The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn Part 1

The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn.

by Robert Machray.

CHAPTER I

It was at half-past ten in the forenoon of a Sat.u.r.day in July that Mr.

Cooper Silwood, precise in attire, composed in appearance, and punctual as usual to the minute, walked into his room on the first floor of 176 New Square, Lincoln's Inn, where were the offices of Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, the well-known and long-established firm of solicitors of which he was a partner.

He was met, as was customary, on his entrance by the head-clerk, John Williamson, who had already opened and sorted out methodically the letters received over-night. An admirable specimen of his cla.s.s, Williamson generally wore an air of great imperturbability, but this morning his face had a troubled expression.

"Anything special, Mr. Williamson?" asked Silwood quietly, putting away his hat and gloves.

"There are two or three important matters to attend to, sir," replied the man quickly. "The most important is a letter from Mr. Morris Thornton," he continued, but in a markedly different tone; at the same time, he looked at his princ.i.p.al with an anxiety he tried hard but just failed to dissemble.

"From Mr. Thornton," observed Silwood, calmly; he noticed, but was in no wise disconcerted by, the head-clerk's manner.

"Yes, sir; he writes from Vancouver."

"And what does he say?" inquired Silwood.

"He states that he is coming home immediately," answered Williamson, and now there was unmistakable anxiety in his voice as well as in his face.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Silwood, who had given a slight yet perceptible start on hearing the news. "It's surely very sudden," he went on after a pause of a few seconds. "In his last letter--let me see; we got it about a fortnight ago--he said nothing about returning soon to England."

"He did not mention it at all, sir, I am certain. But you will see from this last letter of his that he has a very strong reason for leaving British Columbia; he is seriously ill--so ill that he has been warned by his doctor to set his affairs in order. One knows what that means--he is in a critical condition."

And again Williamson scanned his master's face apprehensively.

"Ah, very sad," said Silwood, but he spoke in a strange, hollow tone, glancing the while at Williamson with a curious glittering light in his eyes that was sinister and menacing. It suddenly faded away, however, and he asked quite evenly, "Does he say when he is coming?"

"Oddly enough, sir, he gives no precise date. But here is his letter,"

said Williamson, picking it out from the pile on Silwood's table.

Silwood, knowing Williamson was watching him narrowly, and conscious that it was necessary to preserve an aspect of calmness, read Thornton's letter with the utmost deliberation and with no more concern than was natural in the pitiful circ.u.mstances of the case.

"Very sad, very sad," he said, when he had perused the letter, which he put down in front of him with elaborate carelessness; "very distressing!" he added, shaking his head.

There was a moment of silence, and then Silwood remarked to Williamson that he might go, but as the head-clerk was withdrawing he called him back.

"Has Mr. Eversleigh come in yet?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; a few minutes ago."

"Have you told him about this letter from Mr. Thornton?"

"No, sir."

"That's right, Mr. Williamson. I'll tell him about it myself."

Silwood nodded Williamson's dismissal, and the clerk, who had undoubtedly been studying his princ.i.p.al intently and wonderingly during their conversation, bowed and went out.

"It's plain that Williamson has his suspicions," said Silwood to himself, after the door had closed upon the head-clerk. "He is inclined to think there's something wrong--I could see it in his manner--it suggested he was afraid there was some trouble impending. But he knows nothing--he can know nothing."

He a.s.sured himself, however, that what Williamson knew or suspected did not matter much.

But what did matter, what did matter enormously, was this letter of Thornton's.

Taking it up again, he read it over very carefully twice or thrice; then, still holding it in his hand, he walked up and down the floor many times, absorbed in thought. His small, hard, keen eyes gleamed angrily, the lines of his cold, pale, clean-shaven face seemed to become deeper, and his hands opened and shut convulsively as he paced his room. Now and again he looked at a large j.a.panned box which stood in one corner. With a quick, nervous movement peculiar to him in moments of doubt, he stopped and pushed up the heavy brown wig which he always wore by day, and sat down at his table. Once more he re-read Thornton's letter.

"Thornton's coming back in this unexpected way," he said to himself, "upsets my plan--that is quite clear; my hand is forced. What is to be done now? The worst of it is that Thornton does not say when he is coming--which is more than a little strange. He is well on his way, no doubt, by this time; he may drop in upon us any day. I must prepare for it. I never looked for his return--at least, not for a long time. His coming precipitates the crisis. Well, it was bound to come sooner or later. I must consider my position coolly."

He knew he would not be disturbed for an hour, as it was a fixed rule of the office that no one was to be shown in to him till half-past eleven.

He thought best, pen in hand, seated at his table, and there he sat, a still, immovable figure, save when he jotted something on his blotting-pad, for several minutes. But his was a nimble brain, and his mind was soon made up.

"I must see Eversleigh," he told himself, "and acquaint him with--everything." As he thought this, he half smiled, and his eyes for an instant had in them the same threatening gleam that had flashed upon Williamson.

Next he went to the large j.a.panned box that stood in the corner, and touching a spring cleverly concealed in the moulding round its base, gained access to a narrow, shelf-like cavity at the bottom, which was stuffed with papers. From this secret place he extracted a folio sheet covered with figures, against which were various initials, "M.T." being conspicuous from their frequency amongst them.

He went over this doc.u.ment very carefully, added up the figures opposite the "M.T."s, and put down the total on his pad.

"A quarter of a million," he whispered almost aloud. "It's an immense sum. What a thing to have to tell Eversleigh!"

Then he folded up and replaced the sheet of figures in the receptacle hidden at the bottom of the big box, but when he tried to close up the aperture he experienced great difficulty in getting the spring to act; finally, however, he succeeded.

"I ought to see to that at once," he said with decision, "but I dare not."

He now proceeded to skim over the rest of his correspondence with extraordinary rapidity but with little real attention; at the back of his mind he was still occupied with the return of Morris Thornton.

All at once a thought struck him.

"I wonder if Kitty Thornton has heard from her father by the same post?

If so, she may know the date on which to expect him," was what he said to himself, adding, "if she knows, Eversleigh will know." For Miss Kitty Thornton lived practically as a member of the family of Francis Eversleigh, the senior partner of the firm.

Silwood went to the door of his room, opened it quietly, and looked out.

A young and handsome man was springing lightly up the stairs; the two men exchanged somewhat cold nods.

"Good morning, Gilbert," said Silwood, but without much cordiality.

"Good morning," returned the other, with a distant air.

"Going up to see your father, I suppose?" asked Silwood.

"Yes. Mr. Williamson, whom I met in the square, told me he was in,"

replied Gilbert Eversleigh, and with another nod went on upstairs.

"I'll just give you five minutes," said Silwood, under his breath, addressing the back of the unconscious Gilbert, who knocked at a door on the second floor and was admitted.