"My informant told me he heard of it about a year ago."
"A mistake, sir, a mistake, somebody of the same name," cried Mr
Morgan. "Two months ago I met him in the Strand, and we chatted for a
few seconds. We didn't say much to each other for I was in a hurry to
get back to the shop."
"He never mentioned to you that he had left Camberwell?"
"No; as he said nothing about it I took it for granted that he was still
there. But I don't suppose we exchanged a couple of dozen words
altogether. I remember I told him he was looking as well as ever, and
he laughed, and said he came of a long-lived family."
Smeaton breathed again. An hour later he was back again at Camberwell,
on the track of the retired engraver.
A man cannot move a houseful of furniture without leaving some traces.
After visits to half-a-dozen moving establishments, he hit upon the
right one in the Walworth Road. The proprietor referred to his books,
and gave Smeaton the information he wanted. The goods had been taken
down by road to Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford, a little village in the
Thames Valley.
So far, so good. Unless he had been seized with another desire for
change, Millington would be found at Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford.
It was too late to pursue the affair further that day. Smeaton would
run down the next morning. Millington was an old man; his wits would
probably be brighter in the early hours.
The morning found him knocking at the door of Beech Cottage, a pretty
little cottage overhung with climbing roses, facing the river. The door
was opened by a stout, pleasant-faced woman, whom he at once discovered
to be Millington's niece and housekeeper.
"My uncle is not very well this morning," she told him; "he suffers a
good deal from asthma. But if you'll come into the parlour, I'll take
your card in. He likes to see people when he can, for it's terribly
dull down here."
A moment later she reappeared. "My uncle will be glad to see you, sir.
I was afraid he was a bit too poorly, but a visitor brightens him up at
once. Please step this way."
Mr Millington was seated in a small room overlooking a somewhat rough
and uncultivated piece of garden at the back. He was a bright-looking
old man, of small stature, with a wonderfully pink complexion, and small
twinkling eyes. He was dressed in a nondescript sort of attire, a long
frock-coat, a skullcap, and a pair of carpet slippers.
"Sit down, sir, please," he said, in a voice that was cordial, if a
trifle wheezy. "I see by your card you are from Scotland Yard--eh?
What can I do for you?"
Smeaton went to the point at once.
"I heard of you from Morgan, of Grimmel and Grice. I went there to make
a few inquiries, and he recommended me to you."
Mr Millington nodded his head.
"A very good fellow, Morgan; he always put as much business in my way as
he could."
"He directed me to you," Smeaton said, and he pulled out the envelope
and handed it to Millington. "This kind of cipher Mr Morgan tells me
was in great vogue between twenty and twenty-five years ago. He thinks
that you cut it. Will you kindly examine it, and tell me if you
recognise it as your handiwork?"