Though Bennet had said to Kitty Thornton that the sight of her was torture to him, yet, when she had departed, her pleading face remained present for a short time in his thoughts and temporarily softened him. But this frame of mind quickly passed, leaving him a prey to hatred, malignity, and the darkest passions.

His devilish humour now prompted him to an act of hideous malice. The idea came to him that if he had Gilbert Eversleigh as his counsel at the forthcoming trial, he would inflict on Gilbert, as well as on Kitty, the most exquisite pain. It was the idea of a fiend rather than of a human being, and showed, as perhaps nothing else could have done, how Bennet's whole nature had been warped to the side of evil. He gloated over this monstrous idea, telling himself that in this way, whatever happened, he would glut his desire for revenge. He knew that, in ordinary circumstances, Gilbert would never consent to appear for him if he could avoid doing so; but a threat to expose Francis Eversleigh would be enough, Bennet believed, to settle the matter. Whether Gilbert would or would not be a good counsel counted for little with him in comparison with the gratification he expected and promised himself, from seeing the man he had always hated placed in this position.

It was much the same thing as if Bennet had said to Gilbert—

"If you succeed in getting me off from the capital charge, I shall not release Kitty from her engagement, but will marry her after my term of imprisonment has expired. Though I shall be a convict, I shall compel her to marry me, for the same reason that made her engage herself to me.

"Or, if you don't succeed, and I am sentenced to death, and there is no Kitty for me, then you shall not have her; for I will not quit this world without exposing your father and bringing disgrace on you, in which case you will not seek to marry her."

No matter the result of the trial, Bennet assured himself, with diabolical satisfaction, that he would cause Gilbert's heart to suffer the most horrible agony.

He at once took the necessary steps by instructing the local solicitor, Deakin, to have Gilbert Eversleigh retained for his defence. He gave a certain plausibility to this, when discussing it with the lawyer, by representing that Gilbert was well known to him, being the son of the head of the London firm of solicitors who transacted his legal business, as well as that of his father before him. When Deakin, in reply, suggested it might be better, in view of the seriousness of the charge, to employ a more eminent barrister, Bennet peremptorily declined to do so, saying his mind was made up.

Deakin, therefore, put himself in communication with Gilbert, and he naturally did so in this particular case through Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, though they were not his own London agents.

When Francis Eversleigh received his letter, he instantly perceived the malice and hatred that inspired Bennet's proposal; it was a fresh and bitter blow to himself, but he understood its ingenuity of cruelty was specially aimed at his son. As for himself, he was helpless; all he could do was to send for Gilbert, and lay the letter before him.

Gilbert at first was dumbfounded. He could hardly believe that Bennet at such a time could make such a proposition seriously; but he, too, soon perceived what lay behind it.

"It is infamous!" he cried; "or the man must be out of his head. To select me of all people!"

Then he looked at his father, whose weakness and loss of power were more and more evident every day.

"What am I to do?" he asked. "How can I defend this man?"

"He holds me in the hollow of his hand," observed Francis Eversleigh, with a pathetic shake in his voice.

"I know, I know," said Gilbert. "And I suppose I must appear for him. But the thing is an outrage——"

Gilbert was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door of his father's room—it was no ordinary knocking, but a knocking that spoke of some strong emotion on the part of the person who knocked.

Gilbert strode to the door and opened it. The clerk who had replaced Williamson was standing there, and on his face was a terrified expression.

"I must speak to Mr. Eversleigh immediately," he said hurriedly.

"What is it, Mr. Whittaker?" asked Eversleigh, with a quick agitation.

"I should like, begging Mr. Gilbert's pardon, to see you in private, sir," returned Whittaker, confusedly. "Please come into Mr. Silwood's room; there is no need for Mr. Gilbert to go from here. It is something I must show you personally in Mr. Silwood's room."

"But of what nature is it?"

"That I can scarcely tell, but you may be able to do so."

Francis Eversleigh said no more, but went with Whittaker into Silwood's room. In a few moments he came back alone, looking so shattered that as soon as his son saw him he rushed forward to assist him. When Gilbert offered him his arm, he took it at once, and Gilbert could feel how his father shook and trembled.

"What has happened?" he asked, after helping his father into a chair.

"Yes, in a minute," stammered the other; "I am horribly upset, and I can stand so little now! In a minute I'll tell you all."

He lay back in his chair with his eyes closed—the mere wreck of the handsome man he once had been.

"A very strange thing has taken place, Gilbert," he said after a while—"a very strange thing indeed!"

Eversleigh stopped, and Gilbert patiently waited till his father spoke again, his heart full of compassion and sorrow. For the moment, he forgot Bennet, and could think of nothing save the pitiable state of his father.

At length Francis Eversleigh recovered himself sufficiently to stand up.

"Come with me," he said to Gilbert, "to Mr. Silwood's room—that will be the simplest way of making you acquainted with what has happened."

And Gilbert, with mingled feelings of curiosity and alarm, followed his father to the next floor. Halfway down the stairs, Eversleigh halted.

"Whittaker thinks it's a burglary," he whispered mysteriously in Gilbert's ear.

"A burglary! In the office!" said Gilbert, incredulously in a low voice.

"Wait," cautioned Eversleigh. "Wait until you see."

And now they were in Silwood's room, which was still known as Silwood's, though it knew Silwood no more. It was changed, however, but little since he had sat in it and worked his wicked will.

"Close the door, Gilbert," said Eversleigh.

The son obeyed, and then glanced about him. He could see no sign of disturbance, nothing that indicated specially the burglary of which his father had given a suggestion on the stairs. There were in the room, as of yore, the same table, chair, book-cases, deed-boxes; all were arranged in the way that was familiar enough to him. The large japanned box stood by itself in the usual corner. There appeared to be absolutely no hint of anything out of the ordinary. This rapid scrutiny over, Gilbert looked at his father inquiringly.

"You don't notice anything particularly?" asked Eversleigh.

"No; that is, at a superficial glance."

"I wish you to examine the bottom of that box," said Eversleigh, pointing to the large japanned box in the corner. "You and Mr. Archer Martin have recently had constant access to it for the purpose of going over Mr. Silwood's books and papers; you therefore know it well. Now you will see something I am sure you know nothing of. I did not know of it myself—not until Whittaker showed me it."

While Eversleigh was speaking, his son was looking at the foot of the box, from which he saw there protruded a narrow strip of metal.

"What do you make of that?" asked the father, huskily.

"I should say it was a sort of secret chamber—you can't exactly call it a drawer," Gilbert replied, after a study of the box. "I knew nothing of it; you are right there. How has it been discovered? What was found in it?" he inquired eagerly, while other questions came thronging into his mind. "When was this discovery made?" he went on.

"It was made this morning," replied Eversleigh. "Whittaker tells me he had occasion to come into the room a few minutes ago to get a paper which he thought he'd find here. He could not lay his hand on it quickly, and had to hunt for it. Quite by accident, as he was searching, he happened to observe a strip of metal at the foot of the box sticking out. Naturally, he went and examined the box, and then saw the secret chamber, which he declares was empty, and I don't doubt it. Now he is positive that when he saw the box yesterday this secret chamber was closed."

"Positive! In what way?"

"It seems that he and one of the other clerks required to move the box yesterday. And he maintains that one or other of them, or both, must have seen the secret chamber if it had been open then. He concludes, of course, that it has been opened since he saw it last. His theory is that it was opened last night by a burglar. I don't know whether he really believes that; it appears preposterous and beyond possibility that any ordinary burglar would be acquainted with this secret chamber."

Gilbert nodded his agreement. He had listened carefully to his father, but at the same time had been trying to understand how the mechanism was worked by which the chamber was opened and closed. It baffled him, however, and he desisted from the attempt.

"What do you make of it?" asked the father.

"Do you believe Whittaker right in thinking the chamber was opened last night?" inquired Gilbert.

"I do."

"But that he was wrong in putting it down to a burglar?"

"Yes. Do burglars break into lawyer's rooms? I don't mean to say that such a thing is impossible, for valuable documents have been stolen—you can imagine that."

"Of course. But if the secret chamber was not opened by a burglar, then by whom was it opened?"

"That is the question," said Eversleigh, gazing earnestly at his son.

"Whoever opened the secret chamber knew of its existence," Gilbert went on, thinking the matter out aloud.

"Undoubtedly. He knew of its existence, and he also had the means of opening it."

Gilbert suddenly started, for an extraordinary notion had come into his mind. His father saw the start, and thought he knew its meaning. The two men looked at each other strangely.

"Only two men in the world, I feel certain, knew of that chamber," Eversleigh resumed. "One was the mechanic who devised and made it, the other was——"

"Cooper Silwood!" exclaimed Gilbert.

"Yes, Cooper Silwood."

"But Silwood is dead, so you would say that it was the other? That seems absurd."

"It is absurd. What would the mechanic who made the box care about taking anything out of the secret chamber? Once his job of making the thing was finished, he would be finished with it altogether. No, it was not the mechanic."

Gilbert was silent.

"Don't you see?" asked Eversleigh.

"Silwood!"

"Precisely."

"But that is impossible. Dead men do not open secret chambers," said Gilbert, but there was something curious and suggestive in the manner of his saying it.

"No. Dead men do not open secret chambers, but living ones do. Silwood is not dead! He is alive!"

Eversleigh's voice rose into a shout and then cracked.

"It seems inconceivable."

"Yet there is no other conclusion. The maker of the box being out of the question, it follows that it must have been Silwood. I believe he was here last night and removed from the secret chamber something of particular value to him."

"Silwood might have told some one of it," objected Gilbert.

"Is it likely? You know he was the least communicative of men."

"What about Williamson?"

"I feel confident he knew nothing of it either. Don't you see this secret chamber was a receptacle in which Silwood hid papers or other things he had an object in concealing? You may be certain he told no one of it. If he had told any one, would he not have told me? No, Gilbert; from the moment I knew of Whittaker's discovery I suspected the truth."

"But the certificate of his death?"

"It was a false certificate."

"Strange I had not thought of that before, once I knew the kind of man he was!"

"Silwood is alive," Eversleigh once more, but with less vigour, declared, after a pause of some duration.

All through the conversation up to this point he had carried himself, supported by excitement, with some degree of his former buoyancy, but now he seemed to sink rapidly into a state of apathy, while Gilbert regarded him anxiously.

"I don't know what's to be done next," murmured Eversleigh, feebly.

"Some one must go to Italy," said Gilbert, emphatically, "and find out the truth—that's what must be done!"

"Then," said his father, "you must go!"