"I must think over what you have told me, sir," he said at length, and went across to his chambers in the Temple.
Gilbert Eversleigh walked out of his father's office, and finding an unoccupied bench in the neighbouring Lincoln's Inn Fields, sat down to ponder this terrible and altogether unexpected situation.
First, he tried to grasp the facts which had just been thrust upon him, and to see them in all their bearings.
There was no question now but he must relinquish all thoughts of Kitty Thornton. The sacrifice the girl was making for him and his father filled him with a feeling of worship of her into which there entered something sacred. In his mind he placed her on an altar, as it were, and could have fallen down before her in adoring homage of that lofty spirit of loyalty she had shown. Now that he knew all, he determined to write to thank her for what she had done. So far as he was concerned, it must be his part, he told himself, to make her sacrifice no harder. Therefore he must abide by her decision and accept it.
Gilbert was a young man, with all the high hopes and the hot passions of youth, and it was not without the deepest pain that he thought of her and his vanished happiness. It was natural that he should first think of her and of his own loss. But once he accepted her decision, he resolved to lock away her image in his heart, and to cherish it there in secret. Having got himself into this frame of mind, he passed on to consider his father's position.
The greatness and importance of the firm of Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, solicitors, had never for a single instant been doubted by Gilbert, until his father's declaration had swept away that greatness and importance for ever. All his life Gilbert had believed his father's firm was as enduringly established as the Bank of England; he regarded it as a permanent institution. It was difficult for him to realize it was nothing now but a bankrupt concern. When he did realize it, and remembered the obligations of the firm which must exist over and above those arising out of the Thornton and Bennet Estates, he saw with fatal clearness Kitty's sacrifice might very well be made in vain, and that some other client might, and almost certainly would, bring about the exposure and ruin of the firm she had tried to save.
Then, he asked himself, what was his own duty? Without doubt, he must stand by his father, and do what he could to help him. But how?
The cause of all this disaster and calamity was Silwood, the man whom he had instinctively disliked and distrusted. It was Silwood who had ruined the firm. It was through Silwood, indirectly, that he had lost Kitty. And Silwood was dead! From his grave he defied them all to touch him; there was nothing to be done to a dead man, Gilbert reflected, drearily.
But was that altogether true? The lips of the dead man were for ever sealed; but had he left nothing behind him? The Eversleigh firm had been a great one, and to make away with all its funds and properties could have been no small business, but one which involved a large number of transactions. Surely there must be notes, traces, indications of these transactions somewhere. Thousands and thousands of pounds from sales of shares, and house or land property could not be got or disposed of without leaving some mark.
So Gilbert reasoned.
And he resolved to urge his father, therefore, to have everything connected with Silwood's department thoroughly investigated at once. And then he thought of his father. "Cast your mind back to that Saturday," his father had said. Measured by what his father must have suffered, that Saturday seemed ages ago. Poor unhappy father! A great wave of pity for him flooded the heart of the son, who now reproached himself bitterly for having spoken no word of sympathy.
"I must go to him," he said, rising from the bench, "and ask him to let me help him."
A few moments later Gilbert stood once more in his father's room, his face no longer dark, but full of purpose.
"When you told me what you did just now, father," said he, "I am afraid I did not behave very well. I was so taken up with myself that I had no consideration for you. It was wrong of me. I should have known you must have passed through a dreadful time, in which you have suffered agonies. And now, sir, I come to request you to permit me to assist you in every way I can."
"Gladly, my boy; but how can you? What is there that any one can do? I am like a sinking ship," said Eversleigh, mournfully.
"Will you tell me if you have overhauled Mr. Silwood's books and papers?"
"No, I have not. I began, but desisted."
"Why, father?"
"Because I thought Williamson was suspicious. I felt sure that he was watching me. So I stopped, and allowed things to drift."
"But, father, the only chance you have lies in making this investigation. If Williamson is in the way, he must be got rid of."
"Would not that in itself excite remark?"
"Not necessarily, surely. But if his going does cause remark, we shall just have to put up with it. Besides, we can give him an excellent character and a gratuity—these will salve his feelings."
"But what excuse can I make?"
"Can you not say you are going to make extensive changes, owing to Mr. Silwood's death?"
"He has been such a long time with us," objected Eversleigh.
"Yes, I know; but you cannot afford to keep a man who suspects you. At any cost, he must go."
"He is a good clerk," began Eversleigh.
"I wonder if he really is!" exclaimed Gilbert. "If he was such a good clerk, how was it that he did not know of Silwood's defalcations?"
"Perhaps he does know."
"If he does, it would be well to be sure of it. Have him in now, and tell him he is to go. If he knows anything he will speak out."
"You are so impetuous," said Eversleigh, feebly.
"I have a strong feeling," replied Gilbert, "that your safety lies in immediate action."
"And what would be your next step?"
"I should get in an accountant familiar with legal work, and have him go over all Silwood's books and papers. Silwood cannot have disposed of all the moneys and properties of the firm without leaving some indication of how he did it; and perhaps an investigation may reveal that things are not so bad as you think. He cannot have disposed of everything. For instance, there must be certain trusts and other matters with which he could not tamper. Suppose we try to look into them all, father."
A spark of hope shone for a moment in Eversleigh's eyes, but it speedily went out.
"I am quite willing, Gilbert, but I am afraid it will not be any use," he said, dejectedly. "Whom would you think of getting to examine the books and papers?"
"I fancy I know the very man. Young Archer Martin, of Roscoe and Martin."
"Could you depend on his discretion?"
"Absolutely."
Eversleigh was silent. His impulse was to surrender himself to the guidance of his son; but he was sore afraid. Gilbert saw from his father's face that he was hesitating.
"There is no other way, father," he cried, with decision.
"Then be it so," agreed Eversleigh.
"And what about Williamson?"
"Can you not let him remain, at least, for a time?"
"I think not, sir."
"Well, well. I am not sure it is wise."
But Gilbert had no doubts, and in the end Williamson received a note saying that after that week his services would not be required. At the same time, the head-clerk was given a handsome cheque as a solatium.
Gilbert next set out for the office of Roscoe and Martin, where he was fortunate to find Archer Martin. As briefly as possible, Gilbert told him that he had reason to believe there had been some irregularities in his father's office, and that his father had deputed him to invite the accountant to make a searching investigation immediately, if that fitted in with his engagements.
"As it happens, it does; I can set to work to-morrow," said Martin.
"Of course," said Gilbert, "it is a confidential investigation—that is understood."
"Certainly," said the accountant, who had no idea that he might innocently be making himself a party to a fraud.
Archer Martin, accordingly, went to 176, New Square, the following day, and began his inquiries. Without referring to any one except Gilbert, he went on his way, steadily plodding through the books and papers of the firm. His labours extended over several days, but he had not gone very far when he saw the true character of the work he was engaged on. He knew there was being disclosed bit by bit a gigantic system of fraud which involved huge sums of money, and that the system had been practised remorselessly and with diabolical cunning and ingenuity for years. He saw that Cooper Silwood, by one means or another, had appropriated many thousands of pounds, though what he had done with the cash did not appear. It was plain he had stopped at nothing; there were false entries everywhere and many forgeries.
He wondered at the ability Silwood had manifested in keeping up appearances so long. It was evident to him, from various sums of interest being paid to clients at the proper time, as if their investments still remained, that Silwood had kept a strict account of his robberies, but though he searched in Silwood's room, throughout the rest of the office, and even in Silwood's apartments in Stone Buildings, for some book or memoranda relating to these robberies, he could not find it. He came to the conclusion that Silwood had either destroyed it or taken it with him. He had heard of Silwood's death as well as of the death of Morris Thornton, and now saw pretty clearly how matters stood.
Failing to light upon Silwood's memoranda, he tried to see what could be done by tracking out some of the larger transactions of the defaulting solicitor, which necessarily involved the names of other persons.
And this led him to make an extraordinary discovery, though he did not think it so extraordinary as it really was.
Amongst the names of persons having large transactions with Silwood, there occurred that of James Russell, described as of 99, Douglas Street, Stepney. In the aggregate, Silwood's dealings with this man came to a vast sum, and Archer Martin thought Douglas Street, Stepney, was a curious address for one who presumably must be very well off indeed.
All through his investigation he had been in close contact with Gilbert Eversleigh, and he now suggested some inquiries be made about Mr. James Russell, of 99, Douglas Street, Stepney. This Gilbert undertook to do himself.
Gilbert had some difficulty in finding Douglas Street, but eventually did find it. No. 99 turned out to be a humble house—not at all the kind of dwelling in which a man dealing with large sums of money was likely to reside. He discovered also that it was no longer occupied by Russell, that individual with his wife and crippled child having left it some time before; but he learned that they were poor people, living in a very poor way. And much more he could not learn.
"What, then, was the connection between Cooper Silwood and James Russell?" he asked himself. "Was Russell a confederate?"
But he could get no further than this supposition. He had to content himself with putting a private detective on the trail of James Russell, and awaiting results.
It was now the second week of September. Kitty Thornton was staying at Buckhurst House, near Selby, in Yorkshire, not many miles from Doncaster, with her relative, Mrs. Joicey, a widow lady.
The girl, though she felt as if her heart was broken and there never could be any happiness in the world for her again, still adhered firmly to her determination to do what she considered her duty. Since she had come to Yorkshire she had heard but once from the Eversleighs. The message came in a short note from Gilbert, which ran—
"My father has told me all. God bless you and keep you."
The words were brief, but Kitty read into them a depth of meaning. She pictured to herself Gilbert writing this letter in much the same spirit of renunciation of joy and acceptance of inevitable evil, as had inspired her own action. And again she told herself, as she had had to tell herself very often, that in life there were higher things than love. But she treasured up Gilbert's words and even the piece of paper on which they were written.
Meanwhile she had another interview with Bennet, who, following the round of the races, as usual, had gone down to Yorkshire for the great Doncaster September meeting, in which his horse, Go Nap, was expected to cut no small figure.
Although Bennet had not been able to get the ten thousand pounds from Francis Eversleigh which he had asked him for, he yet had experienced very little difficulty in obtaining all the funds he wanted for his purposes. More than once before this time he had had recourse to a certain Jew, Joel Levy by name, for loans, which Bennet had always heretofore repaid punctiliously; he was therefore in excellent credit with this money-lender.
When Bennet told Levy he was engaged to marry Kitty Thornton, the daughter of Thornton, the Missing Millionaire, whose remarkable story was known to everybody, Levy offered no objection when he was asked for a fresh loan. He merely inquired when the marriage was to take place, and was satisfied on hearing it was arranged for an early date—as soon, in fact, as the lady's mourning for her father would decently permit.
Levy congratulated Bennet on his good fortune, wished him equal luck in his racing, and, having obtained his signature to bills carrying interest at fifty per cent., wrote out a cheque.
Thereafter Bennet liquidated his most pressing liabilities, and with the balance, still a considerable sum, set off in high spirits for Yorkshire.
But before going north he had seen Francis Eversleigh, been told the exact sum for which Beauclerk Mansions had been sold by Silwood, and had had prepared a discharge to the firm for the same. This he took with him unsigned, and when he presented himself at Buckhurst House, and asked for Miss Thornton, he had the document in his pocket.
He had made a bargain with the girl for it, and his pulses beat fiercely as he thought he would at last hold her in his arms and embrace her. He knew well enough that her response was likely to be of the coldest, but assured himself that from the moment he touched her lips, he should begin to dominate and bend her to his will.
Kitty received him much more graciously than he expected, but this was merely because she felt that, with a man of Bennet's character and disposition, the Eversleighs would not be safe until her sacrifice was complete. She was afraid, too, that in some way she might be tricked by him.
When he handed her the document which was to cancel the obligations of Eversleigh's firm, he was careful to tell her it had been drawn up by Francis Eversleigh himself, who had also sent with it a covering letter, expressing its effect in formal terms.
"I think," said he to her, "I have done exactly what you would have wished me to do. Nothing remains now except for me to sign it and transfer it to you."
Kitty nodded gravely, and brought him pen and ink, that he might affix his signature to the discharge.
He signed his name with a flourish.
"I would do a great deal more than this for you, Kitty," he cried, as, holding the paper in his hand, he advanced towards her.
Giving it to her, he said, eagerly, "You remember the bargain we made?"
"Yes," she replied, and unresistingly allowed him to take her in his arms. He clutched her to his breast in an almost savage embrace, while he showered kisses on her lips. Passively she submitted to his caresses, though she loathed them and him from the bottom of her soul. By a strong effort of will, she managed to control herself so as not to show the repulsion with which he filled her.
"And I have promised to marry this man!" she thought. "How shall I ever be able to live with him!"
As she gently disengaged herself from him, he saw that she was deathly white.
"Oh, Kitty!" he exclaimed. "If you would only love me!"
"Love was not in our compact," she said, with a tremor.
"You shall love me," he responded. "When we are married, you must love me."
But the girl said nothing.
Then he asked if she would not accompany him to the races. "You are sure to bring me luck," he cried.
Reminding him that she was still in the deepest of mourning, she declined, wondering how the man should be so unfeeling.
"For the moment I had forgotten," he returned, apologetically. "It was very thoughtless of me—pray forgive me; but wish me luck all the same, will you not, Kitty?"
Kitty, however, was hurt, and would give him no answer. Bennet regarded her for an instant or two, a heavy frown gathering on his face.
"You refuse to wish me luck!" he cried. "I do everything you ask me to do, and yet you won't wish me good luck! For your sake I have forgone my claim on the Eversleighs, and you haven't one good word for me! Kitty, I warn you not to cross me, not to make me angry. Thanks to you, the Eversleighs owe me no money—that is true, but remember that if I were to whisper in certain quarters what I know about the firm, its credit would not last very long."
"What! You would do such a thing!"
"It depends on you, Kitty, and on you alone. Be my friend—I know you cannot, perhaps, love me all at once, but be my friend; in our circumstances surely this is not much to ask from you."
"What would you have me do?"
"Wish me luck, Kitty—that's a very little thing!"
"I have always heard, Mr. Bennet," the girl said, looking at him steadily, "that this racing is your ruin."
"Oh, you preach, do you!" ejaculated Bennet, with a scowl, and, without another word, turned on his heel and left her, while Kitty bitterly asked herself if her sacrifice was to go for nothing.
An hour or two later, Bennet was at Doncaster, in close confabulation with Bob Deans, the jockey who was to ride Go Nap.
"You understand thoroughly?" inquired Bennet, as he was going back to his hotel.
"Yes, guv'nor, I understand perfectly," replied the jockey. "You can depend on me."
But Bob Deans made a face behind the other's back.
"He's a daisy," he said to himself, "that's what he is!"
The first day of the Doncaster September meeting passed by without special incident. Bennet had several bets on the different events, but at the end his book nearly balanced; it was a trifle against him.
"It will be all right to-morrow," he said to an acquaintance, with whom he was discussing the fortunes of the day. "I expect that Go Nap will pull me through handsomely."
"You believe he'll win?"
"I feel absolutely confident of it," said Bennet, with emphasis.
"You are not alone in that," remarked the other. "I noticed your horse is going up in the betting; it now stands at five to one against; a few days ago it was ten to one."
Bennet smiled; indeed, his face showed every sign of pleasure.
"You might do worse," said he, "than put a bit on him."
"Yes, I think I shall," responded the other; "it looks pretty good."
And to all whom he met Bennet spoke well of his horse, and took any small bets that were offered, but, contrary to his usual practice, he would not risk any large sum. And all the while, secretly, through agents he thought he could trust, he was laying heavily against Go Nap, until he stood to win £20,000 if the horselost.
Bright sunshine, a cool breeze, and a perfect track combined to make the second day of the races peculiarly enjoyable to the devotees of the turf. The race in which Bennet's horse was to run was the third on the list. The fine appearance of the animal that morning as he went for a short gallop had gained for him many supporters, and an immense amount of money was forthcoming on him, with the result that he farther improved his position in the betting. When the flag fell, the price was only three to two against him.
To the huge delight of his backers, Go Nap won easily. Taking the lead from the start, he was never seriously challenged, and reached the post "with plenty to spare."
Bennet, who was watching the race from one of the stands, had followed his horse from start to finish with anxious eyes. He had given Bob Deans certain instructions, and he believed they would be obeyed implicitly by the jockey. Bennet saw the horse leading at the beginning. That was nothing, he said to himself, as Deans knew what to do, and was the best judge of when to do it. But as Go Nap sailed along steadily in front, apparently without effort, Bennet commenced to see the race as through a mist. When his horse won, and his friends were offering him their congratulations, he could scarcely speak for rage. His passion completely blinded him to the impolicy of his behaviour, and everything that was worst in the man came to the surface. Hardly noticing what was said to him, he rushed from the stand.
"He takes it queerly," said a bystander.
"His head's a bit turned, though that's perhaps not to be wondered at," said a second.
As for Bennet, he literally saw red.
"Deans has sold me!" was the savage cry in his heart.
Thrusting those aside who happened to be in his path, he made his way to the jockey, who saw him coming. Bob Deans viewed with alarm the fury and despair in Bennet's face, and turned to run away, but with two or three quick bounds Bennet was upon him.
Grasping the jockey by the shoulder, Bennet, who had utterly lost control of himself, and was wholly blind to consequences, shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Bennet was a tall, athletic man, and the tiny figure of Bob Deans was as nothing to him.
Instantly several of those standing about tried to interfere and separate the two men.
But Bennet, who was now to all intents and purposes a madman, shook them off fiercely, without letting go his hold on Deans.
"Leave me alone," the jockey spluttered, "or I'll give you away! Let me go!"
"Let you go, you hound!" cried Bennet in a terrible voice, and, his face hideously distorted, he shouted, "By ——, I'll kill you!"
The onlookers again strove to pull the two men apart, and succeeded sufficiently for Bob Deans to cry so that every one heard him—
"He wished me to pull the horse; he offered me a big bribe, but I would do nothing crooked."
Bennet heard the words as well as the others.
Putting forth all his strength, and quite beside himself, he sprang forward with uplifted fist, and catching the unfortunate jockey a frightful blow under the chin, felled him to the ground.
Many now ran up to the group. Bob Deans was a popular jockey, and the victory of Go Nap had been popular. Soon there was a great crowd.
A short examination showed that Bob Deans was dead.
The little jockey had ridden his last race!
The blow which had struck him down had been delivered by one who had been a first-class athlete, and who was still in splendid physical condition. There had been the stark madness, too, of blind rage behind Bennet's arm, and the blow had proved fatal.
When the truth was known, there instantly was a great commotion. Bennet made no effort to get away; if he had attempted to fly he would not have succeeded, for he was ringed round by hostile and stern faces that plainly spoke of vengeance. In a moment more hands were laid upon him by those of the crowd nearest him, but he offered no resistance. Instead, he stood staring at the motionless body of his victim, and appeared not to realize what he had done, and the position in which his act had placed him.
Suddenly from somewhere in the crowd a loud cry went up of "Murder! Murder!"
The cry seemed to break the fit of stupor in which Bennet was, for his face was seen to quiver, while a shudder shook his frame.
"What have I done? What have I done?" he said, as if he had just become conscious of the deed he had committed.
"You have killed him," replied one of those standing by.
"He is not dead?" asked Bennet, wildly.
"Dead! yes; he is dead, and you killed him!" answered the same man.
"I never meant to kill him," said Bennet, looking once more at the little figure that lay on the ground.
"Why," said a voice, "I heard you say to him, 'I'll kill you!'—I heard you say those very words!"
"I was in a passion," Bennet declared, "and did not know what I was doing. I never thought of killing him."
"Then why did you say to him—I heard the words distinctly—'I'll kill you'?"
But Bennet made no reply. He now comprehended fully the position in which he stood, and he thought silence his best policy. Those about him, however, were far from silent. He could not help hearing what was being said, and he understood that nothing but detestation and execration were being expressed. The crowd had no sympathy whatever for him. On the contrary, had the crowd not been composed of Englishmen, accustomed to abide by the law of the land, Bennet would have been given a short shrift. If what he had done had been perpetrated in America, he would undoubtedly have been immediately lynched out of hand. But the crowd waited for the police to come upon the scene.
The crowd, however, talked excitedly, vehemently. The words which had passed between Bennet and the jockey were repeated from lip to lip. The statement of Bob Deans that Bennet had tried to bribe him to pull Go Nap, and that he had refused to do so, was soon known to all; in the minds of most was the thought that Bennet, in suggesting this course to the jockey, was guilty of a crime even greater perhaps than murder, and that no punishment was too heavy for it. Many of them would have maintained that hanging was too good for him; some of them even said so.
Presently the police came up, and Bennet was arrested and charged with the murder of Bob Deans.
The affair, as was to be expected, made a tremendous sensation, not only throughout the world of the turf, but everywhere.
At Doncaster itself reports of what had taken place spread like wildfire through the place; nothing else was talked of, and but little interest was taken in the remaining races on the programme that afternoon.
In the whole history of racing never had there been anything so extraordinary.
The popular victory of Go Nap, the murder of the victorious jockey by the owner of the horse, the revelation which had been given by the unfortunate Deans of the reason why Bennet had killed him,—these and other particulars, which grew and grew as they passed from mouth to mouth, formed as sensational a set of incidents as could well be imagined. Brief but lurid accounts of what had occurred at Doncaster appeared in the London evening papers the same day, and caused the greatest excitement.
Gilbert Eversleigh, walking about seven o'clock from the Temple to his club for dinner, his mind occupied and distressed by the difficult problem of how his father was to escape ruin, received his first intimation of the tragedy from the placard of one of these journals. In large, solid black letters he read—
"Victory of Go Nap at Doncaster.Murder of its Jockey, Bob Deans,by its Owner, Henry Bennet."
"What new calamity is this?" he asked himself, as his thoughts flew to Kitty. As soon as possible, he procured all the evening papers and read, with feverish haste, their narratives of the terrible event, from which the main facts stood out clearly enough.
"What will happen next?" he cried in his heart, overcome with amazement and horror.
Owing to its being the holiday season of the year, there were but few men at the Club when Gilbert reached it, but such as were there were conversing about the murder. Bennet was well known to several of them; it was recalled that he was a Varsity oar, but what was principally talked of was his monstrous passion for gambling, which it was guessed was responsible for his present terrible situation. Gilbert listened, but took only a small part in the conversation; it was an immense relief to him to find no reference was made by anybody to Bennet's engagement to Kitty. He hoped it might be possible to keep the girl's name out of the business altogether, but in this he was speedily disappointed.
Next morning the papers were full of the affair. Descriptions of what had taken place at Doncaster were given the utmost prominence, and nothing was left untold that could be put together about Bennet in a short space of time. What was known of his career was published; and amongst other things mention was made of his recent engagement to Miss Kitty Thornton, daughter of the man whose body had been found a few weeks ago in such strange circumstances in the rooms of the late Mr. Cooper Silwood, and much sympathy was expressed for her. This was the first public announcement of Kitty's engagement to Bennet, and Gilbert, who noticed it with the greatest pain, wondered how this piece of news had been conveyed to the Press. He could not know that Joel Levy, the big money-lender, had talked about it among his friends, through whom it had got to the ears of the reporters.
The same morning, that is the morning after the death of Bob Deans, Kitty saw a long account of it in the columns of the Yorkshire paper that was delivered every morning at Buckhurst House. Prior to reading this statement, Kitty had deemed herself as unhappy as it was possible for any one to be, but when she knew what had happened, she was plunged into deeper misery still. Bennet a murderer, and she engaged to him! It was the last unkindest stroke of fortune. And yet while she was sorry for herself, and much as she detested Bennet, she could not help feeling sorry for him. It did not at first occur to her that he had, by his rash act, if not crime, put an end, in all probability, to their engagement. When that thought did come, as it was bound to come, she drearily speculated what the wretched man in his despair would do; in other words, she feared that the bargain she had entered into with Bennet for the salvation of the Eversleighs was a bargain which in these new circumstances he would not keep.
The papers had announced an inquest was to be held that day, and she awaited the verdict with sickening apprehension. And what might there not appear in these journals in addition to the account of the inquest? Of course, she told herself, it was quite improbable that Bennet would say anything about the Eversleigh matter at the inquest; but what might he not say, might he not already have said, to others—to the police, for instance? She was not long left in doubt as to the line Bennet intended to take.
The inquest was held in a crowded court which was entirely hostile to Bennet. And that the jury took the darkest view of Bennet's action soon was manifest. A local solicitor, called Deakin, had been retained for him, and he did his best to get a verdict of manslaughter returned, but even if the evidence had been less convincing than it was, the general feeling would still have been too strong for him.
There were plenty of witnesses who agreed, with only small verbal discrepancies which are always a feature of such cases, and confirm rather than detract from the value of the main volume of testimony, as to what had passed between Bennet and Bob Deans. The words used by the two men were quoted by several witnesses with substantial accuracy; particularly the threat of Bennet to the jockey, "I'll kill you!" was brought forward by them all, and practically settled in the minds of coroner and jury the degree of Bennet's guilt.
Bennet, they concluded, had intended killing Bob Deans, and had killed him. The cause of the murder made Bennet's crime blacker and blacker still.
His solicitor tried to show there had not been, there could not be, any premeditation on Bennet's part, and that the deed was done in the heat of passion without there being any real intention to kill the man. He urged that the death of the jockey was of the nature of an accident; his client had certainly struck the blow, but could not know it was likely to be fatal. The most and worst Bennet was guilty of, Deakin contended, was manslaughter.
But the jury were of another mind. Without retiring to consider their verdict, they at once found Bennet guilty of the wilful murder of the jockey.
It was a verdict which met with general approval. The coroner, in accepting it, said the case was one of the most painful nature, but as it would doubtless form matter for the consideration of a higher court, he would make no further comment upon it.
Like hundreds of thousands of people who were following this dark story of the turf with the most absorbing interest, both Kitty and Gilbert saw the finding of the jury, and later that Bennet had been committed for trial at the next assizes on the capital charge. Kitty, wondering miserably what Bennet would do, thereafter received from him a letter, in which he asked her to visit him in prison without delay. By this time he had been removed from Doncaster to York, and thither Kitty went, accompanied by her relative, Mrs. Joicey, that very day, though it was not until the next that she saw him.
Prison life had already told on Bennet, and she observed a marked change in his appearance, which filled her with pity; but the man was in a black, reckless, defiant humour, as she soon noticed; even the near presence of a warder did not deter him from expressing what was in his mind.
"I'm very, very sorry for you, Harry," she said, and there was the sound of tears in her voice. It was the first time, too, since their engagement that she had called him "Harry."
"Sorry!" he cried. "Do you think I believe that? Don't be a hypocrite. You are glad, you must be glad of my misfortune. You think it will set you free!"
"Oh, Harry, do not think of me; think of yourself!"
"Think of myself!" said Bennet, fiercely, implacably. "Can I not think of myself and of others too?"
The girl involuntarily shrank from him.
"Oh, Harry, Harry!" she said piteously.
"I sent for you," Bennet went on without heeding her appeal, "to tell you that I will not release you. I do not believe that I shall be found guilty of murder—it was no murder, and I shall not release you from your engagement to me. But if I am found guilty, you may be sure I shall not go out of the world without letting it know the truth about Francis Eversleigh. There! That is all! And now you can go."
"Harry, Harry!" cried Kitty; "how can I touch your heart?"
"Touch my heart! The day has gone past for that. Now go—and go at once; the sight of you is torture. Go!"
Though Bennet had said to Kitty Thornton that the sight of her was torture to him, yet, when she had departed, her pleading face remained present for a short time in his thoughts and temporarily softened him. But this frame of mind quickly passed, leaving him a prey to hatred, malignity, and the darkest passions.
His devilish humour now prompted him to an act of hideous malice. The idea came to him that if he had Gilbert Eversleigh as his counsel at the forthcoming trial, he would inflict on Gilbert, as well as on Kitty, the most exquisite pain. It was the idea of a fiend rather than of a human being, and showed, as perhaps nothing else could have done, how Bennet's whole nature had been warped to the side of evil. He gloated over this monstrous idea, telling himself that in this way, whatever happened, he would glut his desire for revenge. He knew that, in ordinary circumstances, Gilbert would never consent to appear for him if he could avoid doing so; but a threat to expose Francis Eversleigh would be enough, Bennet believed, to settle the matter. Whether Gilbert would or would not be a good counsel counted for little with him in comparison with the gratification he expected and promised himself, from seeing the man he had always hated placed in this position.
It was much the same thing as if Bennet had said to Gilbert—
"If you succeed in getting me off from the capital charge, I shall not release Kitty from her engagement, but will marry her after my term of imprisonment has expired. Though I shall be a convict, I shall compel her to marry me, for the same reason that made her engage herself to me.
"Or, if you don't succeed, and I am sentenced to death, and there is no Kitty for me, then you shall not have her; for I will not quit this world without exposing your father and bringing disgrace on you, in which case you will not seek to marry her."
No matter the result of the trial, Bennet assured himself, with diabolical satisfaction, that he would cause Gilbert's heart to suffer the most horrible agony.
He at once took the necessary steps by instructing the local solicitor, Deakin, to have Gilbert Eversleigh retained for his defence. He gave a certain plausibility to this, when discussing it with the lawyer, by representing that Gilbert was well known to him, being the son of the head of the London firm of solicitors who transacted his legal business, as well as that of his father before him. When Deakin, in reply, suggested it might be better, in view of the seriousness of the charge, to employ a more eminent barrister, Bennet peremptorily declined to do so, saying his mind was made up.
Deakin, therefore, put himself in communication with Gilbert, and he naturally did so in this particular case through Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, though they were not his own London agents.
When Francis Eversleigh received his letter, he instantly perceived the malice and hatred that inspired Bennet's proposal; it was a fresh and bitter blow to himself, but he understood its ingenuity of cruelty was specially aimed at his son. As for himself, he was helpless; all he could do was to send for Gilbert, and lay the letter before him.
Gilbert at first was dumbfounded. He could hardly believe that Bennet at such a time could make such a proposition seriously; but he, too, soon perceived what lay behind it.
"It is infamous!" he cried; "or the man must be out of his head. To select me of all people!"
Then he looked at his father, whose weakness and loss of power were more and more evident every day.
"What am I to do?" he asked. "How can I defend this man?"
"He holds me in the hollow of his hand," observed Francis Eversleigh, with a pathetic shake in his voice.
"I know, I know," said Gilbert. "And I suppose I must appear for him. But the thing is an outrage——"
Gilbert was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door of his father's room—it was no ordinary knocking, but a knocking that spoke of some strong emotion on the part of the person who knocked.
Gilbert strode to the door and opened it. The clerk who had replaced Williamson was standing there, and on his face was a terrified expression.
"I must speak to Mr. Eversleigh immediately," he said hurriedly.
"What is it, Mr. Whittaker?" asked Eversleigh, with a quick agitation.
"I should like, begging Mr. Gilbert's pardon, to see you in private, sir," returned Whittaker, confusedly. "Please come into Mr. Silwood's room; there is no need for Mr. Gilbert to go from here. It is something I must show you personally in Mr. Silwood's room."
"But of what nature is it?"
"That I can scarcely tell, but you may be able to do so."
Francis Eversleigh said no more, but went with Whittaker into Silwood's room. In a few moments he came back alone, looking so shattered that as soon as his son saw him he rushed forward to assist him. When Gilbert offered him his arm, he took it at once, and Gilbert could feel how his father shook and trembled.
"What has happened?" he asked, after helping his father into a chair.
"Yes, in a minute," stammered the other; "I am horribly upset, and I can stand so little now! In a minute I'll tell you all."
He lay back in his chair with his eyes closed—the mere wreck of the handsome man he once had been.
"A very strange thing has taken place, Gilbert," he said after a while—"a very strange thing indeed!"
Eversleigh stopped, and Gilbert patiently waited till his father spoke again, his heart full of compassion and sorrow. For the moment, he forgot Bennet, and could think of nothing save the pitiable state of his father.
At length Francis Eversleigh recovered himself sufficiently to stand up.
"Come with me," he said to Gilbert, "to Mr. Silwood's room—that will be the simplest way of making you acquainted with what has happened."
And Gilbert, with mingled feelings of curiosity and alarm, followed his father to the next floor. Halfway down the stairs, Eversleigh halted.
"Whittaker thinks it's a burglary," he whispered mysteriously in Gilbert's ear.
"A burglary! In the office!" said Gilbert, incredulously in a low voice.
"Wait," cautioned Eversleigh. "Wait until you see."
And now they were in Silwood's room, which was still known as Silwood's, though it knew Silwood no more. It was changed, however, but little since he had sat in it and worked his wicked will.
"Close the door, Gilbert," said Eversleigh.
The son obeyed, and then glanced about him. He could see no sign of disturbance, nothing that indicated specially the burglary of which his father had given a suggestion on the stairs. There were in the room, as of yore, the same table, chair, book-cases, deed-boxes; all were arranged in the way that was familiar enough to him. The large japanned box stood by itself in the usual corner. There appeared to be absolutely no hint of anything out of the ordinary. This rapid scrutiny over, Gilbert looked at his father inquiringly.
"You don't notice anything particularly?" asked Eversleigh.
"No; that is, at a superficial glance."
"I wish you to examine the bottom of that box," said Eversleigh, pointing to the large japanned box in the corner. "You and Mr. Archer Martin have recently had constant access to it for the purpose of going over Mr. Silwood's books and papers; you therefore know it well. Now you will see something I am sure you know nothing of. I did not know of it myself—not until Whittaker showed me it."
While Eversleigh was speaking, his son was looking at the foot of the box, from which he saw there protruded a narrow strip of metal.
"What do you make ofthat?" asked the father, huskily.
"I should say it was a sort of secret chamber—you can't exactly call it a drawer," Gilbert replied, after a study of the box. "I knew nothing of it; you are right there. How has it been discovered? What was found in it?" he inquired eagerly, while other questions came thronging into his mind. "When was this discovery made?" he went on.
"It was made this morning," replied Eversleigh. "Whittaker tells me he had occasion to come into the room a few minutes ago to get a paper which he thought he'd find here. He could not lay his hand on it quickly, and had to hunt for it. Quite by accident, as he was searching, he happened to observe a strip of metal at the foot of the box sticking out. Naturally, he went and examined the box, and then saw the secret chamber, which he declares was empty, and I don't doubt it. Now he is positive that when he saw the box yesterday this secret chamber was closed."
"Positive! In what way?"
"It seems that he and one of the other clerks required to move the box yesterday. And he maintains that one or other of them, or both, must have seen the secret chamber if it had been open then. He concludes, of course, that it has been opened since he saw it last. His theory is that it was opened last night by a burglar. I don't know whether he really believes that; it appears preposterous and beyond possibility that any ordinary burglar would be acquainted with this secret chamber."
Gilbert nodded his agreement. He had listened carefully to his father, but at the same time had been trying to understand how the mechanism was worked by which the chamber was opened and closed. It baffled him, however, and he desisted from the attempt.
"What do you make of it?" asked the father.
"Do you believe Whittaker right in thinking the chamber was opened last night?" inquired Gilbert.
"I do."
"But that he was wrong in putting it down to a burglar?"
"Yes. Do burglars break into lawyer's rooms? I don't mean to say that such a thing is impossible, for valuable documents have been stolen—you can imagine that."
"Of course. But if the secret chamber was not opened by a burglar, then by whom was it opened?"
"That is the question," said Eversleigh, gazing earnestly at his son.
"Whoever opened the secret chamber knew of its existence," Gilbert went on, thinking the matter out aloud.
"Undoubtedly. He knew of its existence, and he also had the means of opening it."
Gilbert suddenly started, for an extraordinary notion had come into his mind. His father saw the start, and thought he knew its meaning. The two men looked at each other strangely.
"Only two men in the world, I feel certain, knew of that chamber," Eversleigh resumed. "One was the mechanic who devised and made it, the other was——"
"Cooper Silwood!" exclaimed Gilbert.
"Yes, Cooper Silwood."
"But Silwood is dead, so you would say that it was the other? That seems absurd."
"It is absurd. What would the mechanic who made the box care about taking anything out of the secret chamber? Once his job of making the thing was finished, he would be finished with it altogether. No, it was not the mechanic."
Gilbert was silent.
"Don't you see?" asked Eversleigh.
"Silwood!"
"Precisely."
"But that is impossible. Dead men do not open secret chambers," said Gilbert, but there was something curious and suggestive in the manner of his saying it.
"No. Dead men do not open secret chambers, but living ones do. Silwood is not dead! He is alive!"
Eversleigh's voice rose into a shout and then cracked.
"It seems inconceivable."
"Yet there is no other conclusion. The maker of the box being out of the question, it follows that it must have been Silwood. I believe he was here last night and removed from the secret chamber something of particular value to him."
"Silwood might have told some one of it," objected Gilbert.
"Is it likely? You know he was the least communicative of men."
"What about Williamson?"
"I feel confident he knew nothing of it either. Don't you see this secret chamber was a receptacle in which Silwood hid papers or other things he had an object in concealing? You may be certain he told no one of it. If he had told any one, would he not have told me? No, Gilbert; from the moment I knew of Whittaker's discovery I suspected the truth."
"But the certificate of his death?"
"It was a false certificate."
"Strange I had not thought of that before, once I knew the kind of man he was!"
"Silwood is alive," Eversleigh once more, but with less vigour, declared, after a pause of some duration.
All through the conversation up to this point he had carried himself, supported by excitement, with some degree of his former buoyancy, but now he seemed to sink rapidly into a state of apathy, while Gilbert regarded him anxiously.
"I don't know what's to be done next," murmured Eversleigh, feebly.
"Some one must go to Italy," said Gilbert, emphatically, "and find out the truth—that's what must be done!"
"Then," said his father, "you must go!"
"I?" asked Gilbert.
"Yes," Francis Eversleigh replied, with some decision. "I can do nothing. In fact, I am physically and mentally unfit to do anything of importance at present. The discovery of the secret chamber, indicating as it must that Silwood is alive, supplied me with a sort of stimulus, but that is passing off, and I feel as weak and helpless as a child. I feel," he went on, while he slowly put his hand to his forehead, "as if I were going mad. It is an awful feeling!"
"Father!"
"Oh," cried Eversleigh, "this business will be the death of me! I know it!"
These words, Gilbert told himself, were caused by the reaction to which his father had alluded, and were not to be taken literally, but he gazed solicitously at the other.
"No wonder you are depressed, father," he said, in a sympathetic tone. "Well, I'll go to Italy," he added in another voice.
"That's right! Don't mind me! You must go at once, my boy."
"Yes, but what about Bennet? We have rather lost sight of him, have we not?"
"I think we need not consider Bennet at the moment. I shall answer his lawyer and say you are willing to be retained for Bennet's defence."
"You deem that best?"
"What choice have I, Gilbert?"
Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.
"There is no alternative," continued Eversleigh. "But some time must pass before the trial; indeed, you will have a good many weeks to come and go upon. Surely that will give you plenty of room for making your inquiries. Still, there is no saying—the task may be very difficult."
Eversleigh paused, lost in thought.
"You would not bring the police into the thing?" Gilbert asked suggestively.
"Not at first. Later, perhaps, but I don't know; it must depend on circumstances one can neither foresee nor control. I shall certainly say not a word at this juncture to the police."
"What about the Foreign Office people?"
"Yes, that is a good idea. I think your best plan is to go and see, if you can, Sir John Manners, the Under-Secretary, whom I know very well. I'll give you a note to him, and request him to make your path as smooth as possible. If you see him personally, I should be inclined to tell him in confidence what we now believe about Silwood—that is, if he is at all encouraging in his manner. You must judge for yourself."
"I understand," said Gilbert.
"I should ask him for an introduction to the British Ambassador at Rome. It might prove very useful. Arm yourself with the best credentials you can get; but of course you must be guided largely by what Sir John says."
"Yes," assented Gilbert. "But suppose he is not at the Foreign Office? At this time of the year so many officials are away on holiday."
"You can see, at any rate, the man next to him; still, it would be far better to see Sir John."
"I had better set off for Downing Street immediately," said Gilbert, but he did not at once move. Instead, he looked very thoughtful; at length he spoke, "You have no doubt about Silwood being alive, sir?"
"None whatever."
"You believe he was here last night—here, in London, in this office?"
"Certainly."
"Then should we not look for him in London?"
"A natural question; but does not that mean bringing in the police?"
"There are private detectives to be got. I have one at this moment on the track of Russell, who bought so much from Silwood."
"I do not object to having a private detective employed, but I have a strong impression—it amounts really to a certainty—that the clue is to be picked up in Camajore, where Silwood was reported to have died. On the face of the certificate, which we now believe to be a false one, there is written, plain as if it had been in ink, collusion between Silwood and the Syndic. They were, you may be sure, in league, and they may be so still. Be that as it may, you can make investigations, which I am positive will have valuable results."
Eversleigh leaned back wearily, fatigued with so much speaking.
"Will you try and find Sir John at the Foreign Office, then return and let me know? Meanwhile I'll rest a little," said Eversleigh.
In a couple of hours Gilbert was back again in Lincoln's Inn. He had been lucky enough in his errand. He had seen the Under-Secretary, who had given him the introduction he had wanted to the Ambassador at the Quirinal.
"I did not think it necessary to tell Sir John," said Gilbert, relating what had taken place at the Foreign Office, "anything regarding what we now know about Silwood. On the way to Downing Street I went over the circumstances carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it might serve our purpose well enough merely to say to him that, as Silwood had died in Italy, you desired me to make inquiries, to see the body had been buried decently, to have a tombstone put up, and so on. And that it would, or might be, of great service if he would give me a note to the Ambassador, to be presented, however, only if an occasion arose for doing so."
"And Sir John was satisfied?"
"Perfectly. He was very nice about it, and said he was delighted to be of use to you."
Eversleigh smiled wanly. Then he spread out on his table some papers, which Gilbert saw were the certificate of Silwood's death, the letter of Ugo Ucelli, the Syndic of Camajore, that had accompanied it, and the envelope in which both had been enclosed.
"It occurred to me," observed Eversleigh, "that it would be well for you to take these with you."
He handed them to his son.
"Do you recall the contents of the Syndic's letter?" he went on. "Perhaps you had better have the translation."
"I remember what he said in a general sort of way, but the translation might be a help," replied Gilbert.
"Well, here it is," said Eversleigh, drawing a folded sheet from a packet.
Gilbert read the translation rapidly, and asked—
"Did you ever answer the letter?"
"Not beyond sending a formal acknowledgment."
"The letter speaks of Silwood having left certain effects, which the Syndic says are in his possession; he asks you what is to be done with them."
"I know, I know," remarked Eversleigh. "Of course, if the circumstances had been normal, I should have attended to the Syndic's letter fully. But I was in no state to do so. The letter, you must remember, came on the day of the discovery of Morris Thornton's body—was, indeed, the immediate cause of the discovery. Before that—ever since Silwood's confession—I was too upset to give my mind to business properly, and since that I have been able to attend to nothing as it ought to be attended to."
And Eversleigh sighed painfully.
"I would not brood on that, sir," observed Gilbert.
"I cannot help it; but never mind me just now. I suppose you will leave to-night for Genoa; you ought to be there in thirty-six hours or so. Therefore you should see the Syndic, if he is at the place still, in two days from now. His letter to me gives you an opening. You can tell him I asked you to find out what effects Silwood left."
"That will do very well indeed," said Gilbert.
A few minutes later he bade his father good-bye, and left that evening for the Continent. In forty-eight hours he was in Camajore, and lost no time in hunting up Ugo Ucelli, its Syndic, or Chief Magistrate.
Ucelli, a medium-sized man of characteristically Italian appearance, received him with extreme politeness. When the Syndic understood Gilbert did not know Italian, he conversed with him in French, a language both were proficient in.
Gilbert made known who he was, and the errand on which, ostensibly, he had come.
"Ah! that poor Monsieur Silwood," said Ucelli. "His was an extremely sad case. But what would you? It was the will of God."
Gilbert kept his eyes fixed on the man, and studied his face closely, as if he could in that way penetrate its inmost secrets.
"The cholera was everywhere," continued Ucelli, "and many died besides M. Silwood. It has been a great calamity. Alas! but it is the will of God! the will of God!"
The repetition of the phrase irritated Gilbert.
"A pestilence is always terrible," he said, but somewhat bluntly. "You did all you could, I am sure, for Mr. Silwood."
"The best doctors, nurses, care—everything. But, alas! it was the will of God."
"What a consummate hypocrite the man must be!" thought Gilbert. Aloud he said, "Was the body buried near here?"
"In the churchyard. Come, let me show you his tomb."
As they went together down the single street of which Camajore consists, towards the church, Gilbert said his father had specially charged him to discuss with Ucelli what was to be done with the effects Silwood had left behind him, and which were now in the Syndic's possession.
"Yes; when we return to my house I will show you them. There is not much—some letters, a pocket-book containing a few pounds in notes, and some gold and silver, the money amounting in all to about twenty pounds English. There is also a watch, and I believe that is all. As Syndic I have kept them, but, of course, am very willing to hand them over to the proper authority. Indeed, I shall be very glad to do so."
By this time the two men had reached the grave-yard. On entering it, Ucelli pointed to the numerous mounds on which the earth was comparatively fresh.
"The cholera," he said; "it was the cholera! Alas! it was the will of God!"
Gilbert nodded, his face set and stern.
"See," said the Syndic, when they had advanced a few steps, pointing to a mound, "that is where the body of M. Silwood lies."
In appearance this mound differed in no respect from the rest.
"Do you think of erecting a monument to M. Silwood?" asked Ucelli. "If so, I can have it made for you here."
"No," replied Gilbert, shortly. "What I intend to do is to remove the body to England."
"The body removed to England!" said the Syndic, who had given a great start on hearing Gilbert's statement.
"Yes; that seems best," remarked Gilbert, watching Ucelli keenly, and noticing his surprise.
"But think! he died of cholera! The law will forbid—it does forbid—the body of one who has died of cholera from being removed. It is therefore impossible, I regret to tell you, for you to carry out your intention. I am very sorry, for your idea is a natural one; but the law, monsieur, the law will not permit it."
"There's a good deal of cleverness about this plot," thought Gilbert. But he said to Ucelli, "I am very sorry to hear this. Is there no way of getting over the difficulty?"
"No way, monsieur, none whatever. It is impossible. It is the law. And it is also common sense," he added, smoothly and courteously. "On reflection you must admit it."
"Suppose the law did not forbid it," asked Gilbert, "what should I have to do in order to be allowed to remove the body?"
"The authorities must give permission."
"What authorities?"
"At Rome. I can do nothing in such a matter; it is too high for me."
"Then to Rome I must go," said Gilbert to himself. But he talked no more on this subject with the Syndic, who accordingly thought Gilbert was satisfied, and had abandoned any idea he might have had of removing the body to England.
Then they went to the office of the Syndic, and there Gilbert was shown the effects to which allusion had already been made. In addition to the articles and sums of money mentioned by Ucelli, there were two leather valises and some clothing. The Syndic explained that it had been necessary to burn most of the clothes that had belonged to Silwood.
"If you would like to examine or look into anything," said Ucelli, "you are at liberty to do so. It is, perhaps, slightly irregular, as you are not a relative of the deceased, but I make no objection."
"Everything has been carefully planned," thought Gilbert, as he mentally took note of the various objects. "They have succeeded in making the thing look perfectly natural and what would be expected in the circumstances. The watch, the clothes, the money, the letters, the travelling-bags, are just what one would expect to find as the dead man's effects, if he had been a dead man."
"To give you these, I shall require to have an order from the Government," said Ucelli.
"The Government at Rome?"
"Yes."
"I suppose, then," said Gilbert, "I had better go on to Rome?"
"That is your best course," agreed Ucelli, without suspicion, and he bade Gilbertbon-voyage.