"Ah, you did not know of them?" said the Syndic. "One was a detective of the English police, the other was a journalist, but they went empty away."
"Am I likely to forget anything or anybody connected with this affair?" asked Ucelli. "No; the name of the detective was Brydges, of Scotland Yard; that of the other was Westgate, a man on the staff of a London journal, the _Morning Call_."
The names conveyed no meaning to Gilbert, but he was filled with wonder. Thinking it over later, he saw it must have been suspected by others that Silwood was not dead, and he guessed these inquiries had been made in connection with the finding of Thornton's body in Silwood's rooms in Lincoln's Inn. The knowledge that the detective and the journalist had been at Camajore, however, gave him a bad turn; he was afraid to think what might have happened to his father if either of them had stumbled on the truth.
"I know neither of them," said Gilbert to the Syndic.
"They got nothing from me," resumed Ucelli. "I felicitated myself on getting rid of them without trouble. And then you came, Mr. Eversleigh, and I imagined you were as satisfied as they had been. I was a blind fool, a blind fool!"
"You see I was sure Silwood was not dead," remarked Gilbert.
"Do you know where he is?" eagerly inquired the Syndic.
Signor Vinci darted an angry look at him.
"I don't know," persisted Ucelli, seeing the look.
"What occurred after the so-called death of Silwood?" asked the Deputy. "How did he get out of the country? It's plain he did not go as Silwood. If he had plenty of money, as I suppose his giving you fifty thousand liras shows, he would be able to procure disguises, have his own carriage, and journey as he liked."
"Mr. Silwood," replied Ucelli, "is undoubtedly a very rich man, as you suggest. He had an abundance of money."
Gilbert startled the other two men by suddenly rising from his chair with a vehement ejaculation.
Here was a new idea to Gilbert--new with a vengeance! Silwood rich!
Then what about Silwood's alleged losses on the Stock Exchange? he asked himself. Were they fictitious too? Or--what?
"Silwood is rich," continued the Syndic, "but it took very little money to get him out of the country, as it happened. His scheme had taken account of that, and he brought with him a disguise--a disguise as complete as any I ever saw; no one could have recognized him in it. By taking off his wig, putting on a moustache, staining his face and hands, and touching up his cheeks with some paint, he became another man altogether. Then he had clothes with him--such clothes, he told me, as any British workman might wear--and these he wore. The disguise was perfect, and must have been carefully studied. In the night I guided him out of Camajore, and set him on the way to Lucca, which he reached; thence he went on to Genoa, where he took ship for England. But he was delayed at Genoa--there was an accident; how it came about is not known, but he was stabbed in the street."