The certificate of Cooper Silwood's death and the accompanying letter had come that morning in a long, queer-looking envelope, plastered half-over with stamps and pitted with postmarks, amongst them being that which showed the packet had been registered. It was addressed to Francis Eversleigh personally: hence it had not been touched by any one prior to his coming to the office.

When he first saw the packet he thought there was something ominous about it, and a sure prescience that it contained bad news deterred him from opening it immediately; he therefore allowed it to lie on his table for some time. Such a want of courage had now become characteristic of the tortured man. At last, however, he screwed himself up to the point of looking into it. As it happened, he took out and glanced at the letter first; it was in a language he did not know, but he guessed it was Italian. It was written in a minute, cramped hand, difficult, in any case, to decipher, and he put it aside. Then he scanned the certificate. Here the printed words and his Latin helped him, and he had little trouble in understanding what it was.

But in his shattered state it did not come home fully to him at once. When it did, the effect on him was terrible—his head swam distressingly, his heart fluttered painfully, as he fell back gasping in his chair.

Cooper Silwood dead!

It seemed impossible to him, as his brain, caught in strange tangles, like water-weeds in an eddy, whirled this way and that.

Dead!

The thing at last impressed itself upon his consciousness so as to blot out everything else for the time.

"What next? What next?" he cried aloud, in a voice that was hardly recognizable as his; it was the protest of a man goaded beyond the limit of endurance.

Then his brain clouded.

"Cooper Silwood dead—dead—dead—dead!" he babbled to himself, looking at the spots in the wall opposite him, and noting mechanically the shapes and sizes of them. "Dead—dead—dead!" he mumbled, till the words lost all meaning.

Something sub-conscious whispered to him this was madness, and with a mighty effort he sought to recover himself. The effort saved him.

The first force of the shock at length passed; its recoil passed off too, and he came to something like his senses. Desiring instinctively to lean on some one stronger than himself, his impulse was to send for his son Gilbert immediately, and accordingly, when he had pulled himself still further round, he summoned Williamson, and dispatched him to find and bring the young man to Lincoln's Inn. He had hardly done so, when his vacillating mind swung round again, and he regretted it. But by the time Gilbert arrived his mood had changed once more.

When Gilbert appeared in his father's room he found Francis Eversleigh in tears. They were the tears of weakness, of indecision, of self-pity; but when Gilbert heard what his father had to tell him he thought, of course, they were the tears of one who mourns. They could not but seem natural in the circumstances. He had always disliked Silwood; but his father and Silwood had been associated in business for many years, and though he was rather surprised that his father should be in tears over Silwood's death, he was not at a loss altogether to account for it: his father, he thought, had a good heart, and was overcome with sorrow. He supposed that a long acquaintance with Silwood had shown his father some excellent qualities in the man now dead—qualities which he himself could not see.

"His death will be a great loss to you, father," said Gilbert; "you must—and will—feel it very much, I fear."

"Yes," said Francis Eversleigh, in a harsh, strained voice, staring straight before him.

"Have you told Ernest about it, or Mr. Williamson?" asked Gilbert.

"Not yet; but, of course, they must be told. First of all, however, I should prefer to learn something of the circumstances attending Mr. Silwood's death. I must have this letter translated," said Francis Eversleigh, pointing to the communication in the small, cramped handwriting; "I think it will tell us exactly what has happened."

"I can get you a man," said Gilbert, "from a College of Languages near here, if you like. Shall I go and bring him? Or shall I take the letter with me and get it translated?"

"Bring him here," said Eversleigh, who wished to keep everything connected in any way with Silwood as much in the office as possible.

"The other way would be the quicker, perhaps," Gilbert suggested.

"Perhaps; but I had rather he came here," rejoined Eversleigh, with some firmness.

In about half an hour Gilbert was back again in his father's room with an interpreter, who quickly made himself master of the contents of the letter, and afterwards read it out aloud to the two Eversleighs.

It was from Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore, which place, the interpreter explained, was in the north of Tuscany, a few miles from the coast, and no great distance from Leghorn, but the nearest town of importance was Lucca.

The Syndic stated that he had been given instructions by Mr. Silwood to communicate with Mr. Francis Eversleigh should the illness from which he, Mr. Silwood, was suffering at the time have a fatal termination, as appeared to be likely. And the illness had, unfortunately, resulted in the death of Mr. Silwood, as had been feared.

Mr. Silwood had said he was a partner of Mr. Eversleigh's. He, the Syndic, now hastened to write in accordance with the command of the deceased gentleman; he regretted that he had to give Mr. Eversleigh the pain of hearing the sad news, but he had a sacred duty to the dead to perform, and he must discharge it.

Mr. Eversleigh had probably seen from the newspapers, said the Syndic, that cholera was that summer—one of the hottest on record—epidemic all along the Gulf of Genoa and southward as far as Leghorn. Mr. Silwood had fallen a victim to this plague—alas! its victims were numbered by hundreds and thousands; it was the greatest calamity that had visited Italy for many years!

In Mr. Silwood's case there had been little hope from the commencement of his sickness, to which he succumbed after about twenty-four hours. Everything had been done for him that could be done; he had been attended by a doctor of skill and experience, nor had the tendance of competent nurses been wanting. Ah! It was evidently the will of God! The usual certificate of death was enclosed.

Owing to the requirements of the law, concluded the Syndic, the body was buried early on the morning of the day following that on which the death took place. The deceased had left some effects about which he had not given directions. These were now in his, the Syndic's possession, and he asked what was to be done with them. As Mr. Eversleigh would doubtless know what was proper in the circumstances, he, the Syndic, would be glad to hear from him at his earliest convenience.

Such was the letter of Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore.

The interpreter was asked to write out a translation both of the letter and of the death certificate; this he did, received his fee, and withdrew.

Death is perhaps the only thing which commands universal respect: all render involuntary homage to the King of Terror. It was this that caused Gilbert, who had no love for Silwood, yet to say with sincerity when the interpreter had gone, "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" and then he was silent.

Francis Eversleigh had listened in a sort of heavy stupor to the reading of the Syndic's letter. The feeling which emerged most prominently from out of the chaos of his thoughts was one of envy; he envied Silwood, inasmuch as he was finally beyond the reach of the law—he had gone where its long arm could not go—he was safe! Eversleigh then tried to think what was his position now Silwood was dead, and Morris Thornton was dead, most probably, also; but the man's brain was tired and sick and torpid from the frightful blows it had already been called upon to sustain. With a deep sigh, he confessed his impotence to himself, and abandoned the attempt.

"We must tell the others at once," he said, feeling it was easier to do something than to think, "and have an announcement of the death drawn up. We must take the usual steps."

"Yes, yes," said Gilbert, "we must do so."

But Gilbert also had been thinking during the few minutes in which he had been silent.

"What a strange place," he observed, "for Mr. Silwood to have been at! Perhaps, though, he was just passing through. Still, at this time of the year, it was an odd place to choose for a holiday. He must have known, too, about the cholera, surely. I never heard of Camajore! Did you?"

"I believe Mr. Silwood spent a holiday a few years ago in the north of Italy, probably at this very place, or somewhere in its neighbourhood, but I do not remember exactly," rejoined the other, dully.

Francis Eversleigh sat in his chair, inert, without initiative; he seemed to be incapable of action. It was Gilbert who took the lead.

"I suppose it is pretty certain that Mr. Silwood has left a will," remarked Gilbert. "Of course letters of administration will have to be taken out, and his estate looked after generally. You will do that, I presume?"

"Oh, about his will. I don't believe," returned Eversleigh, "that his will is in the office—indeed, I am not aware there is a will at all." He had very good reasons for imagining there would be no will, for had not Silwood told him that he had no money?

"Mr. Silwood must have left a will, father," said Gilbert, confidently; "a man of his business habits would be certain to make a will. If it's not in the office here, then I should think it will be in his chambers in Stone Buildings."

"Perhaps so."

"Well, that's what I should say. In any case, father, you will have to go across to his chambers, see what there is in them, and have everything taken care of. I wonder who is his heir, or if he has one? He never seemed to have any relations or friends—but then I did not know him very well."

"Relations, so far as I know, he had none," replied Francis Eversleigh; "and I scarcely think he had many friends. He always lived a very lonely life."

"He was so engrossed in his business!"

"Yes, yes—quite so. As regards his chambers, I know he left them locked up."

"Still, don't you think you ought to examine them, considering present circumstances? If you like, I will go over there with you now."

Eversleigh shrank from the thing. However, he looked at his strong handsome son, and thought that if he must go to Stone Buildings—and he knew that he had better go as soon as possible—it was with Gilbert that he would choose to go.

"I think, first," he said, "it will be as well to tell Ernest and Mr. Williamson what has occurred; afterwards you and I will proceed to Mr. Silwood's chambers and examine them."

Ernest Eversleigh and Williamson, therefore, were sent for. Eversleigh announced to them that Silwood was dead, and asked Gilbert to read to them the translation of the Syndic's letter. Both were profoundly surprised; Ernest, who appeared genuinely concerned, expressed his regret at the news, while Williamson, who was astonished beyond measure, looked utterly aghast, and as if he thought the end of the world was about to come.

"We—Gilbert and I—are going over to Mr. Silwood's rooms in Stone Buildings," said Francis Eversleigh. "I must consider what is necessary to do in the circumstances, but I can say nothing at present."

"Perhaps Mr. Williamson can tell us," said Gilbert, as his father stopped, "if there is a will?"

"No, Mr. Gilbert, I do not know of one," replied the head-clerk. "Mr. Silwood never mentioned the subject to me."

"I think that is all," said Francis Eversleigh, after a moment's pause, and Ernest and Williamson withdrew.

"Well, Gilbert, I suppose we had better go at once and get it over," observed Eversleigh to his elder son. "We will call one of the porters, and get him to go with us to open the door."

On their way they met a porter of the Inn, and told him of Silwood's death, and that they wished to gain admittance to the chambers in Stone Buildings.

"Sorry to hear about Mr. Silwood," said the man; "must ha' been very sudden, surely. Dear me, dear me! But about opening the door o' his rooms, I'm none so certain that I can do it. Mr. Silwood had a lock and key of his own—a special Yale, which he'd had fitted on himself. However, I'll try."

But the lock of the door, on which still was pinned the piece of paper with "Out of Town" written upon it, resisted all his efforts. He tried on it every key in his bunch, but without effect.

"This is a job for a locksmith, that's what it is," said he at last. "Shall I go and fetch one? I can bring a man here in a few seconds who has the proper tools, and he'll soon do the business."

"Yes, please get a locksmith at once," said Francis Eversleigh.

In about five minutes the porter returned with a locksmith, who set to work and forced the lock, but not without a considerable expenditure of time and labour.

As the door was opened, a foetid, noisome odour rushed out and filled the landing. The locksmith involuntarily stepped back.

"Whiff, whiff, what's that?" cried he, while the others exclaimed about the horrible smell.

It was the locksmith who entered the room first, a few feet in advance of the others. Instantly he uttered a loud shout of terrified surprise. The others now pressed in after him, Francis Eversleigh the last.

There lay the body of a man, face downwards, on the floor.

Eversleigh, with a countenance as white as chalk, looked from the body to his son, and back to the body again. Gilbert was as white as his father. The other men looked mutely at the figure lying on the floor; it seemed to fascinate them. No one spoke a word. A great question shaped itself in the stillness of that room, but none of them was eager, for the moment, to find the answer.

Who was the man—the man who lay dead?

Other questions came into their minds, but this was first.

"We must see the man's face," said Gilbert, and his voice broke the spell which seemed to hold them powerless.

The porter and the locksmith turned the body over.

Though the features had partially become decomposed, the face was still recognisable on close inspection.

"It's a stranger, I think, leastways in the Inn," said the porter.

Eversleigh gazed at the dead face, peering into it. Suddenly he trembled as with ague, while he vainly struggled to speak.

Gilbert, too, had been closely scrutinizing the dead face, and he thought that he recognized it. Looking at his father and seeing his evident emotion, he felt certain.

"It is Morris Thornton!" said he, in a hoarse unnatural voice.

"Morris Thornton!" echoed Francis Eversleigh, and fell in a heap across the body of his old friend.