Whether to keep a matter to themselves, or to take the public into their confidence, is a question to which the police never seem able to give a decided answer. There are occasions, of course, in which secrecy is plainly indicated, but with respect to the majority of cases they are too much inclined to the same course of procedure.

Touching the disappearance of Morris Thornton they had hitherto deliberately kept any statement about it from the newspapers, and the facts were known only to a few. And Detective-inspector Gale was of opinion that it was better to go on with his inquiries as quietly as possible. But Gilbert Eversleigh could not agree with him.

"I am for giving his disappearance the widest publicity," said Gilbert, in conversation with the officer, on the day subsequent to that on which he first saw him. "It is probable that we will hear something in this way. You must confess that up to the present you have accomplished nothing, Mr. Gale. Is it not so?"

"Yes, that is quite true; but I have not given up the hope of doing something soon."

"That's all very well, but you must pardon me if I tell you I am not satisfied. I have consulted Miss Thornton, and she is with me in thinking that the occurrence should be made public."

"That is Miss Thornton's wish?"

"Yes; and she also desires my father's firm to offer a large reward to any one who can furnish the information we want. Still, they will hardly like to act in that way if you have any substantial objection to offer."

Gale reflected for a few moments.

"You are sure that Miss Thornton will not mind?" he asked, the question showing the direction of his thoughts. "It will not be exactly pleasant for her to see her father's name in the papers."

"She is suffering intensely as it is," replied Gilbert, "but the affair is too serious for her to give way to personal feelings of that sort; indeed, if the papers give great prominence to it, she will be pleased rather than the reverse, for she thinks, and so do I, that something may come of it."

"What reward does she think of offering?"

"A thousand pounds."

"A large sum! It might tempt some one."

"Tempt some one?" repeated Gilbert. "What do you mean?"

"Well," returned the officer, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, "let us consider the case. You know that I think Mr. Thornton either disappeared intentionally——"

"I thought you had rather given that idea up," interposed Gilbert.

"Still, it's a possibility, though there is a good argument on the surface—on the surface, mind, I say—against it in the state of his health. A man in his precarious condition was not likely to embark on such an adventure as an intentional disappearance implies. Still, as I said, it is a possibility. Now, if his disappearance was intentional, he must be living somewhere, and must be in contact with other human beings. That is so, is it not?"

"Yes."

"While offering the large reward you mentioned, you would at the same time give a full description of him. That description might be seen by one or more of those with whom he associates. In this manner information might be obtained. There is another point, too, and it is that if after a time no such information was forthcoming, then the other hypothesis will be vastly strengthened."

"By the other hypothesis you intend the idea that he was murdered, I suppose?" asked Gilbert.

"Yes. As I have already told you, I fear that will turn out to be the true reading of the mystery. The more I think of it, the more certain I feel about it. There is, however, a third hypothesis, but it seems so highly improbable that it is hardly worth mentioning. It is that Mr. Thornton committed suicide."

"Suicide! Impossible!"

"It is very highly improbable," said Gale, "but, pardon me, not impossible. I wonder how many things are really impossible?" he continued, on what was a favourite theme of his. "If you knew but a tithe of the things ordinarily called impossible that I have found not to be impossible at all! But I digress. Well, with regard to his having committed suicide, it was no great distance from his hotel to the river."

"Oh, Mr. Gale, this is absurd. Why should he commit suicide?"

"The only reason that can give the slightest colour to such a supposition is that he suffered terribly from his heart—the pain in these attacks is usually frightful—and he might have felt that rather than stand another he would prefer to die; or again, it might be that he was slightly out of his mind because of the pain. But I don't really put this hypothesis forward as one that is probable. No. I am afraid he was murdered. Still, even in that case, the large sum you offer might tempt some one—some one who perhaps saw the deed done, or had his suspicions about something he saw—to come forward with useful information."

"It might even tempt an accomplice—that is, if there were an accomplice, might it not?" asked Gilbert eagerly.

"It might, though it's not at all likely."

"But you withdraw your opposition to making public the disappearance of Mr. Thornton?"

"Yes, though I do not advise it. I hope it will not annoy Miss Thornton very much, but I fear she may be troubled with newspaper reporters."

"Cannot you refer them to me or to my father?"

"I shall do so, but if they can ferret her out they will, you may be sure."

"Oh, I dare say I shall be able to baffle them," declared Gilbert. "Now, will you assist me in drawing up a statement for publication?"

Before Gilbert left Scotland Yard a brief but succinct account of the disappearance of Morris Thornton was put into writing. Then followed a description of Thornton, taken from the detective-inspector's note-book, who, in his turn, had got the particulars from certain members of the staff of the Law Courts Hotel. Further, Mr. Gale drafted what he thought should go into the advertisement, offering the reward of a thousand pounds, and this Gilbert took to his father. On his way to Lincoln's Inn he stopped at a typewriting establishment, and gave instructions to have copies made of the account of the disappearance, and to send one to each of the London papers.

"This will be enough," thought he, "to set the ball rolling."

Next he saw Francis Eversleigh, who, he found to his surprise, was against inserting the advertisement. The older man, who had his own bitter, gnawing, consuming anxieties of which the younger guessed nothing, had a glimmering notion that to advertise the reward was somehow likely to precipitate a crisis in his affairs and bring about exposure. But, backboneless as usual, he was easily over-ruled by his son. The advertisement was made out, typewritten, manifolded, and also sent to all the London journals.

The day following, Gilbert had ample proof that he had set the ball rolling with a vengeance. Pressmen, it seemed to him, descended upon him from every quarter of the town, eager, clamorous, importunate, determined not to be sent empty away. But, after all, Gilbert had not much to tell them. They managed, notwithstanding, to write sensational and, for the most part, highly over-coloured articles round the missing man. One or two of the evening papers wrote leaders on the subject, and in many ways the public interest in Thornton's disappearance was excited to the highest pitch. For one thing, his wealth was exaggerated to such an extent that he was represented as a sort of colonial Croesus, and in London, and throughout the country, people talked of and speculated about the man now everywhere described as "The Missing Millionaire." Indeed, the reward of a thousand pounds was hardly needed to stimulate public curiosity and sympathy and activity.

High and low, rich and poor, the man of Mayfair and the man of Whitechapel, conversed about it with the same relish, the same wonder. The man in the street, shopmen, clerks, labourers, even beggars and outcasts, all heard of the mysterious disappearance of Thornton, and were all anxious to know the explanation of so extraordinary a thing. In brief, it was the one topic of the moment.

And the offer of the large reward was not without a certain effect.

It had become a matter of general knowledge that Morris Thornton, on leaving the Law Courts Hotel, told the porter there that he was going for a stroll along Holborn and probably up and down Chancery Lane. From this it fell out that many people of the amateur detective variety investigated this quarter, especially at night, but without being much or any the wiser. Yet, indirectly, one of them did better than he knew, for from him a certain human wreck, to whom a doorway in Chancery Lane was a frequent refuge, learned of the disappearance of Morris Thornton. Inquiring with great earnestness what was the date of Thornton's disappearance, he was informed that it was Friday, July 30th. It was now Friday, August 13th.

"That is exactly a fortnight ago," said the wreck, with an unmistakable note of exultation in his voice. "The very night—the very night," he muttered, but so indistinctly that the other could not catch the words.

"What is it you say?" he asked, but the wreck declined to satisfy his curiosity.

"Oh, nothing—nothing at all," he replied.

"Did you happen to be here in this street that night?" inquired the other, suspiciously.

"Yes, I was."

"And did you see any thing or any one?"

"I saw nothing—I saw nobody," said the wreck, promptly.

But next morning he had a different story to tell.

He had very good reasons for not going to Scotland Yard, so he betook himself to the office of Eversleigh, Silwood, and Eversleigh, whose name appeared at the foot of the advertisement offering the thousand pounds reward. He told his tale to Francis Eversleigh, with whom at that time was Gilbert. The latter had been hurriedly sent for by his father on a matter of the most urgent importance. They were anxiously discussing it, when Williamson had come in and announced that there was a man below who had called in answer to the advertisement respecting Thornton's disappearance.

"He says he has information, but he would not disclose it to me," remarked Williamson, in an injured tone.

The head-clerk felt hurt that morning. He knew that Francis Eversleigh had received a letter from Italy, and he suspected it had something to do with Mr. Cooper Silwood. He had even ventured to put an indirect question about it to Francis Eversleigh, but with no success. Instead, that gentleman had told him to go and fetch Gilbert at once from the Temple, or if he was not there to hunt him up and bring him.

He now saw from Gilbert's face, as well as from Francis Eversleigh's, that something very grave was being discussed. On the table lay two papers, one of which was partly printed, while the other was a long, closely-written letter. Before withdrawing, Williamson tried to see what was on the former, but could not.

"I suppose we must have this man in," said Gilbert to his father.

"Yes, yes," assented Francis. He said it with the air of one to whom nothing could ever much matter again.

"I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it!" he exclaimed suddenly, after Williamson had left the room. "It is too much!"

"Bear up, father—bear up!" cried Gilbert, little understanding all that was in his father's mind.

But the wreck was at the door.

Ragged, tattered, with patched boots and a greasy cap, with pinched features and a general appearance of having gone irremediably to the bad, the wreck yet bore himself well, and when he spoke his language and accent were those of a gentleman. He looked at the two Eversleighs, and addressing the older asked if he were Mr. Eversleigh.

Francis Eversleigh bowed to the wreck, who had once been a gentleman.

"I am Francis Eversleigh," he said; "this is my son Gilbert. You have something to tell us?" he suggested.

"Yes; but first I wish to say that my information by itself may not be of much use. Still, I think it may put you on the track. If that is the case, I wish you to promise me that I shall have some share of the reward."

"That will be only fair."

"Mr. Thornton," said the wreck, without further preface, "disappeared on the night of Friday, July 30th. He went out for a stroll in Holborn, and was to go into Chancery Lane. I was in Chancery Lane that night, and I saw something that struck me as very curious."

The wreck paused impressively.

"What was it you saw?" asked Gilbert.

"I saw a man," responded the wreck—"some sort of workman he appeared to be from his dress—come out of the iron gate, the small iron gate at the north-east corner of this Inn—Lincoln's Inn."

"But it's always kept locked at night," objected Francis Eversleigh.

"It was unlocked that night, at any rate," observed the wreck. "I heard the sound—it was a low sound, but the night was very still—of the unlocking. I saw the man lock the gate again, and he looked round him like a man afraid of being spied upon. He did not see me, for I was in the shadow of a doorway. He seemed to me to be rather flurried. Presently he walked rapidly away. I thought it very strange that a workman should have the key of the gate and at such an hour. I wondered what it could mean, but I might have forgotten all about it if the same man had not returned. He had not been gone for more than half an hour when back he came, unlocked the gate, and passed on within. I spent the night in the doorway, but he did not appear again. Very remarkable, was it not?" asked the wreck.

"Very remarkable indeed!" said Gilbert, drily.

"Don't you believe me?" inquired the wreck.

"I do not see the bearing of what you have told us on the disappearance of Mr. Thornton. Of course, what you saw was very strange, and should be communicated to the authorities of the Inn, but I can see no connection between the man who came out of the gate and Mr. Thornton. Do you think there was?"

"I told you at the beginning that what I had to communicate might not be of much use. I thought, however, it might perhaps fit in with something you knew, or that it might give you a hint," said the wreck, in a tone of dejection.

"We shall not forget what you have told us," said Gilbert, as the wreck prepared to leave the room. "You should report what you saw to the authorities of Lincoln's Inn, who will, no doubt, reward you for your trouble."

Gilbert followed him to the door, and put some silver into his hand as he went out. Then Gilbert closed the door, and sat down beside his father.

"It looks," said he, "as if there were some uncommonly queer goings-on in this old Inn."

But his father scarcely noticed what he said. Francis Eversleigh's gaze was fastened on the paper lying before him on his table—the paper which was partly printed, partly written on.

It was an official certificate from the Syndic of Camajore in Italy, duly signed and sealed, of the death of Cooper Silwood.