"Shall I stay, sir?" asked the locksmith. "Yes, please, until the police come; they will want your evidence." "Very well, sir." While he was trying to resuscitate his father, Gilbert's mind had been in a whirl; now that he had desisted from the attempt his thoughts shaped themselves more clearly. Here, before him, lay Kitty's father dead--Kitty's father, that was his first thought--and his heart bled for her. He knew that, though she had said and felt that Morris Thornton was no more, she would still suffer terribly on hearing positively that he was dead. Then the strangeness of the thing--the body being found in Silwood's room, and Silwood his own father's partner!--took hold of him. Silwood dead! Morris Thornton dead! What did this conjunction indicate? That there was something extraordinary about it did not admit of any doubt whatever when it was coupled with the fact that Thornton's body had been found in Silwood's chambers. How had Morris Thornton come to be there at all? And in what way had he met his death? What connection was there between that death and Cooper Silwood? What had Silwood to do with it? Had he anything to do with it? For what reason? With what end in view? Had Thornton been murdered? If so, it could not have been by Silwood, for what motive could he have had for killing Thornton?--Silwood, a member of one of the most respectable firms in London. And yet there must be some connection and some explanation. What was it? What could it be? As these questionings flashed through Gilbert's mind, he stood gazing upon the dead man's face, as if from its sightless eyes and from its dumb lips there might come some solution of the mystery. And then his thoughts took a fresh turn. Still gazing at the face of Morris Thornton, he wondered if the man had come to his death by being shot, if upon the body would be found the marks of the lethal weapon that had slain him, if the murderer had left behind him some sign which in the end would lead to his detection and conviction. But this was to presume Thornton had been murdered, and there was no certainty as to that. While he was thus musing, his father showed some indications of reviving. His eyelids fluttered and his lips worked slightly. Gilbert bent down and raised his father's head. With a deep sigh, Francis Eversleigh opened his eyes and stared at his son as at some stranger. But reviving still more, a light of recognition came into his face, and he moved his head. "Are you better, father?" asked Gilbert. Eversleigh made an effort to speak, but it failed; then he looked piteously at his son. "I wish I had some brandy to give you," said Gilbert. "A doctor will be here in a few minutes."