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?"