"Sorry to disturb you so unceremoniously," said Hankey, "but it is necessary. I bring you unexpected news of supreme moment. Please dress, and while you are dressing I will tell you of a very startling development in the Russell affair."
"Is the news good or bad?"
"Good, I think; but time alone will disclose that. But please dress as quickly as you can, for you will have to go on a journey immediately. I have taken the liberty of ordering something for you to eat, and it should be here in a minute or two. You have just half an hour in which to catch the train you must travel by."
"What is the news?" asked Gilbert, going on dressing all the while.
"Well, last night, after I left you, I went to my office, late as it was, and I found one of my subordinates waiting for me. It was the man whose duty it was to shadow Russell. He reported that he had kept sight of him until he went into his own house. My man then hung about, and after some time, a conveyance drove up, into which presently Russell, his wife and child got. He followed them to the railway depot, and finally saw them depart in the Northern Pacific Express for Winnipeg."
"Gone!" exclaimed Gilbert; "and with a start of half-a-day! And James Russell leaves St. Paul the very day I arrive. That's curious. Had he got warning? But how?"
"Perhaps he saw you in the streets yesterday—you were about a good deal, were you not?"
"Yes; that may be it."
"It does not matter much, anyhow; the fact remains that he went away last night."
"And I must go after him at once. That's what you mean?"
"That's part of it; but there is more to tell you, much more. For, this morning, about forty minutes ago—oh, I lost no time, you will perceive—one of my men who has to be on duty all night at my office, came to my house and woke me up. He was aware Russell was on board the Northern Pacific Express going to Winnipeg last night, and he had come hot-foot to show me an early edition of thePioneer Press—that's our leading paper—in which there is a long account of a dreadful accident to this very express. It had collided with a freight train, both trains being wrecked and smashed to pieces. Many of the passengers have been killed, and most of the survivors are badly injured."
"And Russell?" Gilbert inquired breathlessly.
"He is not in the list of the dead; his name appears amongst those whose injuries are probably fatal. This is why I am hurrying you up. If you wish to see him alive, you must catch the first train. Now, do you see? Was not my knocking you up in this way justified?"
"Yes, indeed. I am grateful to you for your zeal. How far up the line was the accident?"
"A few miles south of Glyndon. You can be there in a comparatively short time."
"I think I should like you to come with me," said Gilbert, after a brief silence; "that is, if you are disengaged."
"I can manage to come all right, and I should like to know the end; though it's possible the man may recover. On the other hand, if he knows he is certain to die, there's just a chance he may be willing to own up and make restitution, if that's in his power."
"A death-bed confession! Now, I should say," remarked Gilbert, "Russell is the last man on earth to make one."
But now there appeared a waiter with a tray on which was some breakfast, and the conversation stopped.
Ten minutes later, Gilbert and Hankey were speeding northwards on the Northern Pacific to the scene of the collision, where they arrived in due course. On the way up, every one was talking of the appalling disaster. Many in the train were relatives of the victims, and the whole atmosphere was charged with grief and sorrow. Gilbert Eversleigh was too young and too sensitive not to sympathize with and share these feelings. They made such an impression on him that the vengeance he cherished, and the hatred he felt for Silwood were decidedly modified, though he was scarcely aware of it himself.
The express stopped some fifty yards away from the spot where the collision had taken place. When Gilbert and the detective alighted, they saw an enormous crowd had already gathered together, large numbers having flocked in from the surrounding country. For the most part, it was a quiet and silent crowd. The Shadow of Death lay heavy upon it; here and there, however, were little groups weeping and sobbing and wringing their hands. In the midst of one stood a woman, suddenly crazed, who alternately screamed and laughed.
The scene was such, the circumstances were such, that they could not fail to make an ineffaceable impression on Gilbert's mind.
It was an unparalleled scene of destruction.
In the centre was the wreck of the two trains lying on the torn and twisted rails. The engines were piled high in the middle, with their colossal frames seamed, cracked, broken, burnt, and bent into queer shapes. Some of the coaches and carriages of the ill-fated express had been smashed into matchwood, others lay about in large pieces and dislocated sections, and the whole formed a confusion of wood, glass, and other materials, rendered more terrible from the fact that fire had swept its destroying torch over a large part of it.
And it was whispered there were bodies, or what had once been bodies, lying somewhere in that chaos!
Gangs of railroad men were struggling to bring some sort of order into it, but their progress was necessarily slow. Now and again a charred and blackened object, which had lost all semblance to anything human, was dug up and carried away.
On one side of the wreck two large tents had been erected: one was used as a mortuary, to which the dead were carried; the other served as a hospital for the injured and wounded, where they were tended by doctors from the vicinity, who had volunteered their services.
It was to the hospital tent that Gilbert and Hankey directed their steps, but they experienced considerable difficulty in gaining admission. However, at last they were allowed in, and a doctor, of whom they inquired, told them James Russell was still alive, was indeed likely to live for two days or perhaps longer, but that the nature of the injuries he had received made his recovery impossible. He was quite conscious, and knew he was dying.
"He would be glad to see some one he knows," added the doctor.
"How are his wife and child?"
"Both are injured, but not seriously. I have not told them of Russell's condition."
"Is there any objection, doctor," asked Gilbert, "to my speaking to him at once?"
"None at all, I think," replied the physician, and he led them to the pallet on which lay Russell, his head and shoulders swathed in bandages, and his face, where visible, extraordinarily pinched and white. The false moustache which he had worn as part of his disguise was gone, the paint had been washed from his cheeks, and Gilbert had no difficulty whatever in identifying Cooper Silwood in "James Russell."
"It is he," he whispered to Hankey.
Hankey peered into the face.
"He is now more like that photograph you showed me," said Hankey beneath his breath to Gilbert.
Gilbert went and stood over Silwood, and looked him in the eyes. The dying man evinced no surprise at seeing him, but returned Gilbert's gaze calmly. He was the first to speak.
"Gilbert Eversleigh," he said in a queer voice, that had no weakness in it. "I expected you to come, but not so soon. How is it you are here so quickly? The telegram I sent by the doctor to you at the Merchants' Hotel was despatched only two hours ago."
"You sent me a telegram!" said Gilbert, astonished, but not so much so as not to note Silwood knew he had been stopping at the Merchants'. "I have not received it. The reason I am here is, I was aware you were on board the express, and hearing of the accident, I came at once on the chance of speaking to you."
"You knew I was on the express?"
"Yes; your movements yesterday were observed."
"I see," said Silwood, thoughtfully. Then he added, "Well, it does not signify now—nothing signifies any more to me!"
Silwood pronounced these words in a firm voice, though strongly tinged with regret. Gilbert stood by in silence, many feelings working within him.
"Nothing matters any more to me personally," continued Silwood; "but there are others of whom I must think, for they are dear to me. It was because of them, it was for their sakes, that I sent you the telegram. I asked the doctor to tell me the truth, the whole truth, about my state; and when he told me that I should not last more than two or three days, I had to consider the best course to take. What helped me to make up my mind was the certainty you had made some discovery—otherwise, I reasoned, you would not have been in St. Paul yesterday. Had this accident not occurred, and if I had been alone, I should have succeeded in baffling you; even hampered by my wife and the boy, I believe I could have managed to escape pursuit. But now I am dying, and my wife and child would soon have been hunted down when left to themselves. Therefore I resolved to ask you to come to me."
Silwood paused, his breath coming a little more quickly than before.
"But why?" asked Gilbert.
"I wished to make a bargain with you."
"To make a bargain!"
"Yes. I thought of offering to tell you the whole truth if you would consent to make provision for my wife and child. She is an uneducated woman, and the boy is a cripple. They are two helpless creatures, and they are absolutely innocent; they do not even know my real name. They believe I am——"
"James Russell!"
"Yes! You know that! That is what I thought, else you would not have been in St. Paul. Will you consent to make some provision for them, if I declare everything without concealment or reserve? I do not know how much you do know?" he added inquiringly.
"I know a good deal, but not all. I know you did not lose the money on the Stock Exchange, as you told my father, but that you—appropriated it to your own use, and still have it, I imagine. Is it not so?"
"Yes. That money shall be restored to you in trust for your father and the firm, if you will accede to my suggestion about my wife and child. What more do you know?"
"I know you led a double life, and that you entered into a conspiracy with Ucelli, the Syndic of Camajore. But I do not know what passed between you and Morris Thornton the night he died."
"I will tell you the whole story," said Silwood, "if you will agree to see my wife and child suitably provided for."
"And if I refuse?"
"Refuse! You will not refuse. Consider! In forty-eight or fifty hours I shall be dead. Nothing can alter that. I shall be where the hand of the law cannot touch me. What can you do against a dead man? Personal vengeance on me is impossible. On the other hand, if you will do what I wish, then I will tell you where the money is, so that you will have no difficulty in obtaining it. You have much to gain and nothing to lose by falling in with my desire."
"But I shall be able to get at the money in any case."
"No, that you never shall unless you get my help."
Gilbert thought for a while. The coolness of Silwood's proposition startled him; yet there was much to recommend it.
"Let me consider for a few moments what you have said," he remarked to Silwood; "and I will tell you my decision."
Beckoning to Hankey, the detective, to follow him, Gilbert went from the hospital tent into the open air to consider quietly what he should do. He was not sorry to get out of the atmosphere of the tent, which reeked with iodoform; where also the sight of so many poor stricken and agonized wretches harrowed his feelings.
Just outside the tent, he encountered the doctor who had conducted him to the bedside of Cooper Silwood,aliasJames Russell.
"Did you find him quite sensible, as I said?" asked the doctor.
"Extraordinarily so," replied Gilbert, "His mind is perfectly clear, even his voice shows no weakness. One would scarcely think he is dying."
"And yet nothing can save him. For two or three hours longer he will remain in much the same condition; thereafter a state of collapse must supervene, which will end in death—during that period he will become unconscious, and remain so to the last."
"Of course, you must know," said Gilbert; "but from the strong, firm voice he speaks in, one would imagine he is not in this desperate case."
"It is so, however. The principal mischief is internal, and does not admit of cure."
Then the doctor hurried into the tent. What he had said had given fresh point to those words of Silwood's—"You can do nothing against a dead man. Personal vengeance upon me is impossible." The hand of Heaven, Gilbert reflected, already lay heavy on the man.
Then he debated the offer made by Silwood. From the first he had inclined to accept it. What he had witnessed of the calamity had softened his heart; and to find Silwood cared for his wife and child in the way he evidently did, was a discovery of a side, entirely unsuspected, of this man's nature, which somehow appealed to Gilbert. These were sentimental influences, but became powerful reasons when added to the practical argument, the immediate recovery of the stolen money. Gilbert did not altogether believe that the money, or a large part of it, at any rate, could not be recovered without Silwood's help, but it might be a long and tedious business, involving, likely enough, considerable litigation, expense, and delay. Then there was the secret of Morris Thornton's death to be cleared up—a thing which Silwood alone could do.
Gilbert quickly made up his mind that the best policy was to accept Silwood's offer. Rapidly outlining the main facts to Hankey, who listened with an ever-increasing wonder, Gilbert desired him to accompany him into the tent to act as witness to the statement of Silwood.
"Well?" asked Silwood, as Gilbert bent over him.
"I agree. You will hold nothing back?"
"I am glad, for the sake of my wife and our child," said Silwood. "No, nothing shall be held back. But who is this man?" he asked, his eyes glancing at Hankey.
"I asked him to come as a witness."
"Very well; he'll be a witness to what you promise for my wife and child, as well as of what I tell you. So be it. What do you promise for them?"
"What do you wish me to promise exactly?"
"That you pay her three pounds a week for life, and that, should she die before the child, you will continue the payment to him for his life."
"Yes, I promise that, contingent——"
"Certainly, you mean contingent on your receiving the money? That is understood. Now, ask one of the doctors to come here?"
One of the doctors was called up.
"Doctor," said Silwood, "will you go and ask my wife, Mrs. James Russell, who is lying in the tent somewhere, to give you the key she has on the ribbon round her neck? Say that I sent you; give her my love, and tell her I am comfortable."
There were tears in Silwood's eyes as he spoke the last words. Seeing them, Gilbert marvelled at the strange intricacies of the human soul, but held his peace.
"Your wife sends her love to you," said the doctor, on his return, "and bids you not fret about her. Here is the key."
"Thank you, doctor. Give the key to this gentleman here," and Silwood with his eyes indicated that it should be given to Gilbert. This done, the doctor retired.
"That key," Silwood resumed, "is the key of a compartment in the Minnesota Safety Deposit Vaults, in which you will find not only all the money, in the form of bank-notes, bonds payable to bearer, and other easily negotiable securities, that I owe to the firm of Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, but a good deal more than I owe."
"Where are these Safety Deposit Vaults?" asked Gilbert.
"In St. Paul," whispered Hankey, bending towards him.
"Yes, in St. Paul," said Silwood, who had overheard.
"And all the money is there in bonds and so forth?" asked Gilbert.
"That and more, for I have made money. Always, always, all my life, have I longed to possess a great store of money; it was my passion—money, money, always money; always more money," said Silwood, with a passing gleam in his eyes; then a deep sigh escaped him. "You will find there is far more than enough to recoup the firm."
Gilbert listened in amazement, revolving what manner of man this was to have acted as he had done through all these silent years.
"And more than enough to pay that annuity to my wife and child," Silwood went on. "Now promise me once more that you will pay them what I have asked, and then I will tell you the whole story. Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise," said Gilbert.
"Then my mind is at rest, so far as they are concerned. And all is well," said Silwood, as if he had never done anything wrong in his life. Then he began—
"I do not know quite when the idea came to me of making myself master of the clients' money, but, as I told you, I ever burned to be rich. Your father was so easy-going and unsuspecting, and he trusted me so fully, that when the idea came it found quick lodgment in my thoughts. But what helped more than anything else, was that I was already leading a double life. I had married beneath me, as people would say; but the only moments of happiness I have had in my life connect themselves with my wife and child. It matters not how I met and came to marry her. No one of our class dreamed I was other than Cooper Silwood, solicitor, of Lincoln's Inn. But I was also James Russell at Stepney. I experienced no difficulty in being both; I had my disguise, and having also the keys of the two iron gates opening into Chancery Lane, at the top of Stone Buildings, I was able to let myself out or in at pleasure. To lead this double life was easy, I say; I even liked it. When the thought came to me of enriching myself at the expense of the clients, it occurred to me to make use of James Russell to assist Cooper Silwood. Do you understand?"
"Yes. You purposed to transfer the securities to yourself as James Russell? In fact, that is what you did do, at any rate in part."
"Yes; Cooper Silwood sold to James Russell," assented Silwood. "The plan worked well—worked well for years. Gradually I got possession of everything—save what was impossible for me to touch. And all that money and property I had converted into first-class bonds and shares payable to bearer, with one exception, a very important exception, when the letter came from Morris Thornton, telling us he was returning to England, and would make a formal examination of the securities we held of his. I was not prepared for it; my hand was forced. I had not meant to disappear until I had completed a certain negotiation—the exception to which I have just referred. It was more than possible, I thought, that Thornton would come before that negotiation was complete, in which case I might be in great danger. The more I thought about it, the greater the danger seemed. It was this that drove me to tell your father of the position to which I, as Cooper Silwood, had brought the firm. Of course, I said nothing to him about James Russell."
"I don't quite follow you," said Gilbert. "Why did you tell my father at all?"
"Because I wished him, being so friendly with Thornton, to hold Morris off until that negotiation was complete. Do you not understand? Suppose Thornton had come before my plans were ripe and asked for that examination, I believed your father would have been able to have stood him off for some time—long enough for me to get that matter settled to my liking. Now, do you see?"
"Yes," said Gilbert, dryly, any pity he had felt for Silwood disappearing as he listened to this heartless statement. "What was this important negotiation of which you speak?"
"I had sold some acres of land to a contractor, who had paid a heavy price for them," said Silwood, now speaking with the indifference of a man who is telling a story that has no longer any interest for him; "but I had to be content with getting half the price in cash and half in the form of a bill. The total amount was thirty thousand pounds, the bill was for fifteen thousand, and when we heard from Thornton it still had some time to run. I did not discount the bill, but put it in a chamber in that large japanned box you may remember seeing in my room."
"The secret chamber!" exclaimed Gilbert.
"You know of it?"
"Did you not go one night to New Square not long ago, and open it?"
"Yes; you know that! I went to get the bill—it was due next day."
"I see. Well, you left the secret chamber open, and that showed us you were not dead, and put us on your track."
Silwood's eyes flickered.
"The spring would not work," he said. "It had baffled me very nearly once or twice before, but that time it baffled me altogether. So! so! I understand now why you came to St. Paul—it was the secret chamber which gave me away, which has brought me here."
"Yes; I went to Italy," said Gilbert, "and Ucelli confessed the conspiracy you and he had entered into. He it was who told me that you and James Russell were one. James Russell was tracked to Liverpool, then to New York, and then to St. Paul."
"What a pity I did not leave that bill alone!" said Silwood, quite calmly. "But I could not think of leaving fifteen thousand pounds behind me. That," he added, "you will find with the rest."
"Did you cash the bill?"
"Certainly, as James Russell, to whom it was payable."
"How in the world," interjected Gilbert, "shall we be able to put all these matters right?"
"There will be plenty of money," said Silwood, "for everybody. But let me get on with my story while I am able. I told you I put the bill for the fifteen thousand into the secret chamber. Of course I hoped Thornton would not come before it matured, or, if he did, that your father would find means to delay the investigation of his account. But your father on this point was firm; he said he would not deceive Thornton, though I pressed him more than once. When I saw I could not move him, I prepared to act alone. I gave out I was about to take a holiday—it was a holiday from which I had no intention to return—at least, not as Cooper Silwood. I meant to leave on a Saturday evening—I actually went on the Saturday morning ... and it was because of Thornton."
"Of Morris Thornton?"
"It was past midnight," said Silwood, "and I was getting ready to go to Stepney, when I heard steps coming up the stairs towards my rooms in Stone Buildings; the steps stopped at my door; some one knocked. I had no wish to open the door, for I was in my disguise, so I paid no attention to the sound.
"'Whoever you are,' said a voice, 'I warn you to open the door, or I shall tell the porter to call the police. I saw you from Chancery Lane. Come, open at once!'
"I glanced at my window, the one looking into Chancery Lane. By some frightful carelessness I had neglected to pull down the blind, and thus it was possible enough for the man to have seen me. But what did he want, I wondered?
"'Open at once!' said the voice again; 'or it will be the worse for you.'
"I was in a fix, but my best course seemed to be to let the man in; so I asked him to wait a moment, saying I was only half dressed. I hastily donned my wig, tore off my false moustache, and put on my ordinary coat and waistcoat. Then I opened the door.
"'What is the matter?' I asked.
"The man walked right into the room without speaking, and looked all round it, as if he was searching for some one. Then I saw who it was. It was Morris Thornton!
"'What is the matter?' he repeated after me. 'That is what I ask you to tell me, Cooper Silwood.... I arrived in London yesterday, and was taken ill. Feeling better this evening, I came out to get some fresh air, and strolled down this way. I remembered where your rooms were, and glancing up at the lighted window saw a figure passing and repassing. I was certain it was not you. This was a bald man with a moustache.... I watched him for some minutes. Then I went down to the lodge and was let in, as I said I wished to see you on urgent business. Now here I am, and here you are! Did you know about this man being here—the man I saw? He gave me quite a start.'
"I did not speak immediately, being somewhat flurried by the sudden appearance of Thornton. He now came quite close to me, and peered into my face. I saw he looked ill and greatly changed, and his hands were shaking. He went on peering into my face, so that I wondered why.
"'What are you doing with that paint on your cheeks?' he asked.
"I had forgotten the stain on my face—the stain that was part of my disguise. This question disconcerted me.
"'Was it you, Cooper Silwood, that I saw? It was! It was! What does this mean?' he demanded, visibly agitated. 'You are not the kind of man who goes to a masked ball. One would think you were practising, rehearsing some part ... a disguise ... seeing how it would do ... but why, Silwood, why? One would think there was something wrong—that you were about to abscond.'
"All this he said in jerky sentences, while his cheeks turned a horrible bluish purple. I recalled he had written to us that he was suffering from heart-disease, and I was alarmed for him.
"'Calm yourself, Morris,' I said to him, soothingly, but with the opposite effect.
"'Explain, explain!' he cried, in tones of great excitement, his body trembling the while.
"My wits by this time had come back to me, and I assured him I had promised a young friend to go to a masked ball to take care of him—that was all; and that I could not but feel sorry he had caught me in the manner he had. In fact, I tried to laugh the matter off; but I failed to disarm his suspicions, which evidently had been keenly aroused. He sat down on a chair, breathing very heavily. I entreated him to return to his hotel, but he declined.
"'Cooper Silwood,' he said, 'I do not believe you are telling me the truth. I do not believe this invention of yours about the masked ball. Again I tell you, you are not that kind of man.'
"'You do not know what you are saying,' I protested, 'your illness——'
"'Enough, enough!' he cried, jumping up. Then he stood for a moment struggling with himself as it were, clutched at his throat, staggered, and fell in a heap on the floor. I rushed forward to raise him, but he was already dead. When I saw he was dead, I was distraught. First I put on my disguise once more, and went forth into the night, reeling like a blind man. But a few minutes' thought induced me to return. I resolved to leave London by the earliest train, and did leave next morning."
Exhausted by this long effort, Silwood ceased speaking. Gilbert never doubted Silwood had spoken the truth. Besides, he had noticed how in several points his statements were confirmed by the evidence at the inquest on Morris Thornton. The explanation of the Mystery of Lincoln's Inn was, after all, curiously simple, once the facts were known in their entirety.
"I believe I have told you all," said Silwood, as Gilbert stood silently by his bed. "Is there anything you wish to ask me? If there is, ask it now, for I feel a dreadful weakness coming over me."
As the man spoke, a shiver shook him from head to foot.
"No. I think there is nothing else," said Gilbert, gently, his heart again softened.
"You will not forget your promise about my wife and child?" Silwood asked eagerly.
"I shall not."
"They need never know who Cooper Silwood was, need they?"
"Perhaps not," agreed Gilbert, but doubtingly.
"If you can, let them believe I am none other than the James Russell they love, and who loves——"
But Silwood's voice failed him; his eyes overflowed.
"Let us go," said Gilbert to Hankey.
"What an extraordinary man!" exclaimed Hankey to Gilbert, when they were in the open air. "Wonderfully bright, too, but he chose to run crooked, not straight. Yet there was good in the man—I suppose there is in every man."
"He was an evil, wicked man," said Gilbert, speaking of Silwood as one already dead, "but he was not all evil, all wicked."
"What do you now intend to do?" asked the detective, after they had emerged from the hospital tent.
"Go back to St. Paul by the first train," Gilbert replied, "and see what are the contents of that compartment in the Minnesota Safety Deposit Vaults. I don't doubt Silwood told the truth, but I wish to have his statement confirmed."
"Naturally," remarked Hankey. "And after that?"
"I think of asking you, if you can manage it, to come with me to St. Paul to-day. I should prefer to have you with me when I go to the Safety Deposit Vaults, where you are probably well known——"
The detective nodded.
"——thereafter, I propose that you should return here, and await events."
"Till Silwood is dead, I suppose you mean. And then?"
"Take care of Mrs. Russell and the child. If they wish to return to England, be kind enough to carry out their desire. You shall have enough funds from me for all purposes. If they elect to stay in this country, I want you to find them a home, and I will see that the income promised is remitted to you quarterly."
"Very good," said the detective. "My business in this matter is your business. I'll go and see if there's a train southwards soon."
But they had to wait some hours, and it was the morning of another day when they arrived in St. Paul.
Gilbert and the detective went to the Minnesota Safety Deposit Vaults, and on their representing they had received the key of the compartment from James Russell, no objection was made to their entering the place, and withdrawing the papers from the receptacle in which they were deposited. On inspection these papers were found to consist of Bank of England notes, of various values from £100 to £1000, amounting in all to £40,000; of gold bonds of half a dozen different American railroads, each bond of the value of a thousand dollars, coming in the aggregate to nearly a quarter of a million sterling; of bonds of the United States Government for more than £200,000; and of miscellaneous securities, the grand total being upwards of half a million sterling. One feature of all these certificates, bonds, and shares, was they were all payable to bearer, just as Silwood had said, as also, of course, were the Bank of England notes.
Half a million sterling!
Such was the vast sum Cooper Silwood had accumulated at the expense of the clients of Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh.
Gilbert knew that the amount, roughly speaking, for which the firm was responsible was about £400,000. Here, then, was sufficient, and more, to satisfy all claims in full, and leave a good deal over for Mrs. James Russell and her son. Gilbert resolved that after the obligations of the firm were discharged, the balance should be placed in trust for her and the boy.
Having come to this conclusion, Gilbert sent Hankey back to the scene of the catastrophe. Then he despatched a brief cable to his brother Ernest, saying, "Russell found. Property recovered. Returning." He was afraid to put more than these few words into the message, lest by some mischance they should fall into the wrong hands.
Without delay, Gilbert left St. Paul for Chicago and New York, reaching the latter city in about forty hours safely. The possession of the equivalent of half a million in a bag, which he never for a moment let out of his sight, made him extremely anxious and uneasy. During the journey from St. Paul to New York he did not allow himself to sleep, but kept a determined eye on the bag. But no one suspected he was the bearer of such an amount of riches, and he passed comparatively unnoticed from start to finish.
On reaching New York, he at once went to the office of the line by which he had come from England, and was pleased to hear that there was a ship going out that very day at two o'clock in the afternoon, and that he could sail on her if he wished. He replied that it would suit him admirably. After paying for his passage, he produced the bag, and inquired if it could be placed in the ship's strong room, to which assent was given. Gilbert now felt his mind was at rest.
Yet during the voyage he was visited now and again by misgivings, as he had heard that even the strong rooms of Atlantic greyhounds have not always been burglar-proof. Then the ship was struck by a tempest in mid-ocean, and Gilbert was afraid both he and the treasure might go to the bottom. But at length the ship sailed into port, and there, at the side of the dock, was Ernest waiting for him.
After the two brothers had embraced, and Ernest, in reply to Gilbert's inquiry, had told him their father was in much the same condition as when Gilbert had seen him last, he produced a cablegram, addressed to Gilbert, which had been received at the office in Lincoln's Inn some five days before.
"It is about Silwood, I think," said Gilbert.
The cablegram was from Hankey; it ran as follows—
"Russell dead. Wife desires return England. Writing."
"Silwood is dead," said Gilbert, briefly.
"Dead! I never thought to hear that!" exclaimed Ernest.
"I have much to tell you, Ernie; but wait until we are in the train. Besides, I must get a bag out of the ship's strong room. There may be some little delay over it; come with me."
Gilbert went back to the ship, whence, a short time afterwards, he issued, bearing the precious bag.
"Do you see this bag?" he said to his brother in a whisper. "It is worth half a million of money."
"Gilbert!"
"It is the truth; it contains Silwood's hoard."
In silence the brothers passed into the train for London. Once it was well under way, Gilbert told Ernest all that had happened.
"Fancy Silwood being so attached to his wife and child!" cried Ernest. "What a strange mixture he was! And now he is dead—really dead this time! What a colossal failure he made of his life! And yet he could not have carried out his schemes with the success he did achieve had he not been a man of remarkable ability."
"Yes; but he has made others suffer. Think of father!"
"Yes; and yourself, indirectly, and Kitty."
"Any news of her?" asked Gilbert, wistfully.
"No."
"Have you been again to York to see Bennet?"
"No; but Deakin, the local solicitor, has arranged for me to see him on Tuesday next."
Then there fell a silence between the brothers. Ernest was thinking over what he had heard from Gilbert about Silwood and the recovery of the money and the bonds; while Gilbert dwelt sadly on the image of Kitty, wondering how she was bearing up and passing the time while Bennet lay in prison. Then his mind shifted to the consideration of what still lay before Ernest and himself.
"There will be much to think of, much to do," he said to Ernest. "I mean with respect to winding up the affairs of the firm."
"Is it necessary, do you think, to wind up its affairs?"
"We must do something. What I thought was, that a letter to the clients should be drawn up, stating that, as Silwood is dead and father incapacitated by ill-health, the firm must be wound up; but that you—a son of Francis Eversleigh, who had been for some time associated with him in the business—proposed to begin a new business under the style of Eversleigh and Eversleigh, and would be glad to have the same confidence extended to you by the clients of the old firm as they had shown to Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh. Something of that kind—that's what I thought."
"Yes. There is one point," said Ernest, thoughtfully. "The properties Silwood sold, such as house property and land property; what is to be done about them?"
"I don't think we need try to replace them. In all such cases, I would go to the particular clients themselves, tell them the truth, and offer full compensation. You must remember Silwood's hoard amounts to far more than the firm owes, and you are perfectly entitled to make every necessary use of it."
When the brothers arrived in London, their first care was to take the half-million bag to their bank, where they deposited the money and left the bonds in the care of the manager. Then they went to Lincoln's Inn, and proceeded to draft the letter Gilbert had suggested. The following day these letters were despatched. One of them had a singular result; it was that which was addressed to Harry Bennet.
The brothers had discussed what was to be done in his case, and had decided that, though Bennet had given a discharge to the firm, yet he must be paid the value of the property, Beauclerk Mansions, which Silwood had sold. So a special note had been placed at the foot of the letter sent him, apprizing him of their intention.
At the same time a letter was sent to Deakin, the York solicitor, informing him that as the firm of Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh was being wound up, owing to the continued ill health of the sole remaining partner, the firm could no longer act with him for Bennet, and further, that Mr. Gilbert Eversleigh had returned to them his brief in this case.
The first result of this was that Deakin came rushing up to London. He had seen Bennet, who, wild with rage and defeated spite, had ordered him to go and see what was the meaning of this change of front on the part of the Eversleighs.
"Mr. Bennet," said Deakin, "is the most reckless man I ever saw. He behaves like a lunatic, and says the most mad things. He tells me—of course, I know it is absurd—that he can send Mr. Francis Eversleigh to prison for embezzlement, and he demands again that Mr. Gilbert Eversleigh appear for him at his trial."
It was Ernest Eversleigh to whom Deakin spoke. Ernest, acting on the advice of Gilbert, told Deakin in confidence as much of the facts as was necessary, winding up by saying—
"My father, no doubt, might still be proceeded against, but he is out of his mind. Besides, I offer the fullest compensation. Taking these two things together, is there need to say more?"
"I should say not," replied Deakin, without a moment's hesitation.
And back Deakin went to York, and acquainted Bennet with what he had learned. For a time Bennet refused to believe what Deakin had told him about the recovery of the money from Silwood, but when at last he was convinced of it, he fell into a great surly silence, from which he could not be drawn. When Deakin spoke of obtaining the services of an eminent counsel for his defence, Bennet made no reply. Instead of giving way to anger, as he usually did when he heard anything that displeased him, he sat gloomy and sullen. After trying for ten minutes to get a word out of him, and failing, Deakin left the prison.
Next morning he received a hurried summons to the Governor of the Prison's room, and there he heard that Bennet, in spite of the fact that he was constantly watched night and day, had somehow managed to open a vein in his arm and had bled to death in the night.
"The warder, who was guarding him at the time," said the Governor, "saw him lying on his bed fast asleep, as he supposed; when it was daylight blood was noticed on the floor, and then it was found that Bennet was dead."
"But how did he get an instrument with which to open a vein in his arm?" asked Deakin, aghast.
"The surgeon says," answered the Governor, "that the vein was bitten open. The act was done with great determination. You saw him yesterday, I believe; was there anything in what you told him to account for the deed?"
"I brought him news that greatly disappointed him, but nothing to account for this. Poor devil!"
But Deakin did not know all.
When Bennet's death became public, there were many who said he had cheated the gallows, and few mourned for the lost life and the career gone fatally wrong.
Even Kitty Thornton, in her kind heart, could not sincerely say she was sorry he was dead. Indeed, in the years that came after, she never thought of Harry Bennet without growing quiet and pensive far beyond her wont, as she reflected how, in one way and another, she had been saved from him.
Gilbert Eversleigh and Kitty Thornton did not come together at once again—the shadow of Bennet lay between them, but in the course of time they did, as was inevitable.
"When thou doest well unto thyself," said the satirist, "all men will speak well of thee."
And Gilbert Eversleigh, the rising barrister, backed by the beauty and wealth of his wife, is spoken well of by all the world.
The other side of life's double shield is to be seen at Ivydene, where there may be beheld, nursed and tended by a wife's unchanging love, and a daughter's unalterable affection, a white-haired, bent figure, from whose loose lips there comes the question, over and over again, "What o'clock is it? What o'clock is it?"
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