conception of what you
have done."

"Well," rejoined Silwood, hardily, "you see, it is all new to you,
Francis, but it is no novelty to me. I have been familiar with our
position for a long time--for years. But this is quite beside the point.
Let us come to business. Do you intend to adopt my scheme?"

"I do not," said Eversleigh, firmly. "It is preposterous."

"If you will be advised by me----"

"Not in this," Eversleigh cried excitedly, "not in this. Would to God I
had never been born!" he exclaimed. And he begged Silwood to leave him,
promising to be at the office, however, next day.

As Silwood travelled back to town there was a singular and enigmatic
expression on his face; he was thinking that Eversleigh's consent to
what he had proposed was not essential, and, this being so, that he
would act alone.




CHAPTER VI


Francis Eversleigh returned to the office in Lincoln's Inn next day, and
strove to take up his work again, but with indifferent success; the
shadow of his impending ruin never lifted itself from his mind. On the
other hand, Cooper Silwood, having determined to act alone, began to
make preparations for carrying out his scheme.

All that day Silwood was incessantly occupied with the ordinary business
of that department of the office which was his special care. No man
could have told from his aspect, or from the manner in which he did his
business, that anything pressed heavily upon him; he seemed in no way
different from the imperturbable, shrewd, capable lawyer people believed
him always to be. But what he purposed doing was never absent from his
thoughts.

According to custom, at six o'clock Williamson brought him the letters
for signature. This signing of the letters served as a sort of signal,
for shortly afterwards the clerks left and the office was closed, though
it was not an uncommon thing for Silwood to stay on by himself for
another hour or two. The Eversleighs went earlier in order to catch the
fast five-o'clock suburban train.

At six o'clock Williamson went into Silwood's room with the letters; he
placed them silently before his master, who read them over rapidly, and
then affixed the firm's signature in his careful, small handwriting.
Williamson stood waiting, while he tried to read his master's face, but
Silwood's air was perfectly inscrutable.

"I shall not go at once," said Silwood. "I have not quite finished; but
there is no need for any one to stay."

He gathered the letters together in a bunch, and passed them on to
Williamson.

"By the way," he asked, looking at the clerk with a sharp glance, "how
does Mr. Eversleigh strike you? I'm afraid he's not very well."

"I thought he seemed poorly--very poorly," replied Williamson. "I felt
very sorry for him, and I ventured to suggest--having been with the firm
so many years, sir--to him that he needed a holiday."

"You did! That was good. It's my own idea, too. And what did he say?"

"He said he was all right, or soon would be; there was nothing much the
matter with him. Said it was the heat."

"But about taking a holiday?"

"He said it was not at all necessary."

"Well, I agree with you, Mr. Williamson. It seems to me that he does
need a change. I told him that also. I urged him to take a month off,
but he won't hear of it. He keeps on saying he is not ill really--only a
bit out of sorts owing to the hot weather. And it is hot, isn't it? I
must confess I feel this frightful heat very much; the office is
horribly close. Unless the weather becomes cooler, I declare I shall
require a holiday myself. And if Mr. Eversleigh still persists in
refusing a holiday--well, I believe I shall take one. I haven't had a
real vacation for a very long time. But I had much rather he went."

"You certainly have had no holiday, Mr. Silwood, for a long time--three
or four years, it must be," said Williamson, immensely surprised at the
turn the conversation had taken. "When would you think of going, sir?"

"Oh, I haven't thought much about it all," replied Silwood; "my taking a
holiday is only a possibility. Still, if this heat does not moderate, I
should not wonder if I did go. But it's not settled."

"I understand, sir," said Williamson, who, as a matter of fact, was
completely mystified. "What's up now?" he asked himself. Still, on
reflection, he had to admit there was no reason why Silwood should not
take a holiday if he wished to do so.

"That's all, I think," said Silwood; and with a nod he dismissed the
head-clerk.

Silwood waited for half an hour, so as to allow plenty of time for all
the clerks to have left the office, and then he took a look into the
various rooms to see if there was any one still there; but they were all
empty. Satisfied on this point, he returned to his own room and shut
himself in.

Next he went to the large japanned box in the corner, touched the
concealed spring, and laid open the secret chamber, from which he took a
number of papers, including the sheet of figures against which were
placed initials. He pored over these papers, studying them with the
intentness of one who is committing a subject to memory. He made two or
three alterations in the figures, and then put all the documents back
in their hiding-place. He tried to close up the chamber, but the spring
would not work properly. He tried again and again, but he did not
succeed.

With each failure his manner showed a rapidly rising agitation, an
increasing apprehension, his usual impassivity dropping away from him
completely. He examined the mechanism of the arrangement, but he could
find nothing wrong with it; so far as he could see, it appeared to be in
perfect order. As he struggled with it, his pale face became
extraordinarily livid, his lips twitched convulsively, the perspiration
stood in beads on his forehead. For he knew that if the box would not
shut, then his scheme would tumble to pieces.

He had almost given it up in despair when the accidental pressure of his
knee against one of the sides of the box caused the spring to act, and
the opening suddenly closed up of itself.

Trembling and gasping, Silwood sat down and looked at the box as if it
were some hateful living thing.

"It ought to be seen to," he said to himself, "but I cannot permit any
one to touch it. No one but myself must know of the secret chamber--that
is vital. And yet--no, I must run the risk."

He went on looking darkly at the box.

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" he said aloud to it, and then glanced
about fearfully at the sound of his own voice. "How absurd!" he said to
himself, reassuringly. "I must not let the thing get on my nerves like
this."

It was now not far from eight o'clock, which was the hour for Silwood's
dinner. In a few minutes more, therefore, he betook himself to the
restaurant in Holborn which he was in the habit of patronizing. A
little after nine he walked back to Lincoln's Inn, which he entered by
the small door at the side of the fine gateway opening into Lincoln's
Inn Fields. He spoke to the porter for some seconds, and then went on to
his private chambers in Stone Buildings, his rooms being on the top
floor of the north-east corner building overlooking Chancery Lane. He
had lived here for several years.

After he had let himself in he locked the door, filled a black clay pipe
and lit it, took an armchair and sat down. And there he sat for a long
while very still and quiet, save for the puff--puff--puffing of the
smoke from his lips. The pipe burnt itself out, and he looked at his
watch.

"It is too soon," he said to himself; and he filled a second black clay
pipe. And this too he smoked out.

With a leisurely movement he at length rose and went to the window,
threw up the sash, and peered out into the half-darkness of the street.
He ran his eye up and down Chancery Lane, and noted that all the lights
except the street-lamps were out, and that the pavements were bare of
human forms, save for one or two dark-flitting, shadowy beings.

"It will soon be time," he thought; and he closed the window.

He sat down again, and proceeded to smoke a third pipe. All the while he
had been going over the details of his scheme; now he was thinking
whether he had not been too abrupt in making the suggestion that he
might take a holiday to Williamson.

"What does it matter?" he concluded; "he knows nothing."

He smoked on until twelve boomed through the air--the strokes came in a
great volume of sound from the clocks in the Strand and from far and
near. When it had died away, he put down his pipe, and walked into his
bedroom.

But it was not to go to bed.

For, a few minutes later, a figure emerged from Cooper Silwood's
bedroom--the figure of a man of the height and general build of Cooper
Silwood, but otherwise not like him in the least. Yet it was he, though
changed beyond recognition.

His mien was that of a respectable workman in his everyday clothes. They
were such clothes as might be worn by men of half a dozen different
trades with equal appropriateness, so little distinctive of any one
trade were they, and yet they stamped themselves unmistakably as a
workman's clothes. Silwood wore them like one who was thoroughly at home
in them; he moved at ease in them. To all appearance he was a workman,
and from his bearing it might be guessed that the part he was playing
was no new one. To be in this disguise was no novelty to him.

That it was no new _rôle_ for him to assume was also manifest from the
skill and success with which his face was made up. To begin with, the
heavy brown wig he usually had on his head had disappeared, and he was
now quite bald, with the exception of a narrow fringe of dark-grey hair
round the base of the skull. He was no longer clean-shaven; an untidy
blackish moustache covered his upper lip. A dark line had been pencilled
on either side of his nose, these lines alone imparting to the face a
marvellous change in its expression. Besides, the skin of the face had
been slightly stained, as had also been that of the hands.

His disguise was absolute. His own mother, as the phrase goes, would not
have known him. He looked to the life the part he was playing. Mr.
Cooper Silwood, the eminent solicitor, had disappeared, and a sober,
respectable workman had taken his place.

Could Francis Eversleigh now have seen this partner of his he would have
had much food for thought; if he could have followed him he would have
had much more.

The night was now very still--the roar of London was hushed. Silwood
opened his door gently, and listened. The stairs were lit, but no sound
came from any of the chambers. Locking his door softly, he stole down
into the court of Stone Buildings; they, too, were wrapped in silence.
For a moment he stood still and strained his ears to catch the slightest
noise, but there was not a breath. Taking from his pocket a key, he
unlocked a small iron gate at the north-east corner of the court, and
passed through it and went along a short narrow footway closed on the
Chancery Lane side by another iron gate, which he opened, and so reached
Chancery Lane. All this he did without hurry or confusion. It was plain
that he had got out of Lincoln's Inn by this footway many times before.
Yet it was believed to be shut up every evening by the porter, who was
supposed to be the only person possessing the keys of the gates.

From this footway--which is not much used even in the day-time, and is
hardly to be noticed at all in the night-time--to Holborn is but a step.
Silwood found Chancery Lane deserted; no one saw him emerge from the
Inn. He was quickly in Holborn, and set out eastwards at a rapid pace.
And on he went, mile after mile, stepping out briskly, through the city
proper, and on, on beyond it until he reached one of the great districts
of East-End London, where in small humble houses, huddled together in a
wilderness of mean streets, thousands upon thousands live out their
obscure and uneventful lives.

Silwood went on like a man who knows his way well. Never once did he
pause until he reached the end of his journey. He halted at a door in
Douglas Street, Stepney, and knocked a peculiar knock. Two or three
minutes passed, and then a light was shown at the window, whereupon
Silwood knocked in the same way a second time.

"Is it you, James?" asked a woman's voice, as the door was partially
opened.

"Yes, Meg; let me in," said Silwood.

"I did not expect you," she said, while Silwood embraced her
affectionately. "Is anything the matter?"

The woman who put the question was a plump, personable woman of about
forty, with kindly brown eyes and a tender mouth. She loved but was
rather afraid of this man, who yet was always good and kind to her. But
he had told her very little about himself. She knew he was engaged in
some mysterious business which necessitated long absences from her, and
the wearing of a disguise; she had tried to guess the nature of his
business, and had come to the conclusion that it was some kind of secret
police work.

Any romance there was in Silwood's life was connected with this woman,
of whom he was sincerely fond, though he was still fonder of their
child. Some years before, an accident one evening in the street led to
his meeting her, and he took a fancy to her. The thing jumping well
with other things he followed her up and married her, though he was
careful not to let her know who he was.

When with her and the child Silwood was another man; he seemed to have
shed like a skin the cold formality which characterized him in Lincoln's
Inn; his very nature appeared changed.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked.

"No, Meg, though there's news. But how is Davy?"

"Poor lamb! He's as usual. He's asleep just now."

"Let me see him," said Silwood.

They went into a bedroom, and in a cot was their child. The boy was a
cripple--he had been born a cripple, and the parents were all the more
attached to him on that account. There is no explaining the workings of
human nature; Silwood, who had confessed himself a criminal to his
partner, Eversleigh, was deeply attached to the boy. He now gazed at the
sleeping child, and the love that shone in his eyes was as pure as an
angel's.

"Poor lad! dear lad!" he said, and there were tears in his voice.

Then the father and mother tip-toed out of the room.

"You said there was news, James," suggested the wife.

"Yes, I think you won't live here much longer. My business will take me
abroad, and I dare say I will by-and-by--it may be very soon--send for
you. I may be away from England for a long time."

"Away from England!" she murmured. "Oh, James! Where is it you are
going?"

"I don't know," he answered; "I am not quite sure yet. I'll let you know
in a few days, and meanwhile I want you to get ready, so that you can
travel at a minute's notice."

"Yes, James; it's rather sudden, but I'll do what you tell me."

"Now I must leave you," he said.

She was accustomed to these abrupt partings, but as he was going she
hung upon his neck while he kissed her repeatedly.

The following day he was at his office at half-past ten, looking as if
it were impossible for such a man as he to lead a double life.




CHAPTER VII


The day on which Harry Bennet wired that he had drawn on Eversleigh,
Silwood and Eversleigh, for two thousand pounds, was the first day of
the Goodwood meeting.

Bennet was a man who lost and won large sums on the turf, and it was not
in the least unusual for him to wager several thousands on a single
event, especially if it were one of the greater races. With him betting
was a disease, a mania, so strong and uncontrolled ran the gambling
fever in his blood.

His love for Kitty Thornton was genuine, but it had to take a second
place to this appalling madness.

When he saw her and Helen and Gilbert Eversleigh in the punt on the
river, he told himself as he rowed up-stream that he must lose no time
in declaring himself to the girl. He cursed Gilbert in his thoughts, but
believed his chance was at least as good as his rival's. And if it had
not been for some racing business he was compelled to attend to that
evening, he would have gone to Ivydene. If he had, the probability is
that Kitty and Gilbert would not have been left alone that night under
the white magic of the moon, and their engagement would not have taken
place--at least, not at that particular time.

If he had gone to Ivydene that evening it is more than possible that the
life-current of their lives would have changed its course.

In any case, that evening of fate passed, and next day, being the
opening at Goodwood, saw Harry on the course plunging wildly and losing
heavily. Nor had he any luck that afternoon--hence the draft for two
thousand on the solicitors, after he had exhausted his ready money.

The second day at Goodwood brought him a little better fortune, and he
came out of it without positive disaster. It was not necessary to call
for more funds.

In the first race on the third day his own horse, Go Nap, ran. It was
known that the animal had done fairly well in its trials, and there was
a good deal of outside money on it. Harry, of course, backed it. Go Nap
won handsomely, and from that moment Harry's luck changed. Plunging more
recklessly than ever, he more than succeeded in recovering himself. At
the end of the day he was a heavy winner.

He made his biggest coup on a horse which lost. Harry had laid against
it, although it was a hot favourite. It should have won on its form
quite easily, everybody said, and there were rumours of foul play. An
investigation was talked of and eventually was held, but nothing came of
it. The impression, however, was that there had been some "crooked work"
in the matter. None was more forward in denying it than Bennet.
Fortunately for him, it was not known that he had won a large sum, or
there might have been suspicions of his good faith. And presently the
disputings, the angry arguments, the murmurings, the bickerings, died
away, but what had happened was not forgotten.

On the fourth day of the meeting Bennet was again a winner, though the
total of his gains was not so great as that of the day before. Taken
altogether, however, it had been an excellent Goodwood for him, and he
was correspondingly elated.

His home was at Hampton Court, and he returned to it in high feather.
The first thing he did next morning was to go to Ivydene. He had made up
his mind to speak to Kitty of his passion, and to ask her to be his
wife. Being away at the races he had not heard of her engagement, and
intoxicated with his success at Goodwood he felt himself a conquering
hero, who had only to come, and be seen, to triumph instantly.

He found Kitty at home and alone, nor did the maiden seem displeased to
see him. She had no suspicion, however, of the nature of his errand.

He was so full of his good fortune at the races, that, as soon as the
customary greetings were over, he forthwith launched out into the story
of his four days' campaign. Kitty had a pretty natural gift of listening
sympathetically, and the young man was greatly pleased with the interest
she manifested in his narrative--so much so that his spirit glowed
within him. And, of course, Kitty congratulated him on the victory of
his horse, Go Nap, and on his other successes.

As he looked at the beautiful girl, a strong desire came upon him to
speak to her at once of his passion, but a certain novel bashfulness,
arising from the very reality of the love he felt for her, restrained
him at the moment. Instead of going to the point at once, he began by
asking in the most banal fashion if she had any news.

Now, Kitty had two great pieces of news--one of them a very great piece
of news indeed; one was the coming of her father, the other her
engagement to Gilbert Eversleigh. It was of the first she chose to
speak.

"News? Yes," said Kitty, eagerly, "great news. Have you heard that my
father is expected here from Canada next week?--but, perhaps, you have
heard of it."

"No, I have not heard of it. Rather sudden, is it not?" asked Bennet.
"You did not know of it, I think, Miss Kitty, when I saw you some days
ago."

"I had a letter from my father the very next morning."

"He arrives next week, you say? On what day do you look for him?"

"That I can't tell you, for he has not mentioned any fixed day; but he
will be here very soon. And, oh! I shall be glad to see him!"

"Yes. It will be a great pleasure to you to see him again."

"It will make me very happy," said Kitty, simply, who was now counting
the days and finding them somewhat long.

While the girl was speaking, Bennet was thinking that it would be better
for him to declare himself before the arrival of her father. Did he put
it off till afterwards, it was probable that Morris Thornton would make
some inquiries about him--in which case his infatuation for betting and
horse-racing would be bound to come out, and Thornton might take a
severe view of his conduct. But the matter would appear in a different
light if he were engaged to Kitty before her father's appearance on the
scene.

They had been sitting in the drawing-room of Ivydene quite near each
other. Suddenly, to Kitty's surprise, Bennet rose, and with outstretched
hands stood in front of her. He gave her no time to check him--his words
flowed like a torrent.

"Miss Kitty, your father will make you happy; will you not make me happy
too? You can make me the happiest of men. I love you, you darling Kitty!
Tell me that you do not regard me with indifference! Tell me that you
will not refuse my love, Kitty! Do not send me away from your sweet
presence. I love you, I adore you for your beauty, for your sweetness,
for yourself. Kitty, do you love me? I will do anything and everything a
man can to show you I love you. Kitty, dearest, tell me----"

Springing a step forward, he tried to clasp her in his arms, but she
retreated and then waved him back.

Bennet had spoken well, and with a rough sincerity which the girl could
not but feel. She tried to stop him, but he would not be stopped. As he
had gone on, her face had paled and her eyes had grown full of trouble
and distress. She now blamed herself for not putting her second piece of
news before the other. Trouble and distress also showed themselves in
the agitation with which she replied to him.

"Harry, I'm so sorry. What you ask is impossible!"

"Impossible! You don't mean it, Kitty, surely," exclaimed Bennet. "Oh,
say you don't mean it!"

He was so cocksure of himself and of her that he could not believe she
was in earnest. His self-confidence was so great that it blinded him,
otherwise he must have seen that she had no such answer to give him as
he wished.

"Yes, it is impossible," she said, quietly and firmly. "I am very sorry
to pain you, Harry, very sorry indeed; you may be quite sure of that."

The young man's eyes filled with an angry light while the hot colour
flushed his cheeks.

"It is your love I want, not your sorrow," he said roughly.

"That I cannot give you," said Kitty. "Wait a moment, Harry. A few
minutes ago you asked me if I had any news. Well, I did not tell you all
the news. There was one piece of news I felt a certain reticence about.
I wish now I had mentioned it to you. For, if I had done so you would
not have said--what you have said. It is that I am engaged to be
married."

"Oh, Kitty!" cried Bennet, in a voice that seemed to ask her how she
dared become engaged to any one but himself. "You are engaged! This is
news indeed ... I wish I had known ... engaged!" And Bennet, who was not
able to contain his rage and mortification, glowered at the girl, as
these words came brokenly from him. Then he looked at her for some
seconds in silence, and his look was not pleasant.

"I am sorry," said Kitty once more, but her accent was cold. She thought
he was not behaving prettily, and that it was time for him to go.

"May I ask who is the lucky man?" he inquired, his face dark with
wrath; but in his heart he had already guessed that Gilbert Eversleigh
was his successful rival.

"I do not know that you have any right to address me as you are doing,"
said Kitty with dignity. "You asked a question and you have had your
answer." But as she looked at Bennet she relented a little. "I am sorry
to disappoint you, Harry," she went on, "but there is nothing more to be
said."

"I suppose it is Gilbert," said Bennet.

Kitty nodded assent.

Bennet gazed at her gloomily; there was something threatening in the
black gleams he shot at her.

"Have you no good wishes for me?" she asked, making an effort to remind
him that he should at least try to play the part of a gentleman.

But Bennet only glared at her speechlessly.

At length, muttering some words so incoherently that the girl could not
catch them, he turned and left the room abruptly.

And he kept muttering the same words over and over again as he returned
to his home; they made an infernal chorus in his thoughts, the burden of
which was, "She shall never marry you, Master Gilbert, never, never, if
I can prevent her. She shall marry me, me, me, nobody but me." And yet,
even while he kept on saying this to himself, he could not conceal from
his innermost soul that he was powerless. Kitty and Gilbert were
engaged; there was the bitter fact. Still, he whispered in his heart,
they were not married, and until Kitty was actually united to Gilbert
there was always room for a little hope.

Of Gilbert Eversleigh he thought with burning hatred, and longed for an
opportunity of doing him an injury. In his first rage he had an idea
that he would withdraw all his business from Eversleigh, Silwood and
Eversleigh, but after he had somewhat cooled he came to the conclusion
not to do so. The firm, he argued, was far too big and well-established
and wealthy to be hurt much by the loss of a single client like him.
Bennet's opinion of the standing of the firm was the same as that held
by everybody else. Besides, there was another reason for continuing with
the Lincoln's Inn solicitors. He told himself that if he placed his
affairs in the hands of other lawyers, Francis Eversleigh would
inevitably be displeased, and this would lead to a coolness between them
which would make it impossible for him to visit at Ivydene. But while
Kitty remained beneath the roof of Francis Eversleigh, Bennet had no
desire to cut himself off from seeing her there. And he meant to go on
seeing her. For, so long as she was unmarried he did not altogether
despair. He said to himself that he would wait and see if chance did not
throw something in his way.

As for Kitty, she thought it best to say not a word to Gilbert of Harry
Bennet's proposal, but she took an opportunity of cautioning her lover
to beware of him.

To say that Kitty was amazed and dismayed at the presumptuousness, the
boorishness, the bad manners Bennet had exhibited, would give but a
faint indication of what she felt. She considered his behaviour, with
its unconcealed menace, little short of an outrage. Yet, at the same
time, an alarmed instinct in her apprised her that the man was
dangerous, and that vigilance was necessary in dealing with him.

Gilbert was rather inclined gently to laugh down the warning Kitty gave
him; in his abounding happiness he smiled at her fears, but she insisted
none the less that Bennet was a man to be watched.

"You must always be on your guard with him," she said.

"What can he do, my darling?" asked Gilbert. "Nothing," he said, with
reassuring caresses.




CHAPTER VIII


It was now approaching the end of the week, and still there was no sign
of Morris Thornton, to the intense disappointment of his daughter Kitty,
who was all impatience to see him.

As each day in that week of terror to Francis Eversleigh went past, he
sank further and further into a slough of despond, and became a prey to
deep melancholy. The routine of his office work, with its appeal to
long-established habit, and the pressure to keep up appearances so far
as it was possible, helped him a little during the day; but in the
evenings, when his family were around him, and in the long, broken
nights, when his wife lay asleep by his side, he abandoned himself to
the deepest dejection.

Going to his office each morning, he speculated drearily, with aching
heart, whether this day or the next would see Morris Thornton walk in,
bringing ruin with him. "How am I to meet him?" Eversleigh asked himself
over and over again, but saw no answer.

Silwood had not spoken to him again except on such items of business as
had to be discussed by them together. These consultations would have had
something farcical in them for him if the situation had not been so
wholly tragical. He marvelled at the matter-of-fact way Silwood went
about these and other affairs.

Very quietly and methodically Silwood went on maturing his plans, nor
did he refer to them any more when talking to Eversleigh; but he had
paid another visit in disguise to Douglas Street, Stepney, and had
warned his wife to be ready to move when he gave the word. He had also
intimated, but more plainly, to Williamson, that he would take a holiday
very soon--his reason, he alleged for taking it, being the great heat
which still continued. Never had there been known so hot a July.
Williamson admitted in his thoughts that the reason was an excellent
one, but wondered why Mr. Eversleigh, who continued to look very ill,
did not talk of taking a vacation instead of his partner, who seemed to
be very much in his usual health.

On the Saturday of that week, Cooper Silwood, whose punctuality had
hitherto been invariable, did not appear at the office when half-past
ten came round, and Williamson waited for him in vain for some time. A
little after eleven, however, the head-clerk received a note from him,
saying that he had gone to the Continent, and intended making for the
north of Italy, where he had been some years before. He went on to say
he was not certain how long he would be away, but it would be for two or
three weeks, perhaps a month.

Carefully as Silwood had prepared the way, Williamson could not but be
surprised at the suddenness with which, in the end, his principal had
departed, and naturally his suspicions of there being something wrong
were increased; but they remained indefinite and vague, for he could
fasten on nothing tangible.

In the course of the morning, Francis Eversleigh, for the purpose of
asking Silwood a question, went into the latter's room, and found it
empty. It was evident, too, from the state in which it was, that
Silwood had not been there that day. He at once leapt to the conclusion
that Silwood had gone away--in plain terms, had absconded--an
eventuality for which he was not altogether unprepared, as it had been
part of the scheme Silwood had mooted to him after the confession of the
defalcations, and also on the occasion of their interview at Ivydene.

Still, this might not be the explanation, and Eversleigh, after a few
seconds' thought, put on his hat and walked up to Silwood's private
chambers in Stone Buildings. Here he found the door locked, and a sheet
of paper pinned to it, on which was written, "Out of Town."

His conjecture thus confirmed, it was none the less a terrible shock to
Francis Eversleigh; even though he had anticipated it, it was
nevertheless hard to bear.

"He has left me to stand it all alone," he thought, but even as he said
this to himself, his common sense reasserted itself. "But what will his
flight benefit him? Ultimately he will be hunted down; he cannot escape
the law; no one can."

Then, hardly knowing what he was doing, he tried the door again, pulling
at the handle with all his might, but it was to no purpose. He stood
gazing gloomily at the closed door.

"I have a great mind to have it broken open," he muttered. "I can easily
frame some excuse for doing so--say he has forgotten something. But if I
did have the door opened, what would be the use? What good would it do?
It would not bring him back; it would not bring the money back. No, best
leave it alone."

Moving with slow, halting steps down the stairs, he kept asking himself
the question, "What am I to do now?" His agony of mind was almost beyond
human endurance as this question incessantly hammered on his brain,
obscuring and dulling his powers. Then, in a muddled sort of way, he
began to reason.

First, he might go to the authorities and incriminate himself; but no
one, he told himself, was required to do that; it was too much to expect
any one to do.

Second, he might destroy himself, and so make an end. Was this not the
best course to pursue? With this idea in his mind, he remembered a shop
in the Strand, in the window of which he had seen revolvers for sale.
Why not buy one and be done with it all? "Why not?" he asked himself,
and turned his face towards the Strand. But he had only gone a few paces
when the thought of his wife and children was too poignant to allow him
to proceed further with his desperate purpose, and so he faced about and
returned to New Square, thinking, thinking of what he was to do.

There was only one thing to do, he concluded, and that was to continue
doing his work at the office as best he could till the crash came. It
could not be long in coming, he reflected with indescribable bitterness,
for was not Morris Thornton already overdue?

He had scarcely got seated in his own room when his son Ernest came in,
and remarked that Mr. Silwood had gone for a holiday.

"I had not heard that he intended going," he went on; "in fact, I was
astonished to hear of his taking a holiday just now. Mr. Williamson
tells me he has left for the Continent."

"Yes," said Francis Eversleigh, somewhat vacantly, "he has gone for a
holiday. I suppose I have forgotten to mention to you that he was going
abroad for a while," he continued, pulling himself together. "He has not
had a holiday for some years."

"I see. By-the-way," said Ernest, "who in his absence is to look after
his department?"

"I'll do so myself," observed the other, quietly.

"But, father," objected Ernest, "you are not well enough----"

"Oh, yes, I am," protested Eversleigh. "I'll attend to it myself, my
boy."

"Why not let me do it?"

"I had rather not," answered his father, sharply; "I prefer to do it
myself."

Eversleigh knew very well that it would never do to let any one but
himself look after Silwood's department.

The day of Silwood's disappearance wore to its end; the next day,
Sunday, passed. It saw the lovers at Ivydene much engrossed with
themselves, but not to such an extent as to prevent many comments on the
delay in Morris Thornton's coming, and some surmises as to its cause,
the chief of which was that he was carrying out his idea of giving Kitty
a "surprise"--carrying it a little further than she had expected. Though
she was disappointed, she was not alarmed.

On the Monday of that week, Francis Eversleigh, looking more haggard and
wretched than before, was again at 176, New Square.

"Will Thornton come to-day?" he asked himself, despairingly.

He strove to keep calm and hide his sufferings from the world, but every
moment was torture. Yet Monday went the way of all former Mondays, and
still Morris Thornton did not come. And so it was with Tuesday, and
Wednesday, and Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday; the week was gone,
and Thornton had not appeared!

Pondering this fact, Eversleigh, who remembered what Thornton had said
about his ill-health, was inclined to the conclusion that somewhere on
the road his old friend had had an attack, and had broken down. But, if
this were the case, why had he not sent, or caused to be sent, a message
to the firm or to his daughter? Eversleigh knew she had not heard
anything further from her father, nor had the firm heard from Thornton.

In one sense, the non-appearance of Thornton was a relief to Francis
Eversleigh--it put the day of judgment off; but in another, the
prolonging of the suspense intensified his mental agony.

Thornton's silence was as terrible as it was really inexplicable.

Kitty, who was not aware of her father's serious condition, and hence
could not frame from that circumstance a possible explanation of his not
coming, was greatly perplexed.

At first she felt no fear, and kept saying to herself and to Gilbert--to
whom, of course, she talked of all that was in her heart--that she would
see her father to-morrow or next day; but to-morrow became to-day, and
next day to-morrow, and yet he did not appear. And there was nothing
from him--not a single line!

Gilbert, lover-like, did his utmost to cheer her, saying what was
obviously probable--her father had been unexpectedly delayed, but would
be here very soon, and so on--and he spoke with such cheeriness that
she gained some confidence from his. But as the days sped by, and Morris
Thornton came not nor sent word, her apprehensions increased, and all
Gilbert's loving speeches could not allay them. Gilbert, too, began to
wonder not a little what it all meant.

It at length became evident to him that there was something peculiarly
significant in the non-appearance and silence of Morris Thornton. He
spoke what was in his mind to his father, who, in reply, told him the
only hypothesis he could form was that Thornton had fallen ill at some
point in the course of the journey, though that did not account for
nothing being heard of him. Gilbert now learned for the first time of
the precarious state of Thornton's health. He agreed with his father
that nothing should be said about it to Kitty, as it could not but add
to her anxiety.

But what Gilbert had heard made him comply all the more eagerly with a
suggestion Kitty offered on the next Sunday, when they were talking on
this subject, which temporarily had assumed more importance almost than
their love.

This was that a cablegram should be sent to Vancouver to Morris
Thornton, asking when she was to expect to see him in London.

Gilbert despatched the cablegram for her from the Central Telegraph
Office in the Strand, on his return to town late that evening.

No answer was received by the girl till far on in the afternoon of
Monday.

The first thing she noticed on looking at the reply message was that it
was not signed by her father, but by his local agent.

Then she read the whole cablegram, which ran--

"Your father sailed from New York for Southampton by _St. Louis_, July
21. No further advices. Wallace."

"July 21," said Kitty to herself. "Why, he ought to have been here a
week ago at least."

For it was now Monday, August 9th!

Eighteen days had elapsed since the sailing of the _St. Louis_ from New
York, on July 21st!




CHAPTER IX


What was the explanation? Kitty wondered, much perplexed.

Her father had left Vancouver and had gone to New York--so she gathered
from the cablegram. And as he had not been to see her she concluded that
he could not be in England, and that meant in the circumstances that he
had not sailed from New York on the 21st of July as he had intended.
Gilbert had suggested to her that her father had been unexpectedly
detained, and at first, as this seemed a probable solution of the
problem, she was inclined to think this was what had occurred.

But, as she reflected further, it did not seem so likely. For supposing
he had been forced to delay his journey for a whole week, and had
exchanged his berth on the _St. Louis_ for one on the boat of the same
line sailing a week later, that is, on the 28th, there would still have
been plenty of time for him to have arrived in England and to have seen
her, as he would have reached Southampton by the 3rd of August, or by
the 4th at latest. And it was now the 9th!

As Kitty tried to puzzle the matter out, her fears, vague, but none the
less distressing, were greatly increased, and she began to suspect that
something, she knew not what, had happened to her father.

Gilbert, now as anxious as Kitty was, was at Surbiton in the evening to
hear what news she had received from Vancouver, and he was as much
bewildered as she by the cablegram from Wallace, Morris Thornton's
agent. All he could do was to remind her, as he had done before, that
the delay in her father's coming, as well as his silence, might all be
part of his scheme to "surprise" her. But Kitty replied that this made
her father out as unkind in the extreme; she was sure he would never
willingly put such a strain upon her affection.

"I can't make it out at all," she said, wrinkling her pretty brows. "It
seems very singular that he does not write."

Then an idea struck her. It was that there might be, on a careful
re-reading of the letter she had received from her father, in which he
had said he was returning to England, some words which would afford a
clue.

"I shall look at his letter again," she said to Gilbert, and went up to
her room to fetch it.

"He writes," remarked the girl, when she had brought it down, "quite
positively 'I will come in a few days after you receive this.' 'A few
days,' he says. If he had sailed on the 21st of July and came here
to-morrow--why, it would be nearly three weeks, and you can't call that
a few days."

"No," assented Gilbert; "but, Kitty, it's hardly three weeks. If he had
sailed on the 21st he would have been here about the 28th or the 29th.
You see what's left is more like ten days than three weeks. But what is
the date of your father's letter?"

"July 11th."

"And when did you get it, dear?"

"Oh, Gilbert, don't you know, don't you remember?" asked Kitty, with
some reproach in her voice. "Surely, you cannot have forgotten that I
got it on the very day you told me that you loved me!"

"Ah, sweetheart," quickly replied Gilbert, taking her hand and pressing
it tenderly, "I've been so happy that I have lost all count of time--I
forget everything but you, my darling!"

"A pretty speech," exclaimed Kitty, smiling upon him while her hand
returned the pressure of his, "and I suppose I must forgive you,
Gilbert. But about this letter of father's. Well, it came just sixteen
days ago to-day. Now, sixteen days are not exactly a few days, are
they?" she asked, sticking to her point.

"It was on the 24th that his letter came," said Gilbert.

"So you have remembered the date, sir?" cried Kitty.

"I had not really forgotten, dear; but thinking about your father had,
for the moment, put it out of mind."

"Oh, yes, I know, Gilbert," she said, a little absently.

He devoured her with eyes of love, but he noticed that her thoughts were
not with him. They had reverted to her father.

"I think I see how it all fits in," she said, after a long pause, "for
his sailing on the 21st. He wrote me on the 11th; that gave him ten days
to wind up his business in Vancouver, so far as he could wind it up, and
to get to New York in--five days in Vancouver, and five days for the
journey to New York. If he had sailed on the 21st, as he said to his
agent he would, he would have been here on the 28th or 29th, that is, in
three or four days after his letter. Now three, four, or even let us say
five days, would be a few days--just as he says in his letter. I can
see he had planned it all out, so as to fit everything in. Don't you see
that, Gilbert?"

"It certainly looks like it, dear."

"Yes, it does. It is very strange that he did not carry out his
intention. I cannot understand it. There is some mystery about it I
cannot fathom."

"It seems singular," observed Gilbert; "but I dare say that, if we knew
all the circumstances, there would be a perfectly natural explanation,
sweetheart. Pray do not give way, my darling," he besought her, but his
own manner was not reassuring.

"I cannot help being anxious," replied Kitty. Then she looked again at
the cablegram from Wallace, and said, "The agent wires, 'Your father
sailed from New York by _St. Louis_ on 21st.' That is quite definite, is
it not? And he adds, 'No further advices.' Does that mean that father
had advised Mr. Wallace that he had sailed? Oh, Gilbert, I am afraid, I
am afraid! We imagine that the agent knew only of father's intention--an
intention, we suppose, he was prevented from carrying out. But think
what it means if we are wrong in imagining this altogether! Suppose that
father did sail on the 21st! Gilbert, I am afraid," said Kitty, in a low
tone; "I am afraid," she repeated, and the girl's voice suddenly fell
into a whisper. She shivered slightly, and the tears stood in her eyes
as she clung to her lover.

Gilbert took her in his arms, soothed and caressed her. In the course of
their conversation he had tried to put the best construction on Morris
Thornton's non-appearance, but at heart he felt, like Kitty, that there
was good ground for misgiving. And to have told the girl what he knew,
but she did not know, of the serious condition of her father, would be
only to add to her trouble. As for himself, that knowledge made him
appreciate the gravity of the matter even more than she did. He
resolved, therefore, to set inquiries on foot at once, and furthermore
to set to work vigorously himself to probe the thing to the bottom.

Next morning, accordingly, he went to the office of the American Line in
London--the line of steamships to which the _St. Louis_ belonged--and
asked the clerk who waited on him for a list of the passengers who had
sailed from New York by that vessel, on July 21st.

The list was handed to him immediately. A cursory glance showed him that
the name of Morris Thornton was on it.

Dumfounded, he stared at the list, saying nothing. His surprise was so
marked that the clerk could not help noticing it, and was surprised in
his turn.

"It does not mean," said Gilbert at length, "at least, always, I
suppose, that because an individual's name is on the steamer list he
must necessarily have sailed, does it? I mean that he might be detained
at the last moment."

"That, of course, is possible," replied the clerk. "The list is printed
some little while before the ship sails. But I can tell you if there was
any one on the list who in the end did not sail, if that is what you
wish to know."

"That is very kind of you," said Gilbert, but he paused, reflecting that
a question of this kind was a somewhat delicate one. And he was aware
that the clerk was eyeing him curiously, almost suspiciously.

"Perhaps," said the clerk, "it would be simpler and better if you told
me about whom you desire to ask. Is there any name on the list in which
you are particularly interested?"

Gilbert noticed that the clerk was studying his face with marked
intentness, and he wondered why; he understood later.

"I see on the list," said Gilbert at length, "the name of Mr. Morris
Thornton."

"Mr. Morris Thornton!" exclaimed the clerk, whose tone was such as
showed there was something out of the common attaching to the name.

"Yes, Mr. Thornton," Gilbert went on. "Can you tell me if he sailed by
the _St. Louis_ on the 21st?"

"Are you a friend of Mr. Thornton's?" inquired the clerk, in an eager
voice.

"In a sense, yes," replied Gilbert. "But you have not answered my
question."

"In a sense," said the clerk, repeating Gilbert's first words; then he
continued, "I have a most special reason for asking if you are a friend
of his. What do you mean, sir, by saying that you are a friend of his in
a sense?"

"Well, I am engaged to his daughter. She expected to see her father some
days ago, but he has not arrived. She knew he intended sailing from New
York on the 21st, though she only knew of it yesterday. She became
alarmed on not seeing him or hearing from him, and she cabled to his
agent in Vancouver, and in that way learned that her father was to have
sailed on the 21st. She asked me to make inquiries. I shall be glad if
you can help me. Can you tell me if Mr. Thornton sailed on the _St.
Louis_ or not?"

"Mr. Thornton," answered the clerk, in a queer, half-frightened voice,
"did sail by the _St. Louis_!"

"What! Are you sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

Gilbert had a staggering sense that he was on the edge of some
extraordinary affair, and he gazed earnestly at the clerk, who looked at
him with corresponding intentness.

"Have you anything more to tell me?" asked Gilbert.

"I think it would be better if you spoke to the manager," said the
clerk. "Would you mind coming in to see him?"

"Not at all; but why?"

"Well, you are not the only one who has been making inquiries about Mr.
Thornton--I may tell you that; but, please come into the manager's
room."

Gilbert saw the manager, and explained his errand.

"I am afraid," said the manager, speaking in an impressive voice, "that
something may have happened to Mr. Thornton; indeed, I have very little
doubt of it."

"Why?"

"Mr. Thornton did sail from New York as he intended; not only so, he
landed at Southampton in due course, and came on to London on the 29th
of last month. On that day he took a room at the Law Courts Hotel in
Holborn. These are the facts."

"How do you know he went to the Law Courts Hotel, may I ask?"

"I have it from the hotel people themselves, and why they told me of it
you will presently understand. It appears that Mr. Thornton was a good
deal of an invalid; at any rate, shortly after he got to his hotel he
was taken very seriously ill--he had a violent heart-attack of the most
alarming character. He fell down in the hall of the hotel and became
unconscious. He was immediately conveyed to his bed and a doctor was
summoned."

"Ah," said Gilbert, interrupting him, "I knew that he had a weak heart.
But, pardon me, pray continue."

"Mr. Thornton was successfully treated by the doctor, and after some
hours recovered, but he remained in bed for the rest of that day and
most of the next."

"He got better," said Gilbert, beginning to breathe more freely. "That
is good news."

"Oh, but wait," said the manager. "I have not finished yet. He stopped
in bed at his hotel most of the next day, as I have already told
you--that was the 30th, you will remember. He improved so much that he
told the attendant who had been detailed to look after his comfort, that
he felt quite equal to getting up, and though the attendant remonstrated
with him he persisted and did get up. You follow me, Mr. Eversleigh?"

"Perfectly," replied Gilbert, who saw that something very unusual was
coming, and was most eager to hear the end of the story.

"Mr. Thornton had dinner at the _table d'hôte_--he was as well as that,
you understand. After dinner he sat for quite a time chatting with two
or three of the other guests, and, rather late in the evening, he
announced his intention of going out for a short stroll; he said the
fresh air would do him good. And he did go out."

The manager paused, and looked at Gilbert significantly.

"He went out," he resumed, "but he has never returned."




CHAPTER X


"What?" cried Gilbert; he felt as if some one had struck him a sudden
blow.

"He has never returned to the hotel," said the manager, very seriously.

"Ah! to the hotel, but where----" Gilbert stopped without completing the
question, while excitement struggled with anxiety within his breast. He
gazed imploringly at the other.

"He did not return to the Law Courts Hotel that evening," the manager
went on, "and nothing has been seen or heard of him since."

Gilbert smothered an ejaculation. What a thing, he thought, to have to
tell Kitty!

"That was the state of the case up to yesterday," continued the manager.
"I have had no communication on the subject this morning, but if you
like, I will ring up the hotel on the 'phone--there may be fresh news."

"Thanks; but one moment, please. You had what you have just told me from
the hotel people?"

"Yes, and also from the police who are now moving in the matter, though
I am not aware of their having found out anything."

"The police!" exclaimed Gilbert, almost protestingly, but even as he
spoke he knew it was a fit and proper case for the police to take up.
"Please go on," he said.

"Of course," resumed the manager, "the police had to be called in.
Between ourselves I think they should have been called in sooner than
they were, but at the same time it must be acknowledged that the hotel
authorities were in a difficult position; people in their business are
always anxious not to interfere with the freedom of their guests, so
they make allowance for eccentricities and what might be considered
rather erratic movements."

"I understand," said Gilbert. "Perhaps you will now tell me just what
action the hotel people took--you can ring them up later."

"Very well. Mr. Thornton went out from the hotel late that Friday
night--the 30th of July was a Friday--and on his way out he spoke to the
porter, saying he would go along Holborn and take a turn, it might be,
up and down Chancery Lane, if it was pretty quiet."

"The porter remembered that distinctly, I presume?"

"Yes, perfectly. He did not see Mr. Thornton return, but he thought
nothing of this, imagining that Mr. Thornton had gone back into the
hotel when he, the porter, happened to be away for a minute from the
door."

"I must see that porter," Gilbert broke in. Was he, he wondered, the
last man to see Thornton alive? For, already, a conviction was springing
up within him that Thornton was no more, and that this was the mournful
intelligence he would have to carry to Kitty.

"Certainly you must," assented the manager.

"Well, next day a chambermaid, on going into Mr. Thornton's room, found
that his bed had not been slept in; she reported it, but nothing beyond
taking a note of the circumstance was done at the moment by the hotel
people. They supposed, naturally enough, that Mr. Thornton would turn up
in the course of the day."

"But surely," said Gilbert, "they should have felt some alarm seeing
that they knew how frightfully ill he had been two days before, don't
you think?"

"You must bear in mind, in fairness to them, that they do not care to
appear to limit in any way the liberty of their guests--and also, Mr.
Eversleigh, that they never suspected anything was wrong; it is easy to
be wise after the event."

"Yes, yes," Gilbert agreed, but he spoke with some impatience.

"At first," the manager went on, "they were under no apprehension as to
his safety, but when he did not return that day at all, nor the next,
they began to think it a little strange; they thought it very singular,
too, that they did not hear from him. They waited, however, till the
Tuesday, and then they communicated with the police, and the affair is
now in the latter's hands. A detective-inspector came to see if I could
throw any light on the mystery. Of course, I was greatly interested, as
you may imagine, but I could tell him nothing. I went round to the hotel
in Holborn, and there learned what I have told you. I am afraid there is
nothing more known at present."

"But have the police discovered no trace of him?"

"I don't think they have. I believe they are completely baffled--at
their wits' end. They have no clue, none at all, so far as I can hear.
No; the fact is that Mr. Thornton has vanished, you might say, from off
the face of the earth. It is as if he had never been!"

"What a terrible thing!" said Gilbert, in a voice of gloom. "Is there
really nothing more?"

"I fear there is absolutely nothing more."

"Have you made any guess as to what has happened?" asked Gilbert.

"No. You will see the police, Mr. Eversleigh?"

"At once. But perhaps you will ring up the Law Courts Hotel; there's
just a chance they may have something fresh."

The manager immediately telephoned, and was told there were no further
developments to be reported; Mr. Thornton was still missing, and nothing
had been heard of him.

Gilbert thanked the manager for the information he had given, and with a
heavy heart went off to Scotland Yard. He thought of the loving girl who
had looked forward with such keen pleasure to the coming of her father,
and who was now so anxious about him. How was he to tell her what he had
heard? And he feared that the worst had happened to Morris Thornton; he
felt his conviction growing that the man was dead. Still, he must not
say so to Kitty, so long as there was any uncertainty.

Gilbert was seen at the "Yard" by Detective-inspector Gale, an officer
of great experience, and a man of considerable ability. In introducing
himself Gilbert mentioned that he was the son of Francis Eversleigh, of
the firm of Eversleigh, Silwood, and Eversleigh, thinking that they must
be known to Gale, who bowed respectfully as he listened. Coming to the
matter of the disappearance of Morris Thornton, he also said that the
firm were the solicitors of the missing man. Then he explained how it
was he himself came into the case.

"Mr. Thornton has a daughter here?" said Gale, making notes. "I did not
know that. Indeed, I know very little about Mr. Thornton. I shall be
glad if you will tell me all you know of him."

And Gilbert did so.

The detective-inspector asked several questions about the letter
Thornton had addressed to his daughter, and dwelt upon the sentence in
it which spoke of Thornton's intention to "surprise" Kitty.

"I should like to see that letter," he said.

"Certainly. You think it important?"

"It may be--one can never tell," said the officer, diplomatically, "but
the word 'surprise'--the idea--seems to suggest a certain whimsicalness
on the part of Mr. Thornton."

"It was merely his humour, I imagine," remarked Gilbert; "but I can't
for an instant suppose that Mr. Thornton carried his whimsicalness, as
you term it, or his humour to such a prodigious degree as to disappear
from his hotel in the way he did."

Gale nodded. Then he shut his note-book.

"You would think so, Mr. Eversleigh," he observed, referring to
Gilbert's last sentences; "but you would be surprised how often men
disappear intentionally."

"One hears of such things, but not frequently."

"These disappearances are much more common than the public have any
notion of, I can assure you. I am speaking now of what I have called
intentional disappearances, and I don't mean what you might term
criminal disappearances either. Men make up their minds to cut away
completely from their surroundings, to begin a new life, to turn over a
fresh leaf, and so on; do you see?"

"Yes; but there could be nothing of the kind in the case of Mr.
Thornton."

"I do not say there was," said Gale, but his voice was non-committal.

"May I ask if you have formed any theory regarding Mr. Thornton's
disappearance?"

"I have not; the facts are too few."

"Have you any hope?"

"Do you mean hope of finding where he is gone or what has become of
him?"

"Yes. And do you think he is alive? I have a haunting dread that he is
dead."

"Dead? Perhaps so; I cannot say, but I think it is too soon to come to
that conclusion. Hundreds, yes thousands of people, disappear in London
every year, and many of them are never heard of again. But you cannot
say that of the majority. I would not be surprised to discover that Mr.
Thornton is alive, and I would be as little surprised to find out that
he is dead."

"It has occurred to me," said Gilbert, who felt that the officer took up
a safe but scarcely a sympathetic position, "that it is possible Mr.
Thornton had another sudden heart-attack, and was taken into a house
near at hand by some kind person----"

"But suppose he had an attack and had been taken in as you suggest,"
interrupted Gale; "surely it is impossible to suppose that such a
circumstance would not be reported somewhere? Mr. Thornton would have
sent word to the hotel sooner or later, don't you think?"

"Yes; that is reasonable."

"I had thought of that idea myself, but, on consideration I dismissed it
as quite untenable. Mr. Thornton, I have come to the conclusion, has
either disappeared intentionally, or he is dead. Now I can see nothing
to indicate an intentional disappearance: the state of his health would
seem absolutely to forbid it."

"Then you think he is dead?" asked Gilbert, as Gale paused.

"I can't say, please remember, but it looks rather like it."

"But what about the body?"

"Oh, bodies can be made to disappear."

"Do you mean that you think he has been murdered?"

"I won't go so far," said Gale, cautiously, "but Mr. Thornton was a rich
man, and probably had valuables about him; he was in a weak, feeble
state, and so would fall an easy victim. And it was late in the evening
when he went out. I am afraid it is possible--I will not say probable,
for there is no evidence--that he was murdered the night he left the
hotel."

"Is it not dreadful? I've been thinking much the same. But how did you
know he was rich?"

"We took possession of what property he had at the hotel. It was not
much, but what there was hinted pretty plainly at wealth. There was one
extraordinary thing--we could not find his address, I mean the address
of the place he lived in."

"That was odd, and I cannot explain it," said Gilbert. "You know now he
lived in Vancouver?"

"Yes, you have told me so, but I did not know it before. We made
inquiries by cable in New York--the label on his luggage showed he had
come from that city--but he was unknown to the police there, nor could
they find out anything about him. Now we shall make inquiries in
Vancouver."

"I hope you will let me know if you hear of anything," said Gilbert,
rising to leave, after thanking the inspector for his courtesy. "Miss
Thornton is very anxious about her father, and she will be more anxious
than ever after she has heard what I have to tell her."

"Certainly."

Gilbert was just about leaving, when it struck him as very desirable
that the officer should communicate with his father, Francis Eversleigh.
He had already told Mr. Gale that his father's firm were Morris
Thornton's solicitors, and now he suggested to the inspector-detective
to accompany him, if he had the time, to see his father, and tell him
exactly how the case stood.

Gale thought for a moment, and then said that if he would wait for a
short while until he had finished a memorandum he had been engaged on
when Gilbert had been shown in, he would go with him to his father.

"I really ought to see him in the circumstances," said Gale. "He may be
able to give us some clue."

But when Gale and Gilbert put the facts before Francis Eversleigh, he
had no suggestion to make. Indeed, the solicitor was perfectly
thunderstruck by the intelligence they brought him, and acted in such an
extraordinary way as to cause Gilbert to fear that the news had affected
his brain. Eversleigh, in fact, could hardly believe it; but when he
did, it, too, seemed part and parcel of that hideous waking nightmare
in which he now lived. Yet, somewhere in the darkening depths of his
mind, there shot up a tiny ray of hope. For if Morris Thornton were
dead, or if it were only that he had disappeared, was not that to
postpone the day of reckoning?

Gilbert's most difficult and painful task was to disclose to the girl he
loved all he had come to know that day. With infinite gentleness and
delicacy he told her the truth, and wound up by declaring she must not
lose hope of seeing her father again; it was far too soon, he urged, and
the circumstances were far too obscure to admit of any definite
conclusion being arrived at.

But Kitty, crying and sobbing bitterly in her lover's arms, would say
nothing. Gilbert knew, however, from her passion of weeping, that she
already mourned her father as dead. Very tenderly he sought to console
her, but at first her grief would have its way, albeit she clung to him
as if she would never let him go.




CHAPTER XI


Whether to keep a matter to themselves, or to take the public into their
confidence, is a question to which the police never seem able to give a
decided answer. There are occasions, of course, in which secrecy is
plainly indicated, but with respect to the majority of cases they are
too much inclined to the same course of procedure.

Touching the disappearance of Morris Thornton they had hitherto
deliberately kept any statement about it from the newspapers, and the
facts were known only to a few. And Detective-inspector Gale was of
opinion that it was better to go on with his inquiries as quietly as
possible. But Gilbert Eversleigh could not agree with him.

"I am for giving his disappearance the widest publicity," said Gilbert,
in conversation with the officer, on the day subsequent to that on which
he first saw him. "It is probable that we will hear something in this
way. You must confess that up to the present you have accomplished
nothing, Mr. Gale. Is it not so?"

"Yes, that is quite true; but I have not given up the hope of doing
something soon."

"That's all very well, but you must pardon me if I tell you I am not
satisfied. I have consulted Miss Thornton, and she is with me in
thinking that the occurrence should be made public."

"That is Miss Thornton's wish?"

"Yes; and she also desires my father's firm to offer a large reward to
any one who can furnish the information we want. Still, they will hardly
like to act in that way if you have any substantial objection to offer."

Gale reflected for a few moments.

"You are sure that Miss Thornton will not mind?" he asked, the question
showing the direction of his thoughts. "It will not be exactly pleasant
for her to see her father's name in the papers."

"She is suffering intensely as it is," replied Gilbert, "but the affair
is too serious for her to give way to personal feelings of that sort;
indeed, if the papers give great prominence to it, she will be pleased
rather than the reverse, for she thinks, and so do I, that something may
come of it."

"What reward does she think of offering?"

"A thousand pounds."

"A large sum! It might tempt some one."

"Tempt some one?" repeated Gilbert. "What do you mean?"

"Well," returned the officer, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, "let us
consider the case. You know that I think Mr. Thornton either disappeared
intentionally----"

"I thought you had rather given that idea up," interposed Gilbert.

"Still, it's a possibility, though there is a good argument on the
surface--on the surface, mind, I say--against it in the state of his
health. A man in his precarious condition was not likely to embark on
such an adventure as an intentional disappearance implies. Still, as I
said, it is a possibility. Now, if his disappearance was intentional, he
must be living somewhere, and must be in contact with other human
beings. That is so, is it not?"

"Yes."

"While offering the large reward you mentioned, you would at the same
time give a full description of him. That description might be seen by
one or more of those with whom he associates. In this manner information
might be obtained. There is another point, too, and it is that if after
a time no such information was forthcoming, then the other hypothesis
will be vastly strengthened."

"By the other hypothesis you intend the idea that he was murdered, I
suppose?" asked Gilbert.

"Yes. As I have already told you, I fear that will turn out to be the
true reading of the mystery. The more I think of it, the more certain I
feel about it. There is, however, a third hypothesis, but it seems so
highly improbable that it is hardly worth mentioning. It is that Mr.
Thornton committed suicide."

"Suicide! Impossible!"

"It is very highly improbable," said Gale, "but, pardon me, not
impossible. I wonder how many things are really impossible?" he
continued, on what was a favourite theme of his. "If you knew but a
tithe of the things ordinarily called impossible that I have found not
to be impossible at all! But I digress. Well, with regard to his having
committed suicide, it was no great distance from his hotel to the
river."

"Oh, Mr. Gale, this is absurd. Why should he commit suicide?"

"The only reason that can give the slightest colour to such a
supposition is that he suffered terribly from his heart--the pain in
these attacks is usually frightful--and he might have felt that rather
than stand another he would prefer to die; or again, it might be that he
was slightly out of his mind because of the pain. But I don't really put
this hypothesis forward as one that is probable. No. I am afraid he was
murdered. Still, even in that case, the large sum you offer might tempt
some one--some one who perhaps saw the deed done, or had his suspicions
about something he saw--to come forward with useful information."

"It might even tempt an accomplice--that is, if there were an
accomplice, might it not?" asked Gilbert eagerly.

"It might, though it's not at all likely."

"But you withdraw your opposition to making public the disappearance of
Mr. Thornton?"

"Yes, though I do not advise it. I hope it will not annoy Miss Thornton
very much, but I fear she may be troubled with newspaper reporters."

"Cannot you refer them to me or to my father?"

"I shall do so, but if they can ferret her out they will, you may be
sure."

"Oh, I dare say I shall be able to baffle them," declared Gilbert. "Now,
will you assist me in drawing up a statement for publication?"

Before Gilbert left Scotland Yard a brief but succinct account of the
disappearance of Morris Thornton was put into writing. Then followed a
description of Thornton, taken from the detective-inspector's
note-book, who, in his turn, had got the particulars from certain
members of the staff of the Law Courts Hotel. Further, Mr. Gale drafted
what he thought should go into the advertisement, offering the reward of
a thousand pounds, and this Gilbert took to his father. On his way to
Lincoln's Inn he stopped at a typewriting establishment, and gave
instructions to have copies made of the account of the disappearance,
and to send one to each of the London papers.

"This will be enough," thought he, "to set the ball rolling."

Next he saw Francis Eversleigh, who, he found to his surprise, was
against inserting the advertisement. The older man, who had his own
bitter, gnawing, consuming anxieties of which the younger guessed
nothing, had a glimmering notion that to advertise the reward was
somehow likely to precipitate a crisis in his affairs and bring about
exposure. But, backboneless as usual, he was easily over-ruled by his
son. The advertisement was made out, typewritten, manifolded, and also
sent to all the London journals.

The day following, Gilbert had ample proof that he had set the ball
rolling with a vengeance. Pressmen, it seemed to him, descended upon him
from every quarter of the town, eager, clamorous, importunate,
determined not to be sent empty away. But, after all, Gilbert had not
much to tell them. They managed, notwithstanding, to write sensational
and, for the most part, highly over-coloured articles round the missing
man. One or two of the evening papers wrote leaders on the subject, and
in many ways the public interest in Thornton's disappearance was excited
to the highest pitch. For one thing, his wealth was exaggerated to such
an extent that he was represented as a sort of colonial Croesus, and
in London, and throughout the country, people talked of and speculated
about the man now everywhere described as "The Missing Millionaire."
Indeed, the reward of a thousand pounds was hardly needed to stimulate
public curiosity and sympathy and activity.

High and low, rich and poor, the man of Mayfair and the man of
Whitechapel, conversed about it with the same relish, the same wonder.
The man in the street, shopmen, clerks, labourers, even beggars and
outcasts, all heard of the mysterious disappearance of Thornton, and
were all anxious to know the explanation of so extraordinary a thing. In
brief, it was the one topic of the moment.

And the offer of the large reward was not without a certain effect.

It had become a matter of general knowledge that Morris Thornton, on
leaving the Law Courts Hotel, told the porter there that he was going
for a stroll along Holborn and probably up and down Chancery Lane. From
this it fell out that many people of the amateur detective variety
investigated this quarter, especially at night, but without being much
or any the wiser. Yet, indirectly, one of them did better than he knew,
for from him a certain human wreck, to whom a doorway in Chancery Lane
was a frequent refuge, learned of the disappearance of Morris Thornton.
Inquiring with great earnestness what was the date of Thornton's
disappearance, he was informed that it was Friday, July 30th. It was now
Friday, August 13th.

"That is exactly a fortnight ago," said the wreck, with an unmistakable
note of exultation in his voice. "The very night--the very night," he
muttered, but so indistinctly that the other could not catch the words.

"What is it you say?" he asked, but the wreck declined to satisfy his
curiosity.

"Oh, nothing--nothing at all," he replied.

"Did you happen to be here in this street that night?" inquired the
other, suspiciously.

"Yes, I was."

"And did you see any thing or any one?"

"I saw nothing--I saw nobody," said the wreck, promptly.

But next morning he had a different story to tell.

He had very good reasons for not going to Scotland Yard, so he betook
himself to the office of Eversleigh, Silwood, and Eversleigh, whose name
appeared at the foot of the advertisement offering the thousand pounds
reward. He told his tale to Francis Eversleigh, with whom at that time
was Gilbert. The latter had been hurriedly sent for by his father on a
matter of the most urgent importance. They were anxiously discussing it,
when Williamson had come in and announced that there was a man below who
had called in answer to the advertisement respecting Thornton's
disappearance.

"He says he has information, but he would not disclose it to me,"
remarked Williamson, in an injured tone.

The head-clerk felt hurt that morning. He knew that Francis Eversleigh
had received a letter from Italy, and he suspected it had something to
do with Mr. Cooper Silwood. He had even ventured to put an indirect
question about it to Francis Eversleigh, but with no success. Instead,
that gentleman had told him to go and fetch Gilbert at once from the
Temple, or if he was not there to hunt him up and bring him.

He now saw from Gilbert's face, as well as from Francis Eversleigh's,
that something very grave was being discussed. On the table lay two
papers, one of which was partly printed, while the other was a long,
closely-written letter. Before withdrawing, Williamson tried to see what
was on the former, but could not.

"I suppose we must have this man in," said Gilbert to his father.

"Yes, yes," assented Francis. He said it with the air of one to whom
nothing could ever much matter again.

"I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it!" he exclaimed suddenly, after
Williamson had left the room. "It is too much!"

"Bear up, father--bear up!" cried Gilbert, little understanding all that
was in his father's mind.

But the wreck was at the door.

Ragged, tattered, with patched boots and a greasy cap, with pinched
features and a general appearance of having gone irremediably to the
bad, the wreck yet bore himself well, and when he spoke his language and
accent were those of a gentleman. He looked at the two Eversleighs, and
addressing the older asked if he were Mr. Eversleigh.

Francis Eversleigh bowed to the wreck, who had once been a gentleman.

"I am Francis Eversleigh," he said; "this is my son Gilbert. You have
something to tell us?" he suggested.

"Yes; but first I wish to say that my information by itself may not be
of much use. Still, I think it may put you on the track. If that is the
case, I wish you to promise me that I shall have some share of the
reward."

"That will be only fair."

"Mr. Thornton," said the wreck, without further preface, "disappeared on
the night of Friday, July 30th. He went out for a stroll in Holborn, and
was to go into Chancery Lane. I was in Chancery Lane that night, and I
saw something that struck me as very curious."

The wreck paused impressively.

"What was it you saw?" asked Gilbert.

"I saw a man," responded the wreck--"some sort of workman he appeared to
be from his dress--come out of the iron gate, the small iron gate at the
north-east corner of this Inn--Lincoln's Inn."

"But it's always kept locked at night," objected Francis Eversleigh.

"It was unlocked that night, at any rate," observed the wreck. "I heard
the sound--it was a low sound, but the night was very still--of the
unlocking. I saw the man lock the gate again, and he looked round him
like a man afraid of being spied upon. He did not see me, for I was in
the shadow of a doorway. He seemed to me to be rather flurried.
Presently he walked rapidly away. I thought it very strange that a
workman should have the key of the gate and at such an hour. I wondered
what it could mean, but I might have forgotten all about it if the same
man had not returned. He had not been gone for more than half an hour
when back he came, unlocked the gate, and passed on within. I spent the
night in the doorway, but he did not appear again. Very remarkable, was
it not?" asked the wreck.

"Very remarkable indeed!" said Gilbert, drily.

"Don't you believe me?" inquired the wreck.

"I do not see the bearing of what you have told us on the disappearance
of Mr. Thornton. Of course, what you saw was very strange, and should be
communicated to the authorities of the Inn, but I can see no connection
between the man who came out of the gate and Mr. Thornton. Do you think
there was?"

"I told you at the beginning that what I had to communicate might not be
of much use. I thought, however, it might perhaps fit in with something
you knew, or that it might give you a hint," said the wreck, in a tone
of dejection.

"We shall not forget what you have told us," said Gilbert, as the wreck
prepared to leave the room. "You should report what you saw to the
authorities of Lincoln's Inn, who will, no doubt, reward you for your
trouble."

Gilbert followed him to the door, and put some silver into his hand as
he went out. Then Gilbert closed the door, and sat down beside his
father.

"It looks," said he, "as if there were some uncommonly queer goings-on
in this old Inn."

But his father scarcely noticed what he said. Francis Eversleigh's gaze
was fastened on the paper lying before him on his table--the paper which
was partly printed, partly written on.

It was an official certificate from the Syndic of Camajore in Italy,
duly signed and sealed, of the death of Cooper Silwood.




CHAPTER XII


The certificate of Cooper Silwood's death and the accompanying letter
had come that morning in a long, queer-looking envelope, plastered
half-over with stamps and pitted with postmarks, amongst them being that
which showed the packet had been registered. It was addressed to Francis
Eversleigh personally: hence it had not been touched by any one prior to
his coming to the office.

When he first saw the packet he thought there was something ominous
about it, and a sure prescience that it contained bad news deterred him
from opening it immediately; he therefore allowed it to lie on his table
for some time. Such a want of courage had now become characteristic of
the tortured man. At last, however, he screwed himself up to the point
of looking into it. As it happened, he took out and glanced at the
letter first; it was in a language he did not know, but he guessed it
was Italian. It was written in a minute, cramped hand, difficult, in any
case, to decipher, and he put it aside. Then he scanned the certificate.
Here the printed words and his Latin helped him, and he had little
trouble in understanding what it was.

But in his shattered state it did not come home fully to him at once.
When it did, the effect on him was terrible--his head swam
distressingly, his heart fluttered painfully, as he fell back gasping in
his chair.

Cooper Silwood dead!

It seemed impossible to him, as his brain, caught in strange tangles,
like water-weeds in an eddy, whirled this way and that.

Dead!

The thing at last impressed itself upon his consciousness so as to blot
out everything else for the time.

"What next? What next?" he cried aloud, in a voice that was hardly
recognizable as his; it was the protest of a man goaded beyond the limit
of endurance.

Then his brain clouded.

"Cooper Silwood dead--dead--dead--dead!" he babbled to himself, looking
at the spots in the wall opposite him, and noting mechanically the
shapes and sizes of them. "Dead--dead--dead!" he mumbled, till the words
lost all meaning.

Something sub-conscious whispered to him this was madness, and with a
mighty effort he sought to recover himself. The effort saved him.

The first force of the shock at length passed; its recoil passed off
too, and he came to something like his senses. Desiring instinctively to
lean on some one stronger than himself, his impulse was to send for his
son Gilbert immediately, and accordingly, when he had pulled himself
still further round, he summoned Williamson, and dispatched him to find
and bring the young man to Lincoln's Inn. He had hardly done so, when
his vacillating mind swung round again, and he regretted it. But by the
time Gilbert arrived his mood had changed once more.

When Gilbert appeared in his father's room he found Francis Eversleigh
in tears. They were the tears of weakness, of indecision, of self-pity;
but when Gilbert heard what his father had to tell him he thought, of
course, they were the tears of one who mourns. They could not but seem
natural in the circumstances. He had always disliked Silwood; but his
father and Silwood had been associated in business for many years, and
though he was rather surprised that his father should be in tears over
Silwood's death, he was not at a loss altogether to account for it: his
father, he thought, had a good heart, and was overcome with sorrow. He
supposed that a long acquaintance with Silwood had shown his father some
excellent qualities in the man now dead--qualities which he himself
could not see.

"His death will be a great loss to you, father," said Gilbert; "you
must--and will--feel it very much, I fear."

"Yes," said Francis Eversleigh, in a harsh, strained voice, staring
straight before him.

"Have you told Ernest about it, or Mr. Williamson?" asked Gilbert.

"Not yet; but, of course, they must be told. First of all, however, I
should prefer to learn something of the circumstances attending Mr.
Silwood's death. I must have this letter translated," said Francis
Eversleigh, pointing to the communication in the small, cramped
handwriting; "I think it will tell us exactly what has happened."

"I can get you a man," said Gilbert, "from a College of Languages near
here, if you like. Shall I go and bring him? Or shall I take the letter
with me and get it translated?"

"Bring him here," said Eversleigh, who wished to keep everything
connected in any way with Silwood as much in the office as possible.

"The other way would be the quicker, perhaps," Gilbert suggested.

"Perhaps; but I had rather he came here," rejoined Eversleigh, with some
firmness.

In about half an hour Gilbert was back again in his father's room with
an interpreter, who quickly made himself master of the contents of the
letter, and afterwards read it out aloud to the two Eversleighs.

It was from Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore, which place, the interpreter
explained, was in the north of Tuscany, a few miles from the coast, and
no great distance from Leghorn, but the nearest town of importance was
Lucca.

The Syndic stated that he had been given instructions by Mr. Silwood to
communicate with Mr. Francis Eversleigh should the illness from which
he, Mr. Silwood, was suffering at the time have a fatal termination, as
appeared to be likely. And the illness had, unfortunately, resulted in
the death of Mr. Silwood, as had been feared.

Mr. Silwood had said he was a partner of Mr. Eversleigh's. He, the
Syndic, now hastened to write in accordance with the command of the
deceased gentleman; he regretted that he had to give Mr. Eversleigh the
pain of hearing the sad news, but he had a sacred duty to the dead to
perform, and he must discharge it.

Mr. Eversleigh had probably seen from the newspapers, said the Syndic,
that cholera was that summer--one of the hottest on record--epidemic all
along the Gulf of Genoa and southward as far as Leghorn. Mr. Silwood had
fallen a victim to this plague--alas! its victims were numbered by
hundreds and thousands; it was the greatest calamity that had visited
Italy for many years!

In Mr. Silwood's case there had been little hope from the commencement
of his sickness, to which he succumbed after about twenty-four hours.
Everything had been done for him that could be done; he had been
attended by a doctor of skill and experience, nor had the tendance of
competent nurses been wanting. Ah! It was evidently the will of God! The
usual certificate of death was enclosed.

Owing to the requirements of the law, concluded the Syndic, the body was
buried early on the morning of the day following that on which the death
took place. The deceased had left some effects about which he had not
given directions. These were now in his, the Syndic's possession, and he
asked what was to be done with them. As Mr. Eversleigh would doubtless
know what was proper in the circumstances, he, the Syndic, would be glad
to hear from him at his earliest convenience.

Such was the letter of Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore.

The interpreter was asked to write out a translation both of the letter
and of the death certificate; this he did, received his fee, and
withdrew.

Death is perhaps the only thing which commands universal respect: all
render involuntary homage to the King of Terror. It was this that caused
Gilbert, who had no love for Silwood, yet to say with sincerity when the
interpreter had gone, "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" and then he was
silent.

Francis Eversleigh had listened in a sort of heavy stupor to the
reading of the Syndic's letter. The feeling which emerged most
prominently from out of the chaos of his thoughts was one of envy; he
envied Silwood, inasmuch as he was finally beyond the reach of the
law--he had gone where its long arm could not go--he was safe!
Eversleigh then tried to think what was his position now Silwood was
dead, and Morris Thornton was dead, most probably, also; but the man's
brain was tired and sick and torpid from the frightful blows it had
already been called upon to sustain. With a deep sigh, he confessed his
impotence to himself, and abandoned the attempt.

"We must tell the others at once," he said, feeling it was easier to do
something than to think, "and have an announcement of the death drawn
up. We must take the usual steps."

"Yes, yes," said Gilbert, "we must do so."

But Gilbert also had been thinking during the few minutes in which he
had been silent.

"What a strange place," he observed, "for Mr. Silwood to have been at!
Perhaps, though, he was just passing through. Still, at this time of the
year, it was an odd place to choose for a holiday. He must have known,
too, about the cholera, surely. I never heard of Camajore! Did you?"

"I believe Mr. Silwood spent a holiday a few years ago in the north of
Italy, probably at this very place, or somewhere in its neighbourhood,
but I do not remember exactly," rejoined the other, dully.

Francis Eversleigh sat in his chair, inert, without initiative; he
seemed to be incapable of action. It was Gilbert who took the lead.

"I suppose it is pretty certain that Mr. Silwood has left a will,"
remarked Gilbert. "Of course letters of administration will have to be
taken out, and his estate looked after generally. You will do that, I
presume?"

"Oh, about his will. I don't believe," returned Eversleigh, "that his
will is in the office--indeed, I am not aware there is a will at all."
He had very good reasons for imagining there would be no will, for had
not Silwood told him that he had no money?

"Mr. Silwood must have left a will, father," said Gilbert, confidently;
"a man of his business habits would be certain to make a will. If it's
not in the office here, then I should think it will be in his chambers
in Stone Buildings."

"Perhaps so."

"Well, that's what I should say. In any case, father, you will have to
go across to his chambers, see what there is in them, and have
everything taken care of. I wonder who is his heir, or if he has one? He
never seemed to have any relations or friends--but then I did not know
him very well."

"Relations, so far as I know, he had none," replied Francis Eversleigh;
"and I scarcely think he had many friends. He always lived a very lonely
life."

"He was so engrossed in his business!"

"Yes, yes--quite so. As regards his chambers, I know he left them locked
up."

"Still, don't you think you ought to examine them, considering present
circumstances? If you like, I will go over there with you now."

Eversleigh shrank from the thing. However, he looked at his strong
handsome son, and thought that if he must go to Stone Buildings--and he
knew that he had better go as soon as possible--it was with Gilbert
that he would choose to go.

"I think, first," he said, "it will be as well to tell Ernest and Mr.
Williamson what has occurred; afterwards you and I will proceed to Mr.
Silwood's chambers and examine them."

Ernest Eversleigh and Williamson, therefore, were sent for. Eversleigh
announced to them that Silwood was dead, and asked Gilbert to read to
them the translation of the Syndic's letter. Both were profoundly
surprised; Ernest, who appeared genuinely concerned, expressed his
regret at the news, while Williamson, who was astonished beyond measure,
looked utterly aghast, and as if he thought the end of the world was
about to come.

"We--Gilbert and I--are going over to Mr. Silwood's rooms in Stone
Buildings," said Francis Eversleigh. "I must consider what is necessary
to do in the circumstances, but I can say nothing at present."

"Perhaps Mr. Williamson can tell us," said Gilbert, as his father
stopped, "if there is a will?"

"No, Mr. Gilbert, I do not know of one," replied the head-clerk. "Mr.
Silwood never mentioned the subject to me."

"I think that is all," said Francis Eversleigh, after a moment's pause,
and Ernest and Williamson withdrew.

"Well, Gilbert, I suppose we had better go at once and get it over,"
observed Eversleigh to his elder son. "We will call one of the porters,
and get him to go with us to open the door."

On their way they met a porter of the Inn, and told him of Silwood's
death, and that they wished to gain admittance to the chambers in Stone
Buildings.

"Sorry to hear about Mr. Silwood," said the man; "must ha' been very
sudden, surely. Dear me, dear me! But about opening the door o' his
rooms, I'm none so certain that I can do it. Mr. Silwood had a lock and
key of his own--a special Yale, which he'd had fitted on himself.
However, I'll try."

But the lock of the door, on which still was pinned the piece of paper
with "Out of Town" written upon it, resisted all his efforts. He tried
on it every key in his bunch, but without effect.

"This is a job for a locksmith, that's what it is," said he at last.
"Shall I go and fetch one? I can bring a man here in a few seconds who
has the proper tools, and he'll soon do the business."

"Yes, please get a locksmith at once," said Francis Eversleigh.

In about five minutes the porter returned with a locksmith, who set to
work and forced the lock, but not without a considerable expenditure of
time and labour.

As the door was opened, a foetid, noisome odour rushed out and filled
the landing. The locksmith involuntarily stepped back.

"Whiff, whiff, what's that?" cried he, while the others exclaimed about
the horrible smell.

It was the locksmith who entered the room first, a few feet in advance
of the others. Instantly he uttered a loud shout of terrified surprise.
The others now pressed in after him, Francis Eversleigh the last.

There lay the body of a man, face downwards, on the floor.

Eversleigh, with a countenance as white as chalk, looked from the body
to his son, and back to the body again. Gilbert was as white as his
father. The other men looked mutely at the figure lying on the floor; it
seemed to fascinate them. No one spoke a word. A great question shaped
itself in the stillness of that room, but none of them was eager, for
the moment, to find the answer.

Who was the man--the man who lay dead?

Other questions came into their minds, but this was first.

"We must see the man's face," said Gilbert, and his voice broke the
spell which seemed to hold them powerless.

The porter and the locksmith turned the body over.

Though the features had partially become decomposed, the face was still
recognisable on close inspection.

"It's a stranger, I think, leastways in the Inn," said the porter.

Eversleigh gazed at the dead face, peering into it. Suddenly he trembled
as with ague, while he vainly struggled to speak.

Gilbert, too, had been closely scrutinizing the dead face, and he
thought that he recognized it. Looking at his father and seeing his
evident emotion, he felt certain.

"It is Morris Thornton!" said he, in a hoarse unnatural voice.

"Morris Thornton!" echoed Francis Eversleigh, and fell in a heap across
the body of his old friend.




CHAPTER XIII


"Morris Thornton!"

Both the porter and the locksmith had heard the name distinctly before
Eversleigh swooned away, and both understood who the dead man was. They
were so astounded that they stood looking at each other with startled
faces and mouths agape, while Gilbert bent over the unconscious form of
his father.

"Morris Thornton at last!" cried the porter; "it's the gentleman as was
missing."

"Morris Thornton--yes," said the locksmith; "the missing
millionaire--the man wot was advertised for in all the papers."

And then both men were silent, thinking of the reward of a thousand
pounds offered for information about this very man.

"I was the first as found him," remarked the locksmith, coming to his
wits, to the porter.

"We all found him together, didn't we?" asked the porter, in an
aggrieved tone.

Gilbert, meanwhile, had moved his father from off the dead body of
Morris Thornton on to the floor, and sought to bring him to by
unfastening his collar and tie and opening his shirt. The son felt that
his first concern was with his father, not with Morris Thornton--with
the living rather than the dead. And now, as he tried to bring back to
the inanimate frame the spark of life, he noticed, as he had not done
before, how changed, how shrunken were the face and figure of his
father. He knew his father had been ailing for some time, but he had not
realised how far the mischief had gone. And on the top of this illness
had come, first the death of Silwood, and now the discovery of Morris
Thornton lying dead in Silwood's chambers! Small wonder was it, he
thought, that the shock of this last circumstance, combined with all
that had preceded it, had proved too much for his father.

For some minutes he continued his efforts to re-animate Francis
Eversleigh, but without avail. The porter and the locksmith gave him
what assistance they could; finally the former suggested that a doctor
should be sent for.

"Yes," agreed Gilbert; "go round to King's College Hospital. I know one
or two of the doctors there; take my card, and get one of them if you
can. Say the case is urgent."

But the porter, who by this time was swelling with the importance of the
affair--an importance in which he saw himself included--had another
suggestion to make.

"After I get a doctor," he said to Gilbert, whom he knew to be Francis
Eversleigh's son, "don't you think it would be well if I fetched a
policeman? There's the dead body," he added significantly, "and of
course there will have to be an inquest."

"Quite right," replied Gilbert; "but get the doctor first."

And the porter withdrew, more important than ever.

"Shall I stay, sir?" asked the locksmith.

"Yes, please, until the police come; they will want your evidence."

"Very well, sir."

While he was trying to resuscitate his father, Gilbert's mind had been
in a whirl; now that he had desisted from the attempt his thoughts
shaped themselves more clearly. Here, before him, lay Kitty's father
dead--Kitty's father, that was his first thought--and his heart bled for
her. He knew that, though she had said and felt that Morris Thornton was
no more, she would still suffer terribly on hearing positively that he
was dead.

Then the strangeness of the thing--the body being found in Silwood's
room, and Silwood his own father's partner!--took hold of him. Silwood
dead! Morris Thornton dead! What did this conjunction indicate? That
there was something extraordinary about it did not admit of any doubt
whatever when it was coupled with the fact that Thornton's body had been
found in Silwood's chambers. How had Morris Thornton come to be there at
all? And in what way had he met his death? What connection was there
between that death and Cooper Silwood? What had Silwood to do with it?
Had he anything to do with it? For what reason? With what end in view?
Had Thornton been murdered? If so, it could not have been by Silwood,
for what motive could he have had for killing Thornton?--Silwood, a
member of one of the most respectable firms in London. And yet there
must be some connection and some explanation. What was it? What could it
be?

As these questionings flashed through Gilbert's mind, he stood gazing
upon the dead man's face, as if from its sightless eyes and from its
dumb lips there might come some solution of the mystery.

And then his thoughts took a fresh turn. Still gazing at the face of
Morris Thornton, he wondered if the man had come to his death by being
shot, if upon the body would be found the marks of the lethal weapon
that had slain him, if the murderer had left behind him some sign which
in the end would lead to his detection and conviction. But this was to
presume Thornton had been murdered, and there was no certainty as to
that.

While he was thus musing, his father showed some indications of
reviving. His eyelids fluttered and his lips worked slightly. Gilbert
bent down and raised his father's head. With a deep sigh, Francis
Eversleigh opened his eyes and stared at his son as at some stranger.
But reviving still more, a light of recognition came into his face, and
he moved his head.

"Are you better, father?" asked Gilbert.

Eversleigh made an effort to speak, but it failed; then he looked
piteously at his son.

"I wish I had some brandy to give you," said Gilbert. "A doctor will be
here in a few minutes."

At the mention of the word "doctor," Francis Eversleigh struggled to
raise himself, and, with Gilbert's help, managed to get into a sitting
position. Glancing about him in a weak and uncertain way, his eyes fell
upon the body of Thornton; a frightful spasm seemed to shake him to
pieces; then his eyes all at once blazed with light and life, but in an
instant they became clouded and overcast.

"Morris Thornton--I remember," he said, speaking with great slowness,
as though speech were exceedingly difficult to him.

He shut his eyes, as if he would shut out the sight of the dead man,
while Gilbert watched him anxiously and supported him with his strong
young arms.

Presently he opened his eyes again, looked at the body, and then at
Gilbert. On his face was a great solemn interrogation which his son
could scarcely fail to understand. Eversleigh was asking what did it all
portend, but Gilbert did not speak; he himself could see no way out of
the darkness surrounding the scene.

"What has happened?" asked the older man, but even as he spoke Gilbert
felt his father's form was beginning to press more heavily on him.

"I do not know," the son replied.

Francis Eversleigh now fixed his gaze on Thornton's body once more.

"Murder!" he suddenly cried in a piercing voice, and dropped back
unconscious again.

"Murder!"

Gilbert told himself that he could follow the mind of his father
perfectly. His father thought Morris Thornton had been murdered. It was
to all intents what was in his own mind.

But if Thornton had been murdered, who, then, was the murderer?

The piercing cry of "Murder!" which Francis Eversleigh had raised before
swooning again had not been heard by Gilbert only. The locksmith, who
was still in the room, heard it for one, and it filled him with fresh
excitement. He had been endeavouring to puzzle out the thing in his own
way, and was not exactly surprised to find the idea of murder imported
into it. That cry of "Murder!" was the echo of his own thoughts, and
from that moment he was so convinced that Thornton had been murdered
that nothing would disabuse him of the notion.

The cry was heard by three others, who were only a few steps away from
the door of Silwood's chambers when Francis Eversleigh gave utterance to
it. They were the doctor from King's College Hospital, a policeman from
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and the Inn porter, all arriving together. On
hearing it, they ran forward into the room.

The porter had already told both the doctor and the policeman his own
version of the finding of the body of Thornton and of the fainting fit
of Mr. Eversleigh.

"What was that cry I heard?" demanded the policeman, who was the first
to speak.

As he spoke he threw searching glances about and around the room. But
Gilbert paid no heed to his question. He knew the doctor, thanked him
for coming so promptly, and asked him to try to revive his father.

"It is the second time he has fainted," said Gilbert.

It was the locksmith that answered the policeman's query.

"The sick gentleman," said he, "him that's in the swound, called out
loud 'Murder!'--he'd been looking at the body--and then he dropped off
again. That was the second time he swounded."

"Oh, it was he," said the policeman. Then he advanced to Gilbert, having
been prompted thereto by the porter, who whispered to him, "He's young
Mr. Eversleigh," and said, "Will you tell me from the beginning the
whole story, sir?"

By this time his father was in the capable hands of the doctor, so that
Gilbert was able to give his whole attention to the policeman. As
succinctly as possible, he narrated the circumstances which had led to
his father and himself going to Silwood's chambers, how the door was
broken open, and the body of Thornton found lying on the floor. Next the
policeman listened to what the porter and the locksmith had seen, and by
the time he had heard what they had to tell him, Francis Eversleigh had
come to himself, though he looked shattered and frightfully ill. Him,
too, the policeman questioned.

"Mr. Thornton was a client of yours, I believe?" remarked the policeman,
after many other queries.

"Yes, an old schoolfellow, and one of my greatest friends," replied
Eversleigh. "His daughter is engaged to marry my son Gilbert, here."

"This gentleman?" asked the policeman, pointing to Gilbert.

"Yes."

"And these are the private apartments of your partner, Mr. Cooper
Silwood?"

"Yes."

"And the dead body of Mr. Thornton, your friend, is found in the private
apartments of your partner, Mr. Silwood?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Silwood is dead?"

"Yes."

"Most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!" exclaimed the policeman.
"There's something very strange here."

"My father, as you can see for yourself," interposed Gilbert, "is ill;
he is in no fit state to stay here a moment longer than is necessary.
But if I can help you, I shall be glad to do so."

"Mr. Eversleigh ought to go home at once," said the doctor.

"That is all right," said the policeman.

"Do you report to Inspector Gale?" asked Gilbert of the policeman; "I
know him very well."

"Yes; I shall report to him. And in the mean time these chambers must be
closed up and sealed. The inspector will no doubt come and examine
everything in them. This is the usual procedure. And of course there
will be a coroner's inquest. Nothing more can be done at present, I
think. Please sir, do not touch the body," he added, speaking to the
doctor, who was scrutinizing it carefully.

"If I went to Scotland Yard, should I find the inspector in?" asked
Gilbert.

"You'll find him there at 2.30."

"And there is nothing more that can be done just now?"

"Nothing."

Leaving Silwood's chambers in the charge of the policeman, who had now
been reinforced by the arrival of two other constables, the two
Eversleighs, the doctor, the locksmith, and the porter filed out of the
chamber of mystery and death. As they entered the court of Stone
Buildings, they saw that little knots of people had collected, who were
discussing something that evidently was unusually interesting. The fact
was that the porter, on his way for the doctor and the policeman, had
let fall hints of what had been found. The Eversleighs were asked by
some gentlemen of the long robe, whom they knew, what was the truth of
the matter, and they put before them the bare facts. But the porter and
the locksmith were not so reticent. The former gossiped freely, but not
without a fitting sense of the greatness of the occasion. The latter
went into Chancery Lane by the iron-gated footway leading from the court
of Stone Buildings and saw a crowd gathered on the pavement opposite the
windows of Cooper Silwood's chambers. Already it had been spread abroad
that these chambers had been the scene of some astounding tragedy. The
locksmith, on being asked by some one in the crowd if he could throw any
light on the subject, forthwith poured forth all he knew, declaring that
undoubtedly Morris Thornton, whose dead body had been discovered in
Silwood's room, had been foully murdered. And when the rumour ran that
it was the body of the Missing Millionaire, of whom everybody had heard,
the excitement rose to fever heat in the crowd.

A passing reporter, on the staff of one of the evening papers, saw the
crowd, and was soon in possession of the pith of the news, but desirous
of getting the fullest particulars, he sought out the locksmith, who
told him the whole story, again reiterating his conviction that there
had been a murder of the blackest kind.

Thus it was the locksmith's idea of what had happened that coloured the
tone of the papers that evening, all of whom made the most of "THE
MYSTERY OF LINCOLN'S INN" and "THE MURDER OF THE MISSING MILLIONAIRE,"
as they entitled it on their bills in the largest of capitals.

And the affair quickly created an extraordinary sensation.




CHAPTER XIV


It was nearly two o'clock that Saturday afternoon when Francis
Eversleigh, supported by Gilbert and the doctor, left Silwood's chambers
in Stone Buildings. He stopped on his way to his office, as has been
said, to gratify the curiosity of some of his acquaintances; but he was
so weak and unsteady that the doctor soon forbade him, and rightly, to
exert himself even to talk.

On the arrival of the little party at 176, New Square, they were met by
Ernest Eversleigh and Williamson the head-clerk, who were anxiously
awaiting them, as a rumour had already reached them of the discovery of
the body in Silwood's rooms; the report, however, had been so vague that
they could not believe it. Williamson, in particular, was sceptical.

Ernest eagerly pressed his father and brother for information; the
doctor, however, would not allow Francis Eversleigh to speak, and
Gilbert said that he would presently tell them all, but that he must
first attend to his father, who was far from well.

"Just one word, Mr. Gilbert," said Williamson. "Is it true that the body
of Mr. Morris Thornton was found in Mr. Silwood's sitting-room?--that is
the rumour."

"Yes, it is quite true."

Williamson, on hearing this, fell back, with a look of the profoundest
astonishment on his face. Up to this time he had not believed it,
because, if it were true, then the suspicions which he had for some time
entertained appeared to be more than confirmed, but he had not looked
for so startling a confirmation.

"I was right," he told himself. "I wish I could get to the bottom of
it."

Francis Eversleigh meanwhile went up to his room on the second floor,
and now the doctor insisted that he must remain quiet. Further, the
doctor said that he himself would go out to obtain some suitable
nourishment for him. As he withdrew from the room, he beckoned to
Gilbert.

"Do not leave your father," he said to Gilbert, in the passage. "I am
afraid he is ill--of what I cannot say, but it is easy to see that his
vitality is very low. Has he suffered from some severe illness--some bad
attack recently?"

"No. He has been ailing slightly for a few weeks past--that is all."

"He seems to me to be very much run down," the doctor went on. "You must
make a point of getting him to see his own physician--the family doctor.
In the mean time, I'll fetch him a strong pick-me-up and some light,
nourishing food of which he stands much in need. After he has had it, he
should be taken home at once, and put to bed as soon as possible."

"Very well," agreed Gilbert; and the doctor went on his way down the
stairs. Gilbert returned to his father's room.

Father and son, now left alone for the first time since the discovery of
Morris Thornton's body, looked at each other strangely. Gilbert's gaze
seemed to ask the question, "What is the meaning of all this?" His
father understood him but darkly, for he was suffering from a frightful
obsession which numbed his brain. He was powerless to think coherently;
all that he could fix his mind upon was merely what was nearest him, or
what was immediately happening. It was this which explained his next
words.

"What was the doctor saying to you, Gilbert?" he asked.

"Well, he said you were run down, and wanted bracing up," replied
Gilbert.

"Was that it?"

"Yes; and I must say that it is not surprising you're ill, after two
such shocks as you have received to-day."

Then there was silence between them. Strange thoughts, half-formed
suspicions crowded upon Gilbert in that pause. He glanced at his father,
uncertain whether to speak to him or not.

"Father," he said at last, "I do not like to press the subject on you
when you are so far from strong; but how do you account for Morris
Thornton's body being found in Mr. Silwood's chambers--have you formed
any theory?"

"I know no more about it than you," cried Francis Eversleigh, wildly;
"and I do not know what to think.... I cannot think about it at all ...
my brain refuses to act.... I have no idea ... it is all a terrible and
horrible mystery to me!"

And then he flung up his hands, as if he were throwing off some weight
which oppressed him.

"Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful, dreadful!" he cried; then burst into a
passion of sobs, the sound and sight of which moved and distressed
Gilbert exceedingly.

"Father! Father!" said the son, soothingly, in accents of deepest
sympathy.

In a few moments Eversleigh grew calmer, and became a little more like
his usual self.

"There is just one thing I'd like to ask you, father," said Gilbert;
"that is, if it is not too painful for you."

"What is it, my son?"

"You uttered one word in that room over there," returned Gilbert,
nodding in the direction of Stone Buildings.

"What?"

"The one word was 'Murder!' Do you think Mr. Thornton was murdered?"

Francis Eversleigh stared about him with dilated eyes, as might some
being who was persecuted and hunted.

"I don't know what to think," he said at length.

"But you did exclaim 'Murder!' That was the idea in your mind, was it
not?"

"Ah, Gilbert, my mind was utterly confused.... I had suffered a
tremendous blow.... Surely I can't be held responsible for what I said
in my condition at the time."

"True, father. Still, there was the idea of murder in your mind,"
persisted Gilbert.

"I tell you that I know nothing--nothing."

"Of course, you know nothing, father; but your thought on seeing the
body--your suspicion--was that there had been murder. Was it not so?"

"I can't say anything about it," replied Eversleigh, fretfully. "I know
as much and as little as you do how it was that Thornton came to be in
Silwood's chambers. Pray do not tease me--do not worry me--I cannot
stand it; it is cruel of you to torture me in this fashion."

Gilbert stared at his father, wondering what was meant by the expression
"torture"--he could not understand it. He was glad that the doctor
returned at this moment, bringing with him wine and a light lunch for
the invalid. Leaving his father to the doctor's care, he went down to
the next floor, where he saw his brother Ernest, who was all agog to
hear the story. When Ernest had listened to Gilbert's narrative, his
sole commentary upon it was--

"Of course, everybody will say that Morris Thornton was murdered by
Silwood; what other conclusion can there be?"

"But why?" urged Gilbert. "What motive could Silwood have? No, I don't
think that can be the explanation. I confess, however, the thing baffles
me completely."

"Still," said Ernest, "you may be quite sure that it's what the world
will say. In any case, it can't fail to do us a lot of mischief."

"Oh, that will depend on circumstances when the mystery is cleared up,
as I imagine it soon must be."

Then Gilbert spoke of their father's condition, and suggested that
Ernest should take Francis Eversleigh to Surbiton as soon as the doctor
gave permission. As for himself, he was going on to Scotland Yard to see
Inspector Gale.

"What am I tell Kitty?" asked Ernest.

"I'll write her a note, which you will give her. Of course, I should
have liked to have broken the sad news to her myself; but from what I
know of her, I am sure that she would prefer me to lose no opportunity
of unravelling the mystery of her father's death. Besides, she has
always believed, since she knew of Mr. Thornton's disappearance, that he
was dead."

And Gilbert sat down and wrote his love a letter, full of the tenderest
feeling, in which he told her of the discovery which had been made that
day, and of which his brother Ernest would give her more complete
details. Then he went on to say that he would not spare himself in
trying to elucidate the whole strange business, nor would he lose any
time; therefore, he would see Inspector Gale that very afternoon; he
would go to Scotland Yard, in fact, immediately after sealing the letter
to her. But he would be at Surbiton in the evening.

When Gilbert did reach Scotland Yard, he found Gale expecting him.

"I was waiting for you, Mr. Gilbert," said the inspector.

"Yes?"

"One of the constables told me you asked when I would be in, and he
replied at half-past two; it is a quarter-past three now. By the way,
how is your father? I hear he was so shocked that he fainted twice."

"He is better now, but still very much shaken. I left him in the
doctor's charge, and when he is able to go my brother Ernest will take
him home."

"I think his home is in Surbiton?"

"Yes; I told you that when we were discussing the disappearance of Mr.
Thornton."

"Quite so. A day or two's rest will pull your father round. Of course, I
must see him. Do you think he will be fit to see me to-morrow?"

"I should think so. And he must be as anxious as anybody--indeed, more
anxious than anybody--to have this extraordinary affair cleared up."

"Certainly. Now, Mr. Gilbert, let me hear everything from the beginning.
Take your own time about it, and try not to forget anything. Don't leave
out the slightest touch that may have any bearing on the subject."

"I will do my best," said Gilbert. "My father, on learning of the death
of Mr. Silwood, sent for me this morning."

"Excuse me," interrupted the inspector, "but I must ask you questions as
you go along. Was it this morning your father heard of Mr. Silwood's
death, and how did he hear of it?"

"By letter this morning. The letter was from Ugo Ucelli, the Syndic of
Camajore, with the usual certificate of death. The letter gave the
particulars of Mr. Silwood's death. Cholera is epidemic along the Gulf
of Genoa, and Mr. Silwood fell a victim to it. The body was buried
twenty-four hours after death. Of course, the news affected my father
very much--it was totally unexpected."

"What was Mr. Silwood doing in Italy?" asked Gale.

"He was on a holiday."

"Had he been long away from the office, from Lincoln's Inn?"

"A week or two only, I think."

"You cannot say exactly?"

"No, but you will easily find out at the office."

"I thought you might know, but, as you say, I can ascertain the date at
the office. You see, of course, that it is necessary to get to know Mr.
Silwood's movements?" The last sentence was put interrogatively.

"This means, I imagine, that you connect Mr. Silwood with the death of
Mr. Thornton?" asked Gilbert.

"That is the obvious thing," replied the inspector; "but it is so
obvious that I distrust it. I always doubt the obvious in these cases.
Here, however, it is my duty to neglect nothing. And I must make it my
business to find out everything I can about Mr. Silwood, and with regard
to that I count with confidence on your father's assistance. Well, to go
back, your father, on learning of Mr. Silwood's death, sent for you;
what came next?"

"He showed me the certificate signed by the Syndic; it was in Italian, a
language neither my father nor I understand, but a large part of the
certificate was printed, and from our Latin we made out pretty well what
it said. The letter, however, we could make nothing of, so I went and
got a man to translate it."

Gilbert broke off suddenly with a sharp ejaculation.

"You have thought of something, Mr. Gilbert?" suggested the inspector,
giving him a keen look of inquiry.

"Yes, I have, and a very important thing it may prove too. It has been
completely driven out of my mind by the dreadful discovery in Stone
Buildings. Now I remember it, and I believe it may give us the key to
the mystery."

"What is it?" asked Gale, as Gilbert paused, his face aglow with
excitement.

"Before I went out to bring the interpreter something happened," said
Gilbert. "Strange that I should have forgotten it so utterly! While my
father and I were talking about Mr. Silwood's death, we were interrupted
by a man, who had come in answer to the advertisement in the hope of
getting the reward of a thousand pounds. The man was as hopeless-looking
a waster and vagabond as any I ever saw, but he spoke like a man of
education. And he told us that late on the night of the disappearance of
Morris Thornton he was in Chancery Lane, and saw a workman coming out of
the iron gate at the north-east corner of Lincoln's Inn."

"That is just where Mr. Silwood's chambers are, are they not?" asked
Gale.

"Precisely; his rooms are on the top floor of the house at that very
corner. Well, this workman behaved in a suspicious manner, and then
disappeared. But he returned in about half an hour, and let himself into
the Inn again by the iron gate."

"Wait a minute," said Gale. "You said a workman. What was a workman
doing in the Inn at that time of night? And with a key which unlocked
that gate?"

"These are puzzles, are they not?"

"You have certainly given me something to think over. Have you anything
more to tell me about this workman?"

"No; our informant did not see him again."

Gilbert now resumed the thread of his narrative, telling the inspector
all that took place when he and his father went to Silwood's chambers.

The inspector, as Gilbert proceeded, compared his statement with the
report made by the policeman who had been summoned by the porter.

"What you tell me," said Gale, when Gilbert had finished, "bears out
exactly what my subordinate has set forth. The coroner has been sent
for, and we must wait till we hear from him. I shall accompany him when
he makes his examination of the body, and I expect a message from him
every minute."

"Will you let me go with you?" asked Gilbert. "You must remember that I
am engaged to Mr. Thornton's daughter, and so am, therefore, in a
measure her representative."

"I have not forgotten that, and I do not know that there is any
objection. If you will tell me where I can find you, I'll let you know.
I must send you away just now, for I wish to be alone to think--and
there is a great deal to think of."

"Very well. I'll stay in the waiting-room outside," and Gilbert left the
inspector to his thoughts.




CHAPTER XV


"As strange a case as any I ever heard of," said Inspector Gale to
himself, after Gilbert had withdrawn. "Now, what do I know about it
exactly? Let me see."

Gale was a shrewd man, with an abundance of sound common sense and an
extensive experience in criminal matters. He also had a certain degree
of imagination, which is the quality the ordinary detective lacks.

From a cabinet he took some sheets of blue paper which were fastened
together; they were the memoranda he had made of the facts connected
with the disappearance of Morris Thornton. Gale read them over rapidly
but carefully. Putting them down on his desk, he reflected.

"Morris Thornton, a rich colonial," he thought, "came to London on July
29th, and put up at the Law Courts Hotel in Holborn. Late in the evening
of the next day, July 30th, he left the hotel for a walk in Holborn or
perhaps in Chancery Lane--so he said to the porter. To-day, August 14th,
his body is found in a room at the top of a house in Stone Buildings,
Lincoln's Inn, that is, on the Chancery Lane side of the Inn. That looks
as if he had carried out his intention of taking a stroll in Chancery
Lane. This fits in well enough. What next?

"How did he get up to the room at that time of night? The Inn would be
closed; the night porter of the Inn must have let him in. I must make a
note of that. And what took him there? He must have had some object in
view. And the room was in the set of chambers occupied by Mr. Cooper
Silwood, one of the most respectable solicitors in London, and a member
of the very firm of solicitors with whom Mr. Thornton transacted his
business. Could it be that Mr. Thornton had gone to see Mr. Silwood
about some matter? But surely not at that hour--it hardly seems
possible. Still I must not neglect that phase of the case.

"As regards Mr. Silwood. As he is now dead, the thing looks like leading
up to a blind wall. He had been for some time away on a holiday. I must
get the date when he left London. If he was in London on July 30th, or
on the next day, the case would appear pretty black for him. Then there
is the locked door. The door of the room in which the body was found had
a special lock, and of course a special key, which Mr. Silwood carried.
Some one locked the door on the dead man; the only one, presumably, who
had the key to lock it was Mr. Silwood. This also looks pretty black for
him.

"But the motive? Suppose Silwood did kill Morris Thornton, what would be
his reason? It must have been some very strong reason indeed that would
make a respectable solicitor murder an important client. Most
improbable--impossible, one would have said; but nothing is impossible,
nothing in the world. Yet everything points to the deed having been
done by Silwood. The conclusion is obvious."

At this point in his reflections Gale took a turn up and down the floor.
He was saying to himself, as he had said to Gilbert, that when a
conclusion was obvious, then it was necessary to beware of it. His long
experience had taught him that obvious conclusions rarely turned out to
be correct.

"Well, where are we?" Gale mused, sitting down again. "Let us say
Silwood had a motive for murdering Thornton, and did actually kill him,
and having committed the murder, fled the country on the pretence of
taking a holiday--suppose all this; where does it land us?"

Here a curious idea came into Gale's mind. He considered it doubtfully
for two or three minutes; then, reminding himself of his favourite
theory that nothing was impossible, he gave it tentatively a place in
his thoughts.

"Suppose," he said to himself, "that Silwood is not dead, and that all
this palaver about the certificate of death from the Italian magistrate
is a skilfully manufactured affair, a mere pretence, in fact, with the
object of defeating justice? If this were so, it would complete the case
with a vengeance. Still, why shouldn't Silwood be dead? Well, I must
look into it, though the idea that he is alive seems rather
far-fetched."

Far-fetched or not, the idea fascinated the inspector as it appealed to
his imagination; it haunted him so that he could not drive it out of his
mind.

"Suppose," he kept saying to himself over and over again, "Silwood is
not dead. If he is not dead, what does that imply? Does it mean that
there is some conspiracy, a conspiracy in which the Eversleighs are
involved?"

Gale pondered deeply. He had the feeling that somehow he was on the
verge of a great discovery; but, as he thought still further, he was not
so sure. It seemed absurd to connect the Eversleighs with anything of
the sort. Finally, he came to a decision. Rising from his chair, he
pressed an electric bell, and told a man who instantly appeared in
answer to his call to ask Mr. Gilbert Eversleigh to step into the room.

Gilbert, expecting that the coroner had been heard from, came in
eagerly.

"The coroner?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Gilbert. I wished you to tell me again the name of the place in
Italy where Mr. Silwood died."

"Camajore, in the province of Tuscany--it is in the north of Italy, on
the west coast or a few miles inland."

"Camajore?" repeated Gale. "How is it spelt?"

Gilbert spelt the word.

"Do you know the place?" asked the officer.

"Not at all."

"Do you happen to know the best and quickest way of getting to it?"

"You would take the train for Genoa, I fancy. Camajore is only a short
distance from Genoa. But why do you ask me this?"

"It will be necessary, I think, for us to have the death of Mr. Silwood
confirmed."

"I understand," said Gilbert, but he had only a glimmering of the
inspector's meaning. "It will be as well--as a matter of form."

"Quite so," said Gale. "All sorts of inquiries will be made, and we
must be in a position to answer them. By the way, Mr. Gilbert, would you
mind telling me if Mr. Silwood was on terms of intimacy with Mr.
Thornton--would you say that Mr. Silwood was as much of a friend of Mr.
Thornton as your father was?"

"Mr. Thornton certainly knew Mr. Silwood very well, though perhaps he
was hardly on the same terms of intimate friendship as my father was."

"Still there was a considerable acquaintance?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Do you think Mr. Thornton knew Mr. Silwood well enough to go to the
latter's rooms at midnight or thereabouts?"

"I should scarcely have thought so. It's rather an extreme thing to go
to a man's rooms at that time of night."

"But if there was some pressing reason?"

"Of course, necessity knows no law, but I can't suppose for one instant
there was such a necessity. I believe that Mr. Thornton's relations with
both Mr. Silwood and my father were of the most cordial character;
indeed, I am certain they were. There was absolutely no hint of anything
else. I know that for many years past Mr. Thornton reposed the greatest
confidence in my father's firm."

"So I understand," assented Gale. "Now, Mr. Gilbert, I must ask you to
leave me. I shall tell you the instant I hear from the coroner."

And Gilbert went out once more.

As soon as he had gone, Gale rang his bell again.

"I cannot go myself," he mused; "I must be present at the inquest--that
is necessary. I must send Brydges."

Brydges was the detective who ranked next to himself in Scotland Yard.
In a moment or two more Brydges was in the presence of the chief.

"You have heard about the Lincoln's Inn case?" asked Gale.

"Yes, something, but not accurately--just what they are saying in the
Yard."

"And that is?"

"That the body of the missing millionaire has been found in a room at
the top of a house in Stone Buildings, the said room being the
sitting-room of a Mr. Cooper Silwood, a solicitor, a member, in fact, of
the firm of solicitors who did the dead man's legal business. A very
curious position, is it not?" commented Brydges.

"Very curious indeed. All the more so because Mr. Silwood too is dead."

"Yes, I heard that also."

"It is with reference to Silwood's death that I want you just now. I
wish you to go to Italy, to a place called Camajore, some miles from
Genoa, and find out everything you can about his death."

"Ah!" exclaimed Brydges; "I see. You think his death may be a fake; is
that it?"

"Well, it occurred to me that it might be so; at any rate, I think it
well worth inquiring further into. You can leave to-night for Genoa?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And you will wire the results of your mission in cipher to me as soon
as possible," said Gale.

"Am I to consult the local authorities?"

"Yes; I'll have a letter of credentials prepared for you. You will
present it to the police at Genoa, and I do not imagine you will find
any difficulty. Now, go and make your preparations."

Left alone once again, Gale took up the thread of his musings.

"There is one other point," he thought, "and that is the presence in
Chancery Lane, on the night when Thornton disappeared, of that
mysterious workman, who possessed the key to the iron gates of the small
footway communicating with the court of Stone Buildings and Chancery
Lane itself.

"What was it I was told? A workman, or a man dressed as a workman, let
himself out of the iron gate late at night; the man appeared to be
flurried, to act in a suspicious manner. In about half an hour he
returned, and let himself in again. He was seen no more that night. And
it was _the_ night--the night presumably of the murder.

"This assuredly must be followed up; it looks like a clue. I must get
hold of the waster who told the story, and hear for myself what he has
to say. I wonder if he spoke the truth, or if he invented the whole
thing. And if this story is true, and if this workman had something to
do with Thornton's death, how is he to be connected with Cooper Silwood?
If this workman committed the murder, how did he get possession of the
key to Silwood's chambers? Perhaps, during Silwood's absence, he got
into the room. Well, it comes back to getting the date on which Silwood
left London for his holiday--that's what I must ascertain."

The inspector had reached this conclusion when there was a knock at his
door, and a constable entered and informed him that the coroner had sent
a message to the effect that he was waiting for him in Silwood's
chambers.

Gale called Gilbert, who had been sitting outside wearily and
impatiently, and the two men got into a cab and drove to the scene of
the discovery of the body. On their way thither Gale put a question.

"I am very anxious to get to know the day on which Mr. Silwood left
London," said the officer; "do you think you could find that out for me
this afternoon?"

"I think the office will be closed, but I'll go and see, if you like."

"I wish you would. Suppose you go round to New Square while I go on to
Mr. Silwood's chambers?"

Gilbert agreed, and presently was in the office of Eversleigh, Silwood
and Eversleigh, where, to his great surprise, he found Williamson still
on the premises, apparently hard at work.

"What a day this has been, Mr. Gilbert!" cried Williamson. "I thought
I'd wait to see if there was any more news. Your father and Mr. Ernest
have just gone home. I'm afraid your father, Mr. Gilbert, is very
poorly--not that that is strange, after what has happened."

"No, indeed," said Gilbert. "Can you tell me, Mr. Williamson," he went
on, "the day on which Mr. Silwood left for his holiday?"

"A fortnight ago, exactly, to-day I had a note from him, saying he was
off to Italy. I don't know whether he went by the night mail on the
evening of the Friday or by the continental express on the Saturday
morning; he did not mention which train he was going by."

"A fortnight ago to-day? That was July 31st. And Friday was the 30th."

"Precisely," said Williamson, with a touch of malice, "and that is the
very day--that Friday--on which Mr. Thornton disappeared. It has a
strange look, Mr. Gilbert; I can make nothing of it--nothing at all."

"You are sure of the date?" asked Gilbert, sharply.

"As I said, it was either on the Friday night or on the Saturday morning
that Mr. Silwood left."

Gilbert, as he went to tell Inspector Gale what he had learned, could
not but confess to himself that the matter did wear a very strange look
indeed.

When he got to Stone Buildings, he saw the inspector, the coroner, an
assistant, and two constables. It was Gale who spoke.

"The coroner," he remarked, "is having the body taken to the nearest
mortuary, Mr. Gilbert, and he will report later. Meanwhile, I have made
an examination of these apartments, and I am bound to say that
everything in them appears to be in good order. I see no sign of
disorder, no indication of a struggle. And I have looked into the
bedroom, and there also I can see nothing to take hold of. Mr. Silwood,
I should say, prepared in the most leisurely fashion for his trip; not a
thing betokens hurry or flurry--this is all satisfactory enough, so far
as it goes."

Gale addressed a few words to the coroner, and then the body was
removed. As Gilbert turned to leave the room, Gale put his arm on his
sleeve.

"What about the date?" he asked.

"Mr. Silwood left either that Friday night or next morning--which, is
not certain."

Gale looked at Gilbert, earnestly, but he did not speak; his silence was
eloquent enough.

"You think," said Gilbert, slowly, "that Silwood murdered----?"

He did not complete the sentence.

"I say nothing definite, Mr. Gilbert; but don't you think it looks that
way?"

"It is impossible--impossible!" said Gilbert.

But Gale shook his head.

When Gilbert got to Waterloo, on his way to see Kitty, he heard at the
bookstall people eagerly asking for the latest editions of the evening
papers. On the placards he saw in big black letters--

     "THE BODY OF THE MISSING MILLIONAIRE DISCOVERED."

     "IS IT MURDER?"

How was he to tell Kitty, his darling? What could he say to her?

But when he arrived at Surbiton, he was surprised to find that Kitty
showed considerable calmness in the circumstances.

"I was sure my father was dead," she said to him, as they talked over
the discovery of the body. "I was certain that if he had been alive he
would have come to me. I never had any hope. And, Gilbert, I do not
believe that Mr. Silwood killed him. Why should he have done so? I
wonder if the darkness which surrounds my father's death will ever be
cleared away?"

"It is shrouded in mystery at present, my darling," said Gilbert,
immensely relieved that Kitty was bearing up so well; "but perhaps some
evidence will be forthcoming at the inquest. It is to take place on
Tuesday."

"I think I should like to be present," said Kitty, after a long pause.

"It may be very painful for you, and I do not believe you will be called
on."

"It is my duty, I suppose, and I must not shrink from it."

"My own brave little girl," said Gilbert, kissing her fondly.




CHAPTER XVI


All the newspapers had published as full accounts as they could compile
of the Lincoln's Inn Mystery, dwelling on and emphasizing the
extraordinary features of the case. Determined now to give it the utmost
publicity, Inspector Gale had supplied them with most of the information
at his command, but he took good care to say not a word about the
mission on which he had despatched Brydges. What he did communicate to
the Press was sufficient, however, to arouse the public to a still
higher pitch of excitement regarding the whole strange story of Morris
Thornton. As a natural consequence, the room in which the inquest was
held was packed as densely as it could be.

In the mean time Gale had been exceedingly active. He had not yet
received any message from Brydges; he did not, in fact, expect to hear
from him for a day or two, if so soon. But he had interviewed Miss Kitty
Thornton and Francis Eversleigh.

From the former he had obtained her father's letter announcing his
coming to England, but he saw the missive was of no particular
importance in itself. From the latter person he had been able to learn
nothing fresh, but he had a feeling that Francis Eversleigh's state of
collapse was much more complete than the occasion, sad and painful as
it was, quite accounted for, and he asked himself if it were possible
that the solicitor was holding back something from him.

Both Miss Kitty and Eversleigh had somewhat puzzled the detective, but
for entirely different reasons. Both of them were present in the room at
the inquest--indeed, they sat side by side; and Gale, secretly watching
them, found himself puzzled again by what had puzzled him before.

What puzzled him was, on the one hand, the quiet strength shown by the
girl; and on the other, the superlative weakness exhibited by the man.
He was astounded by the firm, composed demeanour of Miss Thornton, but
he was even more astounded by the nervous, perturbed, and almost
hysterical condition of Eversleigh. Gale thought that if the positions
of the two had been reversed, he would have understood it better.

The truth was, so far as Kitty was concerned, that having concluded some
time before that her father was dead, and also, after hearing the
details of the finding of the body in Stone Buildings, that it was in
the highest degree improbable that he had been murdered by Cooper
Silwood, she had made up her mind, in spite of her grief, to take a
certain stand

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