"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.
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. For she saw that, as the case stood, Francis Eversleigh, her lover Gilbert, and the rest of the Eversleighs, to all of whom she occupied almost the relation of a member of their family, must rest under a heavy cloud until such time as the darkness should be lifted. Therefore, she nerved herself to face this crisis in her and their affairs with all the courage and determination she possessed, and to demonstrate by her attitude that she, the daughter of Morris Thornton, had every confidence in them. Gilbert, who knew what was in her mind, thanked and blessed her, and admired and loved her more than ever.
Highly intelligent, she did not fail to know that popular opinion pronounced Cooper Silwood, the partner of Francis Eversleigh, the murderer of her father, and she was set on making it plain to all the world that she did not take that view. As she sat by the side of Francis Eversleigh she took his hand, and tried to assure him of her sympathy and support.
As for Francis Eversleigh, his lamentable state was so evident that no one could behold him without pity. His face was full of suffering, his eyes were heavy and dull, his frame was bent and bowed. He tried to concentrate his thoughts, to fix his wandering wits on some definite idea, but the slightest effort exhausted him. All that he was really conscious of was that he was the victim of an incredibly cruel and malicious destiny that was slowly grinding the life out of him. In a blurr of emotions he hazily wondered how he was to get through the ordeal of the day. And further, he had a faint suspicion—he was not able to formulate it clearly—that, when Gale had spoken to him about the date on which Cooper Silwood had left for his Italian holiday, he had said something unguardedly—he could not remember exactly what—to the inspector, which that officer had regarded as peculiar. He was trying, with such strength as was left him, to recall it when the coroner took his seat.
When the jury had been impanelled and sworn, they, according to custom, went to view the remains—now hardly recognizable, but in the dead man's clothes had been found letters which further identified him, had there been any doubt. But there was no doubt whatever that the remains were the remains of Morris Thornton.
Thereafter evidence was given.
Inspector Gale, between whom and the coroner there chanced to be a tacit feud, on account of former differences—a circumstance which later was to have its effect on the inquest—followed every word with the closest attention.
First came the tale of the finding of the body.
The locksmith was called, and he recounted his share in the discovery in Stone Buildings, as already set forth in this narrative. But he was particularly questioned about the difficulty he had experienced in opening the door of Silwood's chambers. In reply, he described the Yale lock which he had forced to gain admission to the rooms; it was a lock of a special kind, and could only be opened and locked by a special key.
The lock was now produced and identified by the locksmith.
A clerk from the makers was then put in the box. He stated that the lock bore a number in addition to the name of the firm to which he belonged, and by tracing the number in their books, they were able to state that the lock had been supplied to Mr. Cooper Silwood some four years before, and he mentioned the precise date. And with the lock they had supplied two keys; they had not retained a triplicate. One of their men, he said, had fixed the lock on the door of Mr. Silwood's chambers. Asked by the coroner if the lock was of the kind that would shut of itself on the swinging-to of the door, he answered that it was not; it could neither be opened nor locked without the proper key being used. The door was locked, witness volunteered, after Mr. Thornton was dead.
"I don't know that you can say that!" exclaimed the coroner, sharply. "The door was certainly locked by some one on Mr. Thornton, alive or dead; a key was used, it is plain, but you do not know that Mr. Thornton was dead at the time; you have no right to say that."
"Perhaps not," said the clerk, humbly; "but it occurred to me, sir, that if Mr. Thornton had been alive when he was locked in, he would have tried to get out. When he found he could not get out by the door, would he not have broken one of the windows? Or maybe he would not have had more to do than lift a window and cry for help to some one without."
The coroner agreed that there was something in what the clerk had said, but he did not pursue this branch of inquiry further.
"You said," remarked the coroner, "that your firm supplied Mr. Silwood with two keys?"
"Yes."
"He never told you that he had lost one of the keys?"
"I am positive he never did. If he had lost one, he would have sent to us for another, surely; and then I must have heard of it, for it is my duty to keep the record of the keys. We have a regular registry."
"On the other hand, he might lose a key and say nothing about it; is that not so?"
"Certainly, sir."
Inspector Gale wondered not a little at the unusual line the coroner was taking in his questions.
The clerk was now dismissed, and the Lincoln's Inn porter summoned. The porter corroborated in the main the evidence of the locksmith, the only new point he made being to state that he had been sent for by Mr. Francis Eversleigh to open Silwood's door. He was aware that this particular door had a special lock, and he had informed Mr. Eversleigh of the fact.
Then Francis Eversleigh was called, and as he was plainly very ill, he was given a chair.
The coroner, who knew him perfectly, invited him to make a statement, and in a weak, halting, hesitating manner he did so. When it was finished he was asked a few questions.
"You were aware that Mr. Thornton intended coming to London?"
"He wrote to us to that effect, but he specified no date on which we might look for him."
"You did not know of his arrival in London—until when?"
"Until my son, Gilbert, who had been making inquiries, told me of Mr. Thornton's coming to the Law Courts Hotel, and of the subsequent disappearance. Thereafter my firm offered a reward for any information which might lead us to know what had become of him."
"Your son Gilbert had been making inquiries—why?"
Francis Eversleigh, stumbling at every second or third word, gave an account of the circumstances which had resulted in the discovery that Morris Thornton had come to London, and had thereafter disappeared.
"I was naturally very anxious," said Eversleigh. "Mr. Thornton was an old and dear friend, and his only child, a daughter, had lived with us for some years."
"Was Mr. Silwood also a friend of the deceased?"
"Almost as much as I was."
"There was no ill feeling between them?"
"I am quite sure there was not."
"Have you any explanation to offer, or any suggestion to make, regarding the finding of Mr. Thornton's body in your partner's private apartments?"
"I can account for it in no way. It is a profound mystery to me. No one was more surprised than I was when the body was discovered in Mr. Silwood's sitting-room. The shock was so great, indeed, that I fainted away."
"What was the date on which Mr. Silwood departed for his holiday—I understand he went to Italy?"
"He went on the very night that Mr. Thornton disappeared, or the following morning. A note was received from him on the Saturday morning saying he was off—that was the day after Mr. Thornton's disappearance."
Here Inspector Gale interposed, and said it would be proved that Mr. Silwood left on the Saturday morning.
The words caused an immense sensation in the room; the feeling was general that this had an important bearing on the case; in the breast of almost every one present there was the impression that the dead man had been murdered by Silwood. Black despair clutched at Francis Eversleigh's heart-strings.
Gilbert was next called, and said what he had to say in a manly, straightforward manner.
Inspector Gale now came upon the stand, and put before the jury the facts as he knew them. In brief, he said the facts were that Mr. Thornton, on the Friday night in question, left his hotel with the declared intention of going for a walk in Holborn or in Chancery Lane; that he did not return; and that his body, fifteen days later, was found in Stone Buildings, which was a part of Lincoln's Inn, practically in Chancery Lane. Also, that the room in which the body was discovered belonged to Mr. Silwood, who had left London the morning next after the disappearance of Mr. Thornton. The conclusion was obvious; yet, on the other hand, there were two considerations to which importance must be attached: one was the absence of motive on the part of Silwood, the other was that on the very night of the disappearance, a man, dressed as a workman, had been seen to issue from Lincoln's Inn, from the Stone Buildings end of the Inn, and that he had not been able to find out anything about this workman. In these circumstances he suggested that the jury should return an open verdict.
Gale's reference to the mysterious workman was the first intimation the public had received of that person; it had the effect somewhat of casting doubt on the certainty of Silwood's guilt.
"An open verdict," said the coroner, with a curious inflection of voice. "Wait till we have heard the medical evidence."
Dr. Gilson, an eminent man, called and sworn, said that he had made an autopsy on the body, according to instructions from the coroner.
"With what result?" asked the coroner.
"I found no trace of violence on the body; there was absolutely nothing to indicate Mr. Thornton came by his death by foul means. On the contrary, my examination showed conclusively that death came from the bursting of an aneurism. Mr. Thornton undoubtedly died of heart-disease. In other words, he died from natural causes."
"From natural causes!"
The thing seemed beyond belief.
The coroner, who had been prepared for what was coming, glanced at Gale, and on his face was the ghost of a smile.
Every one in the room looked at every one else with blank amazement.
"From natural causes!" they repeated to each other. Then Morris Thornton had not been murdered after all. But on reflection they saw that the mystery was not solved, and now they inquired, how had he come to die "from natural causes"in Cooper Silwood's rooms?
When Francis Eversleigh heard the doctor's words, a light of gladness came upon his face. For the first time for days he seemed to breathe more like a man; but like the rest he was astonished and asked the same question all were asking.
A second doctor, of equal eminence with the other expert, confirmed the statement of his colleague.
"There is not the faintest shadow of doubt," said he, "that Mr. Thornton died from the bursting of an aneurism. He was not murdered, he died from natural causes—so much is absolutely certain."
After this there was very little to be done.
The jury brought in a verdict that Morris Thornton died from natural causes.
But the Lincoln's Inn Mystery was as great as ever.
Never had there been a more baffling mystery.
Morris Thornton, the missing millionaire, had not been murdered either by Cooper Silwood or the mysterious workman, either of whom might have been thought guilty of the crime; medical testimony, based on the scientific accuracy of an autopsy, was conclusive on this point. The man had fallen a victim to heart-disease, and there was no getting away from the fact. But a great deal about the case called loudly for explanation.
Amongst others were such queries being put as: How did Thornton come to be in Silwood's rooms? Had he gone there of his own volition? If so, with what object? And once there, what had taken place prior to his death? And who had locked the door upon him? And did any one besides Silwood have a key to the rooms?
It was a curiously tangled skein: would it ever be unravelled? or would it take its place among the many unsolved mysteries of London? The Thornton Mystery continued to be the talk, the question, of the day, and many keen brains set to work upon it. The popular imagination, too, was powerfully impressed by the pathos of the idea of Thornton, after years of striving and success in the land of his exile, coming home only to meet his death in this strange fashion in the midst of such extraordinary surroundings.
As for the inquest itself, its wholly unexpected result filled the general public with astonishment. In some minds it excited a feeling of alarm, because it showed how possible it was for a man to pass out of sight, to be lost and swallowed up, even to die, and all this take place without the police, the guardians of the great city's peace and safety, being aware of it.
Both the amazement and the alarm were evident in that unerring reflex and register of opinion, the Press of the country. Not a newspaper throughout the land but commented at length on the subject. They were at tremendous pains to set forth the whole dark story with the utmost minuteness. Some even attempted a solution of the problems it disclosed. And in one instance, at least, this led to a further development.
TheMorning Call, a well-known London journal, had secretly changed hands; it had a new editor and for the most part a new staff; every man on it tingled and burned to distinguish himself and cover his paper with glory. The general line taken by theCallwas the sensational, and the Thornton Mystery was just the sort of thing out of which it calculated to make fresh capital. From its point of view, the tame finding of the jury at the inquest was overwhelmingly disappointing. Westgate, a member of its staff, who had been present at it, told his chief, that the result was "simply disgusting." And his chief, with a smile, had sympathized with him.
Westgate had come from a rival paper known as theMorning Light, and was a very smart and capable journalist. From his natural bent, as well as from his training, he had made himself an expert of no mean standing on all matters connected with crime. He would have been an excellent detective, but the detective service, which is not recruited from the most intelligent classes in the world, gave no sufficient salary for a man of his stamp. As a journalist, he earned twelve hundred a year, and was well worth every penny of it. Inspector Gale, the best detective in England, did not get five pounds a week.
Westgate's chief, who had been editor of theMorning Light, knew and appreciated the speciality of his subordinate. Discussing the case after the verdict, he asked him what he thought of it.
"I don't know quite what to think," replied Westgate, "but I am not satisfied. There is something in the affair that does not meet the eye; there is something behind it all. For one thing, I feel as certain as I am of being alive that the solution of the mystery rests with Cooper Silwood. It turns on him as on a pivot. I take no stock in the tramp's story of his seeing a workman coming out of Lincoln's Inn on the night of Thornton's disappearance. If the tramp was in Chancery Lane at the time he said he was, how was it he saw nothing of Morris Thornton? Morris Thornton was undoubtedly in the Lane—at least it is altogether likely—at or about the time the tramp said he was there. But, in any case, who would trust the story of a tramp by itself? Why, you can pick up a waster of the same kind any night of the year you like, and he'll pitch you any yarn he thinks you want. No, the case turns on Silwood."
"Well, suppose I grant you that, what then? If the solution lies with Silwood, it will continue to rest with him, as he is dead. You run your head up against a stone wall, Westgate. Silwood's death ends the thing pretty finally."
"Silwood dead!" cried Westgate, pursuing his own train of thought. "Just think of it! Isn't it the strangest thing in the world? In the way of coincidence it beats anything I ever heard of. Consider, for a second. Suppose, for the sake of argument, it had been proved that Thornton was murdered, and that the murder was committed by Silwood, what a fortunate event Silwood's dying at this precise juncture would be for Silwood! You see that, don't you?"
"Of course, the coincidence is remarkable, but what more can you say about it? Silwood is dead, and that settles everything—so far as it can be settled. There does not seem to be much more to say."
"Though it does not appear to be much good," persisted Westgate, "still, the key of the situation, as I said before, lies with Silwood. I wish I knew more about that man. Personally, I feel certain that Silwood, when he went off for his holiday that Saturday morning, locked the door on the dead body of Thornton."
"How you harp on this, Westgate! You have no evidence for what you say, either."
"There is a strong presumption, however."
"The exact time of Thornton's death is not known, yet you are arguing as if it was. You cannot say for certain that Thornton was dead that morning at all."
"The doctors agreed that Thornton had been dead about fifteen days when the body was found. That brings his death pretty well, or, at any rate, very close, to the time of his disappearance."
"Still there might be a gap of a good many hours."
"I doubt it," said Westgate, stubbornly. "Let me tell you what happened, as it seems to me. On leaving the Law Courts Hotel, Thornton went to Chancery Lane, got somehow or other into Silwood's rooms, and died there suddenly a short while afterwards. I am convinced that he saw Silwood when he got into the room, and that something occurred between him and Silwood—I don't even attempt to guess what it was—which produced such an effect upon his weak heart that he dropped dead from the shock."
"Your explanation is plausible, but it suffers from your not being certain that Silwood was there with Thornton at the time of the latter's death. In assuming Silwood's presence, you assume too much. But go on with your mapping out of what happened. Suppose we take your suppositions as certainties, what next?"
"When Silwood saw that Thornton was dead, he would ask himself what he was to do," Westgate resumed. "There was the body in the room, and its being there had to be accounted for somehow. Silwood, I am positive, shrank from saying anything about it—shrank to such an extent that he made up his mind to fly rather than appear to have any connection whatever with it."
The chief of theCallshook his head.
"This," said he, "is just where your building up of the case tumbles to pieces. Suppose Thornton died in Silwood's presence, why on earth should not Silwood have said so boldly? Why should he have run away as you conjecture he did? Would it not have been far easier, safer, better for him to have at once summoned a policeman and told him what had happened?"
"But he didn't call a policeman!" exclaimed Westgate, eagerly; "don't you see where that lands you? Why did he not call a policeman—why? Because he had some strong reason for not doing so. If everything had been absolutely all right, he would, as a matter of course, have summoned a policeman, and there would be no Thornton Mystery at all—only the pathos of the story of a man's career ending in such swift tragedy; that would have been all. No! Again I say that, for some reason or other, Silwood did not care to face the world and tell it what took place in his room that night. Instead of staying to face the music as an honest man would, he resolved on flight, and did accordingly fly the country the following morning. Mind you, I do not say that Silwood knew Thornton died from heart failure—that is another aspect of the thing; he may have believed that he had something to do physically with bringing about the death of Thornton. Still, that is not the main thing. The main thing is that he had some good reason for flight, and that he did fly."
The chief said nothing, though a pause on Westgate's part gave him an opportunity of speaking.
"It is absurd," said the chief at last. "Silwood belongs to one of the best firms in London. His partner, Eversleigh, stands at the head of his profession. You saw him at the inquest."
"Yes; he sat beside Miss Thornton. I thought it rather strange that she should be present at the inquest, but it was evident she was much attached to Mr. Eversleigh in a daughterly way. They say she is engaged to his son."
"Well, Westgate, how does that fit in with your theories about Silwood, Eversleigh's partner?"
"Not very well, I admit, but we are only making guesses and trying to piece things out a bit. And I have not yet told you all that is in my mind."
"Go on," said the editor, as Westgate looked at him for permission.
"I paid very careful attention to the statement made by Inspector Gale. Now, he's not a great detective, but he's shrewd."
The chief nodded assent.
"In his statement, Gale never once spoke as if he thought Silwood was dead."
"What do you say?" cried the other, aroused at last. "Did not speak as if he thought Silwood was dead! By Jove, that's a horse of another colour."
In a flash he saw that, if Silwood was not dead, then the theories of Westgate were likely to become substantialities.
"Gale wanted an open verdict; he actually recommended the jury to bring one in. He spoke of the murder being the work of either Silwood or the mysterious workman—that was before the medical men knocked the idea of murder into thin air—Gale was not prepared for that, I'll swear—but he never once spoke of Silwood as if he thought of Silwood as dead. I noticed that most particularly. Now, to go on with our supposings," said Westgate, with even greater eagerness than he already exhibited, "let us see where we are. Silwood is announced to have died of cholera at some outlandish place in the north of Italy. Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't. Say he did not, and that the whole thing is a plant, a put-up job?"
Westgate paused abruptly, and looked at his chief.
"Of course, I see your point," responded the editor. "You would say, following out your theories, that after locking the dead body of Thornton into his room, Silwood went to Italy, and has somehow or other had a false announcement of his death sent to England, hoping in this way to cover up his tracks effectually. But, once more, Westgate, my boy, where is the motive for all this astonishing business?"
"That, I confess, I do not know. But if Silwood is alive, why then, he is to be found——"
He broke off and gazed suggestively at the other.
"And you are the man to find him! Eh, is that it?" asked the editor, as quick as lightning.
"If you say the word!"
Perceval, chief of theCall, leaned back in his chair, lost in debate within himself for a minute. As a rule, it did not take nearly so long as that for him to make up his mind.
"All right," he said. "You can go. First, of course, you will go to this place in Italy and ascertain if Silwood died, was buried, and all the rest of it. That may be the end of your search; but if it is not, why then go ahead, Westgate. You'll start without delay, and let me know as soon as possible what you are doing."
And Westgate went from the presence of his chief, rejoicing exceedingly on being sent on a mission after his own heart.
It was therefore more than annoying that almost the first person he saw on his arrival in Genoa was Sub-inspector Brydges, Gale's under-study at Scotland Yard. As soon as he saw him he guessed that Gale had despatched his subordinate to Italy, to make inquiries about Silwood's death, and a brief conversation with the officer, whom he often met and knew perfectly, made this a certainty.
Brydges made no secret of his errand. He had already wired Gale that he was satisfied Silwood was dead, and had been buried at Camajore, just as the inspector had been informed by the Eversleighs. And he saw no reason for concealing this from Westgate, after they had had some talk together in which both of them, metaphorically speaking, put their cards, or most of them, on the table.
"You can take it from me," concluded Brydges, "that Mr. Silwood is as dead—as dead as Queen Anne."
But Westgate was not satisfied.
So he went to Camajore, saw the Syndic, the doctor, the nurses, and every one besides from whom he could get any information. The result was always the same. Silwood had died. The polite Syndic even took him to see the mound of earth under which lay Silwood's remains.
"It was no good?" asked the chief of Westgate on his return to the office of theCall.
"No good at all," said Westgate, much crestfallen.
Upon the Eversleighs the verdict at the inquest had various effects.
Mrs. Eversleigh had been completely upset by the discovery of the body of Morris Thornton in the private rooms of Silwood, her husband's partner, but she recovered quickly after the verdict, which dispelled a great multitude of nameless fears that had sprung up within her mind.
The presence of Kitty at the inquest had been entirely her own idea, and it had required courage of an almost desperate sort to carry it out. Her lover, seeing the strain the girl was putting on herself, tried to dissuade her from going, but she bravely persisted. When the verdict was given, and she witnessed the relief it afforded her friends, she felt far more than repaid. At the same time, the tragedy which closed her father's life lay heavy upon her. What helped her most to bear it was Gilbert's love and unfailing sympathy. And on the girl herself all these strange and painful events resulted in materially deepening and strengthening her character. Hitherto anything of the kind had been far removed from her.
With regard to Gilbert Eversleigh, he knew not what to conclude, as all attempts on his part to reason out the mystery of Stone Buildings invariably ended in confusion. He told himself that the secret of the affair was never likely to be revealed, and was not sure if he were glad or sorry this should be the case. Yet at times he had an uneasy feeling that perhaps, after all, there was more to come.
On the benumbed mind, on the half-paralyzed faculties, of Francis Eversleigh the verdict for a while acted like a charm; for a short time its effect on him was little short of magical.
He had believed that Cooper Silwood had murdered Morris Thornton; what he alone knew made the deed only too probable. To find, then, that there had been no murder was a relief to him beyond all words to describe. For a few days it nearly made a man of him. He saw that much was dark regarding the death of his old friend and client, and he was absolutely certain that in some way or other Silwood was mixed up in it; but to know that his partner had not actually been guilty of the blackest crime in the calendar had a beneficial influence on him.
The sanguine side of his nature, long overshadowed, now began to assert itself; he even whispered to himself that it was possible his ruin might be averted after all.
At first he feared that the standing of the firm might be so gravely compromised by the events which had taken place that its position would be rendered hopeless by the withdrawal of their business by its clients; but, when then they took no steps in this direction, the elasticity of his mind asserted itself more and more. As a matter of fact, a great deal of sympathy was expressed for him; several of his clients, indeed, went out of their way to assure him of their undiminished confidence and regard. No one for an instant suspected there was anything wrong with the firm. The death of Thornton was looked upon as an inexplicable fatality, that of Silwood as another.
In these reassuring circumstances he took heart of grace, plucked up courage, and said to himself that he must make a decided change in his own habits and methods, and must no longer be easy-going, careless, and unsystematic, but must work doubly hard, and do whatever lay in his power to save the situation. But a man's character is not changed in a day, and Francis Eversleigh, despite his brave resolutions, was, at bottom, the same Francis Eversleigh. And with all the heart in the world to retrieve lost ground, it was hardly possible for him to do it, even if his affairs had been in a different position.
His most pressing duty, he knew, was to make that examination into the business of his firm which he had purposed making earlier. One morning towards the end of the week in which the verdict was given, he came to his office determined to commence a thorough overhauling of his accounts, but his innate weakness prevented him from persevering. And, in addition to the slackness habitual to him, there was another reason that kept him back. And this reason was Williamson.
Had Eversleigh been a strong man, he would have made the death of his partner an excuse for this examination—so natural an excuse, in truth, that Williamson would have thought nothing of it. But he had not got very far in examining the books when he became aware that the head-clerk was following all he did with suspicious interest. The mere fact that Eversleigh was manifesting unusual activity was enough to excite surprise in Williamson. The first shock which the returning complacency of the solicitor received came from the thought that perhaps Williamson had a glimmering of the truth.
Then Eversleigh could not do much in the way of investigation without referring to Williamson for information. In any case, Eversleigh saw with fatal distinctness, that if this process were continued, the result could be no other than to put Williamson in possession of the whole circumstances of the firm. Conscious of this, his good resolves suffered eclipse, and he once more fell back on the desperate policy of letting things drift whither they would. But, for a week or two, matters at 176, New Square, Lincoln's Inn, went on as if nothing out of the common had happened, or was likely to happen. Francis Eversleigh, his son Ernest, the head-clerk Williamson, and the other clerks, occupied their accustomed seats in their accustomed rooms. People came and went as usual; deeds were prepared, documents drawn up, and all the machinery of the office seemed to be in excellent running order. No shadow of approaching doom darkened the firm's doors.
Still, Eversleigh knew that he could not continue his policy of drifting beyond a certain point. It was part of his unescapable misfortune that the severest pressure on him came in one way or another from members of his own unsuspecting family.
In the first place, it was necessary to get another partner in place of Silwood. This, on various pretexts, which gave him delay, he put off. He knew that Ernest must expect to be taken into partnership at this juncture when a suitable opportunity presented itself. But to make Ernest a partner meant involving the young man in the ruin of the firm—if ruin came, and Eversleigh in his heart now believed that it was inevitable—and he was minded not to do this if it could be helped. But it was difficult for him to resist the pressure brought to bear upon him. His wife spoke to him of Ernest, but he managed to quiet her with the promise that before long the matter would be satisfactorily arranged. And this was the easier, inasmuch as the poor lady, who had seen the improvement in her husband's state of health after the verdict, believed Ernest had only to wait a few weeks and all would be well.
But the improvement in Francis Eversleigh's bodily and mental health was only, could be only temporary. Already drifting like a rudderless ship, he might any moment founder on the rocks. Deeply involved in a course of equivocation and deceit, to which there could be but one end, unless some miracle occurred, the necessity of continuing in it, added to the other circumstances of his situation, soon changed the transient brightness of his spirits into the gloom of that settled and terrible melancholy which had descended upon him before. In vain he strove to fight against it, to overcome it; his efforts were utterly useless.
The most serious things he had to consider were the Thornton Estate and the Silwood Estate.
With regard to the latter, he well knew there was no such thing as a Silwood Estate at all, but he deemed it essential for the sake of keeping up appearances to make a pretence that there was such an estate—at least, until it became evident there was none. Here the "law's delays," of which he took full advantage, assisted him; but then there was Williamson endlessly curious and prying. Some of the questions he put to his principal were hard to answer, and drove Eversleigh to the verge of madness.
Silwood's room in the office, the japanned box—always excepting the secret cavity of which no one knew—the whole office, and finally Silwood's chambers in Stone Buildings, now free from the embargo of the law, had been carefully searched for the will of the dead solicitor; but no will had been found. Williamson openly said that the absence of a will in the case of a man who must have been rich, and who was a lawyer to boot, was a most singular thing. Undoubtedly it was this that suggested to the head-clerk something of the actual fact, namely, that there was a screw loose with respect to the financial position of the firm. But, as before, he had nothing definite to go on, and he never dreamed that the affairs of the house were in the desperate condition they really were.
But it was the Thornton Estate which troubled Eversleigh most of all.
Gilbert, as the affianced husband of Kitty, spoke to his father soon after the inquest about Morris Thornton's property, and asked him if Thornton's will was deposited in the office, or if the agents in Canada had it.
Francis knew there was a will in the office, and was tolerably sure no other was in existence, but Gilbert's query gave him a chance of standing him off on the whole subject for a considerable time. He snatched at it eagerly.
"We have a will of his," he said to his son, "but it was executed a good many years ago. I am, in the circumstances in which you stand towards Kitty, betraying no confidence when I tell you that by that will he left everything of which he was possessed to her. But it is quite possible there may be a later will. That is a matter for inquiry. It will certainly be necessary for us to wait till we hear from the agents in British Columbia. They have been apprized by cable and by letter of Mr. Thornton's death, and they must have seen something of it in the papers—the noise of it has gone round the world. But we must not move until we have heard from them. In the event of its being reasonably sure that there is no other will, we will, of course, submit the one we have to probate as soon as may be. I don't think we can do more at present."
"I understand," said Gilbert; "you will just observe the usual routine. I suppose it will be some weeks, perhaps a month or two, before anything further can be done. Still, I imagine you can get all the affairs of his that are in your hands into the best order."
"Oh," said Eversleigh, with an attempt at lightness, "that is all right. Mr. Silwood had charge of them, and now I have."
"I have no doubt, sir, they are all right," said Gilbert, unsuspiciously.
"Yes, yes. I should say in a month or six weeks we can go to probate, but it will depend, of course, upon what we hear from Vancouver. You may be sure there will be no unnecessary delay."
"I am certain of that," assented Gilbert, readily, unvisited by the slightest inkling of his father's state of mind.
Similar pretexts were used by Eversleigh in dealing with Ernest and Williamson. And so a little time was gained, but it was to very small purpose. Once more the strain on him was fast becoming past endurance.
A fortnight, three weeks, went by, and Eversleigh had relapsed altogether into his former condition of deepest dejection, to the alarm of his wife and relatives, who wondered what in the world could account for it. But though he had gained respites in the matters that disquieted him most seriously, he knew that at most and best they were but respites, and likely to be short ones. He saw the day of reckoning drawing nearer and nearer; that it should come in all probability through his son Gilbert and Kitty, whom he loved as his own child, was an aggravation of his sufferings.
It had been the custom of the Eversleighs to betake themselves to the seaside during the month of August, but this year, because of all that had happened, it had not been observed. Francis Eversleigh was entreated by his family to take a brief holiday, but he declined on the plea there was too much work at the office. He, on the other hand, besought his wife to go away for a change, but she would not, with the result that the Eversleighs and Kitty stayed on at Surbiton.
It was now that Kitty, more than all the rest, showed her affection for him by devoting herself assiduously to his comfort in the most marked manner. The girl was fond of him for his own sake, and was he not Gilbert's father? In many little ways she tried to cheer him, and to drive away the dark shadow that enveloped him. And all these loving attentions were so many fresh stabs to the miserable man.
As the days ran on, Eversleigh was a prey to constant apprehensions; he was haunted by the dread, from moment to moment, of something happening which would lead to exposure.
And come it did, but from an unexpected quarter.
It came in the form of a demand for a large sum of money, and it came from Harry Bennet, a man whom Eversleigh had almost forgotten, particularly as Harry had for some time been a stranger at Ivydene.
This demand meant ruin.
The demand from Bennet was contained in a short letter, and the sum he asked for was ten thousand pounds.
With a curt explanation that a horse on which he had put a great deal of money had disappointed him, he said it was now necessary for him to have this amount immediately. He went on to say that he knew they, his solicitors, had no ready money of his in their hands, but they would undoubtedly be able to advance it on the security of Beauclerk Mansions, which he directed them to sell. However, to sell them to the best advantage might take some time. Would they, therefore, anticipate the proceeds of the sale to the extent of the sum asked for, and repay themselves afterwards when the sale was effected? He was sure that the Mansions would fetch far more than ten thousand pounds.
Though the period had been marked by events so important as to cause it to seem of considerable length, but a few weeks in reality had elapsed since Harry Bennet had proposed to and been rejected by Kitty Thornton. Like all the world, Bennet was not ignorant of what had happened in the Eversleigh circle, but he was completely absorbed by his turf speculations. He had not quite forgotten his purpose of being revenged on Gilbert, but for the time it slumbered.
After Goodwood, all through the month of August, Bennet followed the round of race-meetings with unimpaired zest; sometimes he was successful in his bets, but far more frequently he was a heavy loser. He had soon spent the considerable sum he had made during his Goodwood campaign, and now was hard pressed for funds. He had already managed to dissipate the whole of his once extensive patrimony, with the exception of the large block of flats called Beauclerk Mansions, which he now told his solicitors to put on the market.
In ordinary circumstances there would have been no difficulty in getting an immediate advance on the property, which was worth far more than ten thousand pounds, as Bennet said. But Cooper Silwood had changed all that.
Williamson, who now watched, as a cat a mouse, Eversleigh as he had watched Silwood, had put the letter into his principal's hand with the remark that it was such a pity Mr. Bennet was ruining himself; he seemed bent on going headlong to destruction!
Francis Eversleigh merely nodded, read the letter, and said dully that he would attend to the matter himself presently.
At first he was not without hope that all was well, and that the advance could be procured. But a brief examination showed him that Beauclerk Mansions no longer stood in Bennet's name—they had been sold during the preceding year, as he shortly discovered, by Silwood. Amongst other things, this of course meant that Silwood had forged Bennet's signature. But, at the moment, Eversleigh did not stop to think of it; the one damning fact which stood forth with frightful distinctness was that Beauclerk Mansions were already sold.
"What am I to do?" groaned Eversleigh.
He considered if there was any way by which he could raise the money; but ten thousand pounds is a large sum, even to a rich man, when it has to be put down in cold cash. Still, the credit of the firm was unimpaired, and for a few brief moments Eversleigh permitted himself the luxury of imagining his bankers would advance the amount. But he knew they would not do so without security, and he was certain he had none to offer. Silwood had taken care of that.
"What am I to do? In Heavens name, what am I to do?" Eversleigh asked himself, while his heart seemed to be contracting under the unrelenting grip of a hand of iron.
Ruin, black ruin!
It was coming very near, very near!
And worse than ruin.
Infamy!
Again, as often before, he saw the convict's cell, the desolate home, the wife and children whom he loved for ever disgraced.
The cold sweat of terror, of despair, stood on the brows of the wretched man, who shook and trembled as with palsy. He had a swooning sense that he was standing in the midst of a dissolving world, a wreck amidst a myriad of wrecks all whirling on to some dark abyss. He felt as if his brain were giving way under these repeated shocks; then a merciful blankness and vacuity of thought and impression suddenly descended upon him.
Williamson, coming into the room later, found Eversleigh in a faint stretched across the table.
The head-clerk regarded his principal curiously; then he proceeded, before attempting to resuscitate Eversleigh, to look carefully over the papers lying on the table. Amongst them, however, he saw nothing that was of a specially suspicious character, unless it was Bennet's letter. Having satisfied himself on this point, Williamson next endeavoured to revive his master.
"I am afraid you're trying to do too much," he observed to Eversleigh, when the latter had recovered. "Now that Mr. Silwood is gone, your work is doubled."
"Oh, I'm all right now; it was just a passing weakness," replied Eversleigh. Then he noticed Bennet's letter and glancing from it to Williamson, said, "I must not forget to see about getting the money as soon as possible for Mr. Bennet. I don't suppose there will be much trouble about getting it. But it will take a day or two to arrange."
"In the mean time," asked Williamson, "shall I look out the deeds of the property?"
"No," replied Eversleigh, with a shiver, which he tried to hide successfully; "there will be time enough for that when I have got the advance arranged for."
"Yes, sir; but should not a notice of the sale be drawn up at once, and the matter otherwise put in shape?"
"I am not without hope," said Eversleigh, slowly, "that there may, after all, be no necessity to sell the Mansions. It's a fine property, and it would be a good thing if Mr. Bennet could keep it. A mortgage for the ten thousand may be sufficient. I'll mention that when I write Mr. Bennet to-day."
Williamson bowed and retired, mutely asking himself what was the particular thing or reason that had so affected his principal as to cause him to faint. Could it be, in any way, he wondered, connected with Bennet? No; on reflection, he thought it could not be that, for Eversleigh's references to the matter had been quite natural. Yet the head-clerk opined there must be some reason.
"I believe," he told himself, after long consideration, "the best course for me to pursue would be to resign and get out of it all."
But he did not resign.
That afternoon Eversleigh wrote Bennet a reply in which he stated the loan Bennet required would doubtless be obtained very soon, but two or three days might elapse before the preliminaries were concluded. Then he expressed the hope that a mortgage on the Mansions for ten thousand pounds might be enough to extricate Bennet from his difficulties, and in that case the sale need not be proceeded with. But if the Mansions must be sold, he trusted plenty of time for advertising would be allowed, otherwise they might have to be disposed of at a considerable sacrifice.
In a word, it was exactly the kind of letter a solicitor who had nothing behind in his mind, would write a client in Bennet's position.
Here, again, Eversleigh was playing for a respite; but here, again, he did not deceive himself—he knew that the end was fast approaching.
The bitterness of death took hold of him. When he went home that evening he scarcely touched any food. As soon as dinner was over, he rose from the table, and, saying he would go out for a walk by the river, left Ivydene. For a long time he paced up and down in a great agony of mind. Three courses were open to him. One was to go on as long as possible—till the crash came. The second was to file his petition in bankruptcy, in which case exposure was inevitable. The third lay before him—in the broad bosom of the river gliding past him; a plunge, and all would be over.
The last, as a final solution of all his difficulties, had a strong attraction. It seemed so easy, and called for so small an effort. There was a fascination in the flowing water, in its softly murmurous motion. He looked at the river, and then dared not look longer. It seemed to cry to him, "Come to me! come to me!" Then he strode away from it into the high-road; but it drew him back again, for still he heard it calling, calling, "Come to me! come to me!"
Moving out of the shadows of the trees on the terrace, he walked slowly, listening to that sinister voice, while he looked at the dark spaces of the water where the river lay in its deepest pools.
But as he walked, still within the shadows, he came upon a pair of lovers, and he stopped to watch them.
The lovers were his son Gilbert and Kitty Thornton.
Their faces looked forward along the path, and they did not see the man standing in the shadows. The girl leaned lightly on Gilbert's arm, and was speaking low and softly to him. As she uttered the words, Gilbert patted the little hand that rested on his arm.
On Kitty's face was something that had not been there a month or two before, and which now imparted to it a touch of gravity. Perhaps her face was just a little sad. And yet she was not feeling sad, for the man in the shadows heard her say—
"Oh, Gilbert, it is good to be in love! Life now would not be worth living without love."
A passing boat attracted the attention of the pair, and they stood to observe it. Behind them was Francis Eversleigh.
"I feel as if I could not exist without you now, Gilbert," said the girl, moving on again.
"Nor I without you, darling," answered Gilbert, tenderly.
Then in silence they went on their way.
When they were out of hearing, Francis Eversleigh heaved a great sigh, and followed them with tottering steps. The siren voice of the river had died out from his ears; it called him no longer.
"I must struggle on to the end," he said, and returned to his house.
About noon next day, Bennet, who had pressing reasons for getting at once the ten thousand pounds he had asked for, looked in at 176, New Square, Lincoln's Inn, and requested to see Francis Eversleigh.
"How are you, Harry?" inquired Eversleigh, when he saw him.
Bennet had not seen the other for a considerable time, and he was immensely struck by the altered appearance of the solicitor, so he answered that he was very well, but regretted to notice that Mr. Eversleigh appeared to be in poor health.
"Well," said Eversleigh; "you have no doubt heard I've had much of a painful nature—Mr. Silwood's death and Mr. Thornton's—to try me recently. I have felt these blows very keenly."
"Of course you would," responded Bennet. "About this money, Mr. Eversleigh, I am sorry to trouble you, but I must have it at once."
"At once!"
"Yes, to-day if possible."
"It's not possible."
"Then to-morrow. I should like you to push on with the sale of Beauclerk Mansions. I do not desire a mortgage on the property. It must be sold out-right."
"But, Harry——"
"Pray spare me, Mr. Eversleigh. I know you wish to expostulate with me, and I know the kindness which inspires you to do so, but I have quite made up my mind. Can I have the money to-morrow?"
"I'm afraid not, Harry. It's not so very easy to raise so large a sum in a day or two—there are all sorts of formalities, you know."
"It ought not to be difficult, surely. These Kensington properties are first-rate and should find ready purchasers. And Beauclerk Mansions are in the best situation too. I am certain they must be in splendid order, for I never receive complaints now from the tenants. You remember that two or three years ago the tenants often sent me complaints direct instead of writing to you. Well, there has been nothing of the sort for a long while. I know Mr. Silwood was a splendid manager. What a pity it is you lost him! I haven't been near Beauclerk Mansions for many a month—no need, you know, thanks to Mr. Silwood's ability. I am sorry to lose the property, but go it must. I suppose it will realize thirty or forty thousand, won't it?"
"I dare say it will."
"Then an advance of ten thousand should be easy to get."
"Yes, yes," agreed Eversleigh; "but it will take a few days."
"I must have it to-morrow, sir—to-morrow. I cannot wait any further than that."
"Well, I'll do what I can," said Eversleigh, with a choking gasp; "I'll do what I can."
"I'm certain you will be able to manage it," said Bennet, rising and going to the door. There he stopped and turned to Eversleigh. "Do you know," he said; "I think I'll run down on the Underground to High Street, and take a look at Beauclerk Mansions—a last fond look," he added with a grin and disappeared.
At four o'clock in the same day he was back again at Lincoln's Inn, and there was a strange expression on his face as he climbed the stairs to Francis Eversleigh's room.
As Bennet entered the room, Eversleigh looked at him and forced a smile, but he turned livid when he observed the other's aspect. There was no smile on Bennet's face, but something disquieting and even threatening appeared upon it. Eversleigh, seeing it, said to himself that the expected day of reckoning had indeed come. His first feeling was almost one of relief, but that soon gave way to a determination to make as much of a stand as he could. He tried to encourage himself by thinking that Bennet had always been a friend of his and of his family. Unaware that Kitty had preferred Gilbert to Bennet, and of the sentiments Bennet now had with respect to his son, he had some hope that it might be possible to "do something with Harry," as he phrased it vaguely to himself.
"Well, Harry, back again?" he said, trying with a prodigious effort to speak calmly. "I did not anticipate seeing you so soon."
"Yes, Mr. Eversleigh," remarked Bennet, bluntly; "I have returned pretty quickly, because I desired to see you immediately with a view to asking you for an explanation of a circumstance which puzzles me extremely. Still, I dare say you can clear the matter up. It is about Beauclerk Mansions. I have just come from them this very minute."
As Bennet had come in Eversleigh had stood up; he now sank into his chair. Harry remained on his feet, gazing at the solicitor, and there was a note of anger in his voice as he addressed Eversleigh.
"An explanation, Harry," said Eversleigh, waving Bennet to take a seat beside him. "About what?"
"Well, Mr. Eversleigh," said Bennet, drily, "when I left you this morning I told you I would take a run down to the Mansions to have a last look at them; do you remember?"
"You made some little jest of it," returned Eversleigh, nervously.
"Yes; I was trying to appear light-hearted about it. I was not light-hearted really. But that does not matter in the slightest degree. I did go to the Mansions——"
Bennet stopped, as he was in doubt what to say next.
"You went to Beauclerk Mansions?" said Eversleigh; "and——"
"I'll tell you as exactly as I can what took place. On the pretext of inquiring if there was a flat to be let, I got into conversation with one of the porters. I saw the man did not know who I was. He told me there were two or three desirable flats vacant; would I care to look over them? I don't know quite why I did it, but I thought I would take a glance at the vacant flats, keeping the porter in talk the while. You follow me?" asked Harry, breaking off as he saw the eyes of the solicitor wandered over the room.
Eversleigh was listening, but not carefully; he guessed well enough what Bennet would tell him, and he was casting about for some appeal that would touch Bennet and induce him to stay his hand.
"Oh yes," he responded; "I am following you perfectly, Harry."
"As I went over the flats with the porter," Bennet resumed, "I noticed the property was in very good order, and I remarked to the man that it must be well managed and be very valuable. The porter replied that the property was well managed, especially since the new management had taken it up. I was surprised, as you may imagine, to hear of a new management, but I naturally supposed that you or rather Mr. Silwood, had made the change. I asked how long the new management had been in power, and was told it had been for about a year."
Bennet paused, gazed at Eversleigh, and repeated, "About a year."
"About a year," said Eversleigh, mechanically.
"The porter went on to say," continued Bennet, "that he understood the property had been in new hands for that time, and that was why it was in such good order—the new broom was sweeping cleaner than the old. When he spoke of the property being in new hands, I thought it more than a bit odd, and I asked him in whose hands the property now was. He gave me the name of a firm of house-agents of whom I have heard before, but not in connection with your firm, Mr. Eversleigh. This surprised me again, and I put the question if he knew who was the owner of the property, and he answered that it belonged to a company, named 'Modern Mansions, Limited.' When he said this, I looked at him in amazement, but I saw that he was in earnest, and stated what he believed to be true."
Again Bennet stopped and fixed his gaze on Eversleigh, but the solicitor said not a word—he opened his lips as if to speak, but remained silent.
"You do not speak, Mr. Eversleigh!" cried Bennet. "Well, let me finish my story. He had told me that the property belonged to 'Modern Mansions, Limited,' and he so surprised me that I blurted out that I thought he must be wrong, and that I had understood it was owned by a Mr. Bennet, whose father had been the original proprietor. 'No,' said the man; 'it did belong to him, but he sold it to the company just about twelve months ago!'"
Bennet paused once more, as if to give Eversleigh an opportunity of making a remark, but he did not avail himself of it.
"Still you do not speak!" cried Bennet. "But to finish with my yarn. I felt positively certain that the porter was making a big mistake, as I knew I had not sold Beauclerk Mansions, but I thought I would carry my inquiries a step further. Therefore, keeping up the pretence of wanting a flat, I asked the porter if he could get me a copy of the agreement or form of lease for a flat; no doubt, I said, there was a regular form to be had in the office of the company. That was so, he thought; would I go with him to the manager's office? Well, I did go, and I got the form; here it is," said Bennet, taking a printed paper from his pocket and placing it before Eversleigh.
"Not that there was any need of that as proof the Mansions were mine no longer," Bennet continued. "I had a short talk with the manager, and I soon had no doubt about it. Now, Mr. Eversleigh, you have heard what I have said. I demand an explanation from you. What have you to say?"
Eversleigh looked at Bennet, then at the ceiling, then at the floor, but could not find speech.
"Have you nothing to say? What meaning, Mr. Eversleigh, am I to place on your silence? Why don't you speak?"
Hitherto Bennet, believing like all the rest of the world that there could be nothing wrong with so eminent a firm as Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, had supposed there might be some explanation of these curious circumstances; he was suspicious, but imagined there might be a possible justification. What he could not understand was why Eversleigh had written and spoken to him as if the Mansions were still his. Eversleigh's silence now told him quite unmistakably there was something very wrong about the whole matter.
"Why don't you speak, Mr. Eversleigh?" he asked, roughly, springing from his chair and towering over the solicitor.
"Harry," began Eversleigh, brokenly, shrinking before the angry eyes of his client, "Harry, your property, as you know, was in Mr. Silwood's department of the office. Mr. Silwood——"
But Eversleigh paused tongue-tied; there was a slackening of the muscles of his face. He seemed on the point of collapse.
As Bennet regarded the solicitor the expression of his face become horrible; all the evil of his life seemed suddenly stamped upon it; it was cruel, fierce, brutal, devilish. He saw that Eversleigh had no explanation to offer; he realized that he had been the victim of fraud, and that his property was gone—it had been stolen from him by his solicitors! As this came home to him, his mood was little short of murderous, and it must be admitted there was some excuse for him.
"Silwood's death," he said harshly, "does not matter to me in the least. He is dead, and it is you that I have to deal with. What has become of my property?"
Harry's rough tones made Eversleigh shrink still more, but he managed to speak.
"Mr. Silwood is dead," he quavered, wishing the while that he was dead too. "But his death is so recent that there has not been sufficient time to go into all his affairs."
"I care nothing for his affairs. What has become of my property? Tell me that."
"You must know, Harry, that Mr. Silwood's death has made a great difference to me."
"It has nothing to do with me. What has become of my property?"
"It is possible," said Eversleigh, weakly, "that there may have been things in his department that are slightly irregular. No doubt," he went on more firmly, "he thought he was acting in your best interests when he sold your property."
"Sold my property," repeated Bennet, with a fierce snarl. "If he sold it, what did he sell it for? And where is the money?"
Eversleigh was mute.
"Again you have nothing to say! Now I ask you just one question. Did you know, or did you not know, when you wrote me yesterday that you would procure the advance of ten thousand pounds on the property, that it had been sold already? Answer me!"
Bennet's eyes blazed with rage and menace as he thundered the last words at Eversleigh.
Eversleigh partly rose from his chair, clutching as he did so at his collar; then he sat down with a loud groan, covered his face with his hands, and broke into sobs.
Bennet stood over him and shook him violently.
"You did know," he shouted. "You knew all the while that my flats had been sold. Do you know what you are? You are a thief and a swindler—that's what you are!"
"Harry," pleaded Eversleigh, feebly.
"Don't call me 'Harry,'" replied Bennet. "You have lied to me and stolen from me. I must think," he wound up, as he released his hold of the other and walked up and down the floor.
Meanwhile Eversleigh's sobs subsided, and he ventured to look at Bennet. Bennet noticed the glance at once.
"I believe," said he, "if I did what I ought to do, I should have you arrested at once for fraud; but I don't see that that would do me any good."
"Harry," said Eversleigh, haltingly, "I was your father's friend, and I was never unkind to you."