"No, Mr. Gilbert, I do not know of one," replied the head-clerk. "Mr. Silwood never mentioned the subject to me." "I think that is all," said Francis Eversleigh, after a moment's pause, and Ernest and Williamson withdrew. "Well, Gilbert, I suppose we had better go at once and get it over," observed Eversleigh to his elder son. "We will call one of the porters, and get him to go with us to open the door." On their way they met a porter of the Inn, and told him of Silwood's death, and that they wished to gain admittance to the chambers in Stone Buildings. "Sorry to hear about Mr. Silwood," said the man; "must ha' been very sudden, surely. Dear me, dear me! But about opening the door o' his rooms, I'm none so certain that I can do it. Mr. Silwood had a lock and key of his own--a special Yale, which he'd had fitted on himself. However, I'll try." But the lock of the door, on which still was pinned the piece of paper with "Out of Town" written upon it, resisted all his efforts. He tried on it every key in his bunch, but without effect. "This is a job for a locksmith, that's what it is," said he at last. "Shall I go and fetch one? I can bring a man here in a few seconds who has the proper tools, and he'll soon do the business." "Yes, please get a locksmith at once," said Francis Eversleigh. In about five minutes the porter returned with a locksmith, who set to work and forced the lock, but not without a considerable expenditure of time and labour. As the door was opened, a foetid, noisome odour rushed out and filled the landing. The locksmith involuntarily stepped back. "Whiff, whiff, what's that?" cried he, while the others exclaimed about the horrible smell. It was the locksmith who entered the room first, a few feet in advance of the others. Instantly he uttered a loud shout of terrified surprise. The others now pressed in after him, Francis Eversleigh the last. There lay the body of a man, face downwards, on the floor. Eversleigh, with a countenance as white as chalk, looked from the body to his son, and back to the body again. Gilbert was as white as his father. The other men looked mutely at the figure lying on the floor; it seemed to fascinate them. No one spoke a word. A great question shaped itself in the stillness of that room, but none of them was eager, for the moment, to find the answer. Who was the man--the man who lay dead? Other questions came into their minds, but this was first. "We must see the man's face," said Gilbert, and his voice broke the spell which seemed to hold them powerless. The porter and the locksmith turned the body over. Though the features had partially become decomposed, the face was still recognisable on close inspection. "It's a stranger, I think, leastways in the Inn," said the porter. Eversleigh gazed at the dead face, peering into it. Suddenly he trembled as with ague, while he vainly struggled to speak.