At the dingy little shop in Clerkenwell Smeaton received a check. The
proprietor was out, and a stupid-looking youth who was in charge could
give no information. He turned the envelope listlessly in his fingers,
handed it back to the detective, and suggested that he should call later
in the day, when his master would be in.
The business bore the appearance of decay, Smeaton thought, and if the
master should prove no more intelligent than his assistant, it would
only be a waste of time to question him.
Subsequently he called and saw the head of the declining firm, and from
him learnt that the last he had heard of old Mr Millington was that he
was living in New Church Road, Camberwell.
He at once took a taxi there, but on arrival was sadly disappointed to
see that the house was to let, and that inquiries were to be made of a
firm of house-agents.
He was soon at their office, and here he found an intelligent clerk, to
whom he explained that he wished to make a few inquiries.
"I seem to remember the name," said the clerk at length. "I believe he
was the tenant when I first came into this business; a nice, quiet old
man, who paid his rent on the day. The house has been let to two people
since then."
"Do you know where Millington went when he left?"
But the clerk's mind was a blank on the subject. A bright idea,
however, struck him, which, in a moment, would have occurred to Smeaton.
"Look here, sir. Why don't you go and see the landlord, Mr Clarke?
His house is in the Camberwell Road, only five minutes' walk from here."
The detective thanked him, and armed with the address set forth on a
fresh pilgrimage. In a few moments he was interviewing the landlord, a
retired builder who had invested his savings in small property.
"Pleased to give you any help I can," he said heartily, when the
detective had explained the object of his visit. "I remember Millington
well; very decent old chap he was too; paid his rent punctually. He
moved away some years ago. I don't know where he went. But I don't
think it matters much. I heard about twelve months ago that the old man
was dead."
Smeaton's face clouded. So all his inquiries had been waste of time.
Millington would never throw any light upon the anonymous and
threatening letter.
He went back to Bond Street and saw Mr Morgan.
"I am told that Mr Millington is dead," he said to him. "I suppose you
had not heard of it?"