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 Crœsus, 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.
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 fœtid, 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.
"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.
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.
"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 wasthenight—the night presumably of the murder.