Never had there been a more baffling mystery.

Morris Thornton, the missing millionaire, had not been murdered either by Cooper Silwood or the mysterious workman, either of whom might have been thought guilty of the crime; medical testimony, based on the scientific accuracy of an autopsy, was conclusive on this point. The man had fallen a victim to heart-disease, and there was no getting away from the fact. But a great deal about the case called loudly for explanation.

Amongst others were such queries being put as: How did Thornton come to be in Silwood's rooms? Had he gone there of his own volition? If so, with what object? And once there, what had taken place prior to his death? And who had locked the door upon him? And did any one besides Silwood have a key to the rooms?

It was a curiously tangled skein: would it ever be unravelled? or would it take its place among the many unsolved mysteries of London? The Thornton Mystery continued to be the talk, the question, of the day, and many keen brains set to work upon it. The popular imagination, too, was powerfully impressed by the pathos of the idea of Thornton, after years of striving and success in the land of his exile, coming home only to meet his death in this strange fashion in the midst of such extraordinary surroundings.

As for the inquest itself, its wholly unexpected result filled the general public with astonishment. In some minds it excited a feeling of alarm, because it showed how possible it was for a man to pass out of sight, to be lost and swallowed up, even to die, and all this take place without the police, the guardians of the great city's peace and safety, being aware of it.

Both the amazement and the alarm were evident in that unerring reflex and register of opinion, the Press of the country. Not a newspaper throughout the land but commented at length on the subject. They were at tremendous pains to set forth the whole dark story with the utmost minuteness. Some even attempted a solution of the problems it disclosed. And in one instance, at least, this led to a further development.

The Morning Call, a well-known London journal, had secretly changed hands; it had a new editor and for the most part a new staff; every man on it tingled and burned to distinguish himself and cover his paper with glory. The general line taken by the Call was the sensational, and the Thornton Mystery was just the sort of thing out of which it calculated to make fresh capital. From its point of view, the tame finding of the jury at the inquest was overwhelmingly disappointing. Westgate, a member of its staff, who had been present at it, told his chief, that the result was "simply disgusting." And his chief, with a smile, had sympathized with him.

Westgate had come from a rival paper known as the Morning Light, and was a very smart and capable journalist. From his natural bent, as well as from his training, he had made himself an expert of no mean standing on all matters connected with crime. He would have been an excellent detective, but the detective service, which is not recruited from the most intelligent classes in the world, gave no sufficient salary for a man of his stamp. As a journalist, he earned twelve hundred a year, and was well worth every penny of it. Inspector Gale, the best detective in England, did not get five pounds a week.

Westgate's chief, who had been editor of the Morning Light, knew and appreciated the speciality of his subordinate. Discussing the case after the verdict, he asked him what he thought of it.

"I don't know quite what to think," replied Westgate, "but I am not satisfied. There is something in the affair that does not meet the eye; there is something behind it all. For one thing, I feel as certain as I am of being alive that the solution of the mystery rests with Cooper Silwood. It turns on him as on a pivot. I take no stock in the tramp's story of his seeing a workman coming out of Lincoln's Inn on the night of Thornton's disappearance. If the tramp was in Chancery Lane at the time he said he was, how was it he saw nothing of Morris Thornton? Morris Thornton was undoubtedly in the Lane—at least it is altogether likely—at or about the time the tramp said he was there. But, in any case, who would trust the story of a tramp by itself? Why, you can pick up a waster of the same kind any night of the year you like, and he'll pitch you any yarn he thinks you want. No, the case turns on Silwood."

"Well, suppose I grant you that, what then? If the solution lies with Silwood, it will continue to rest with him, as he is dead. You run your head up against a stone wall, Westgate. Silwood's death ends the thing pretty finally."

"Silwood dead!" cried Westgate, pursuing his own train of thought. "Just think of it! Isn't it the strangest thing in the world? In the way of coincidence it beats anything I ever heard of. Consider, for a second. Suppose, for the sake of argument, it had been proved that Thornton was murdered, and that the murder was committed by Silwood, what a fortunate event Silwood's dying at this precise juncture would be for Silwood! You see that, don't you?"

"Of course, the coincidence is remarkable, but what more can you say about it? Silwood is dead, and that settles everything—so far as it can be settled. There does not seem to be much more to say."

"Though it does not appear to be much good," persisted Westgate, "still, the key of the situation, as I said before, lies with Silwood. I wish I knew more about that man. Personally, I feel certain that Silwood, when he went off for his holiday that Saturday morning, locked the door on the dead body of Thornton."

"How you harp on this, Westgate! You have no evidence for what you say, either."

"There is a strong presumption, however."

"The exact time of Thornton's death is not known, yet you are arguing as if it was. You cannot say for certain that Thornton was dead that morning at all."

"The doctors agreed that Thornton had been dead about fifteen days when the body was found. That brings his death pretty well, or, at any rate, very close, to the time of his disappearance."

"Still there might be a gap of a good many hours."

"I doubt it," said Westgate, stubbornly. "Let me tell you what happened, as it seems to me. On leaving the Law Courts Hotel, Thornton went to Chancery Lane, got somehow or other into Silwood's rooms, and died there suddenly a short while afterwards. I am convinced that he saw Silwood when he got into the room, and that something occurred between him and Silwood—I don't even attempt to guess what it was—which produced such an effect upon his weak heart that he dropped dead from the shock."

"Your explanation is plausible, but it suffers from your not being certain that Silwood was there with Thornton at the time of the latter's death. In assuming Silwood's presence, you assume too much. But go on with your mapping out of what happened. Suppose we take your suppositions as certainties, what next?"

"When Silwood saw that Thornton was dead, he would ask himself what he was to do," Westgate resumed. "There was the body in the room, and its being there had to be accounted for somehow. Silwood, I am positive, shrank from saying anything about it—shrank to such an extent that he made up his mind to fly rather than appear to have any connection whatever with it."

The chief of the Call shook his head.

"This," said he, "is just where your building up of the case tumbles to pieces. Suppose Thornton died in Silwood's presence, why on earth should not Silwood have said so boldly? Why should he have run away as you conjecture he did? Would it not have been far easier, safer, better for him to have at once summoned a policeman and told him what had happened?"

"But he didn't call a policeman!" exclaimed Westgate, eagerly; "don't you see where that lands you? Why did he not call a policeman—why? Because he had some strong reason for not doing so. If everything had been absolutely all right, he would, as a matter of course, have summoned a policeman, and there would be no Thornton Mystery at all—only the pathos of the story of a man's career ending in such swift tragedy; that would have been all. No! Again I say that, for some reason or other, Silwood did not care to face the world and tell it what took place in his room that night. Instead of staying to face the music as an honest man would, he resolved on flight, and did accordingly fly the country the following morning. Mind you, I do not say that Silwood knew Thornton died from heart failure—that is another aspect of the thing; he may have believed that he had something to do physically with bringing about the death of Thornton. Still, that is not the main thing. The main thing is that he had some good reason for flight, and that he did fly."

The chief said nothing, though a pause on Westgate's part gave him an opportunity of speaking.

"It is absurd," said the chief at last. "Silwood belongs to one of the best firms in London. His partner, Eversleigh, stands at the head of his profession. You saw him at the inquest."

"Yes; he sat beside Miss Thornton. I thought it rather strange that she should be present at the inquest, but it was evident she was much attached to Mr. Eversleigh in a daughterly way. They say she is engaged to his son."

"Well, Westgate, how does that fit in with your theories about Silwood, Eversleigh's partner?"

"Not very well, I admit, but we are only making guesses and trying to piece things out a bit. And I have not yet told you all that is in my mind."

"Go on," said the editor, as Westgate looked at him for permission.

"I paid very careful attention to the statement made by Inspector Gale. Now, he's not a great detective, but he's shrewd."

The chief nodded assent.

"In his statement, Gale never once spoke as if he thought Silwood was dead."

"What do you say?" cried the other, aroused at last. "Did not speak as if he thought Silwood was dead! By Jove, that's a horse of another colour."

In a flash he saw that, if Silwood was not dead, then the theories of Westgate were likely to become substantialities.

"Gale wanted an open verdict; he actually recommended the jury to bring one in. He spoke of the murder being the work of either Silwood or the mysterious workman—that was before the medical men knocked the idea of murder into thin air—Gale was not prepared for that, I'll swear—but he never once spoke of Silwood as if he thought of Silwood as dead. I noticed that most particularly. Now, to go on with our supposings," said Westgate, with even greater eagerness than he already exhibited, "let us see where we are. Silwood is announced to have died of cholera at some outlandish place in the north of Italy. Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't. Say he did not, and that the whole thing is a plant, a put-up job?"

Westgate paused abruptly, and looked at his chief.

"Of course, I see your point," responded the editor. "You would say, following out your theories, that after locking the dead body of Thornton into his room, Silwood went to Italy, and has somehow or other had a false announcement of his death sent to England, hoping in this way to cover up his tracks effectually. But, once more, Westgate, my boy, where is the motive for all this astonishing business?"

"That, I confess, I do not know. But if Silwood is alive, why then, he is to be found——"

He broke off and gazed suggestively at the other.

"And you are the man to find him! Eh, is that it?" asked the editor, as quick as lightning.

"If you say the word!"

Perceval, chief of the Call, leaned back in his chair, lost in debate within himself for a minute. As a rule, it did not take nearly so long as that for him to make up his mind.

"All right," he said. "You can go. First, of course, you will go to this place in Italy and ascertain if Silwood died, was buried, and all the rest of it. That may be the end of your search; but if it is not, why then go ahead, Westgate. You'll start without delay, and let me know as soon as possible what you are doing."

And Westgate went from the presence of his chief, rejoicing exceedingly on being sent on a mission after his own heart.

It was therefore more than annoying that almost the first person he saw on his arrival in Genoa was Sub-inspector Brydges, Gale's under-study at Scotland Yard. As soon as he saw him he guessed that Gale had despatched his subordinate to Italy, to make inquiries about Silwood's death, and a brief conversation with the officer, whom he often met and knew perfectly, made this a certainty.

Brydges made no secret of his errand. He had already wired Gale that he was satisfied Silwood was dead, and had been buried at Camajore, just as the inspector had been informed by the Eversleighs. And he saw no reason for concealing this from Westgate, after they had had some talk together in which both of them, metaphorically speaking, put their cards, or most of them, on the table.

"You can take it from me," concluded Brydges, "that Mr. Silwood is as dead—as dead as Queen Anne."

But Westgate was not satisfied.

So he went to Camajore, saw the Syndic, the doctor, the nurses, and every one besides from whom he could get any information. The result was always the same. Silwood had died. The polite Syndic even took him to see the mound of earth under which lay Silwood's remains.

"It was no good?" asked the chief of Westgate on his return to the office of the Call.

"No good at all," said Westgate, much crestfallen.