"I saw a man," responded the wreck--"some sort of workman he appeared to be from his dress--come out of the iron gate, the small iron gate at the north-east corner of this Inn--Lincoln's Inn." "But it's always kept locked at night," objected Francis Eversleigh. "It was unlocked that night, at any rate," observed the wreck. "I heard the sound--it was a low sound, but the night was very still--of the unlocking. I saw the man lock the gate again, and he looked round him like a man afraid of being spied upon. He did not see me, for I was in the shadow of a doorway. He seemed to me to be rather flurried. Presently he walked rapidly away. I thought it very strange that a workman should have the key of the gate and at such an hour. I wondered what it could mean, but I might have forgotten all about it if the same man had not returned. He had not been gone for more than half an hour when back he came, unlocked the gate, and passed on within. I spent the night in the doorway, but he did not appear again. Very remarkable, was it not?" asked the wreck. "Very remarkable indeed!" said Gilbert, drily. "Don't you believe me?" inquired the wreck. "I do not see the bearing of what you have told us on the disappearance of Mr. Thornton. Of course, what you saw was very strange, and should be communicated to the authorities of the Inn, but I can see no connection between the man who came out of the gate and Mr. Thornton. Do you think there was?" "I told you at the beginning that what I had to communicate might not be of much use. I thought, however, it might perhaps fit in with something you knew, or that it might give you a hint," said the wreck, in a tone of dejection. "We shall not forget what you have told us," said Gilbert, as the wreck prepared to leave the room. "You should report what you saw to the authorities of Lincoln's Inn, who will, no doubt, reward you for your trouble." Gilbert followed him to the door, and put some silver into his hand as he went out. Then Gilbert closed the door, and sat down beside his father. "It looks," said he, "as if there were some uncommonly queer goings-on in this old Inn." But his father scarcely noticed what he said. Francis Eversleigh's gaze was fastened on the paper lying before him on his table--the paper which was partly printed, partly written on. It was an official certificate from the Syndic of Camajore in Italy, duly signed and sealed, of the death of Cooper Silwood. CHAPTER XII The certificate of Cooper Silwood's death and the accompanying letter had come that morning in a long, queer-looking envelope, plastered half-over with stamps and pitted with postmarks, amongst them being that which showed the packet had been registered. It was addressed to Francis Eversleigh personally: hence it had not been touched by any one prior to his coming to the office.