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 circumstances 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 principal 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 assured 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 japanned 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.