The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn Page 8

  CHAPTER VIII

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

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

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

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

  Very quietly and methodically Silwood went on maturing his plans, nordid he refer to them any more when talking to Eversleigh; but he hadpaid another visit in disguise to Douglas Street, Stepney, and hadwarned his wife to be ready to move when he gave the word. He had alsointimated, but more plainly, to Williamson, that he would take a holidayvery soon--his reason, he alleged for taking it, being the great heatwhich still continued. Never had there been known so hot a July.Williamson admitted in his thoughts that the reason was an excellentone, but wondered why Mr. Eversleigh, who continued to look very ill,did not talk of taking a vacation instead of his partner, who seemed tobe very much in his usual health.

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

  Carefully as Silwood had prepared the way, Williamson could not but besurprised at the suddenness with which, in the end, his principal haddeparted, and naturally his suspicions of there being something wrongwere increased; but they remained indefinite and vague, for he couldfasten on nothing tangible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  First, he might go to the authorities and incriminate himself; but noone, he told himself, was required to do that; it was too much to expectany one to do.

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

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

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

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

  "Yes," said Francis Eversleigh, somewhat vacantly, "he has gone for aholiday. I suppose I have forgotten to mention to you that he was goingabroad for a while," he continued, pulling himself together. "He has nothad a holiday for some years."

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

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

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

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

  "Why not let me do it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Tho
rnton's silence was as terrible as it was really inexplicable.

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

  At first she felt no fear, and kept saying to herself and to Gilbert--towhom, of course, she talked of all that was in her heart--that she wouldsee her father to-morrow or next day; but to-morrow became to-day, andnext day to-morrow, and yet he did not appear. And there was nothingfrom him--not a single line!

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

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

  But what Gilbert had heard made him comply all the more eagerly with asuggestion Kitty offered on the next Sunday, when they were talking onthis subject, which temporarily had assumed more importance almost thantheir love.

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

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

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

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

  Then she read the whole cablegram, which ran--

  "Your father sailed from New York for Southampton by _St. Louis_, July21. No further advices. Wallace."

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

  For it was now Monday, August 9th!

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