other papers."
"Which seems to show that Monkton did not attach any importance to ithimself, I should say," remarked the solicitor. "No, so far as I amconcerned he never alluded to the matter. You attach some importance toit--eh?"
"Some," replied Smeaton guardedly.
"Of course, you have a wider experience of these things than I, and youare wise to neglect no possible clue. Still, I should think that anybig counsel in extensive practice has many letters of this kind fromimpulsive and angry litigants, who regard him as the author of theirruin."
Smeaton rose. "It may be so," he said quietly. "This man was angry,but he was not impulsive; the handwriting alone proves that. He wrotethe letter at white heat, but he is of a resolute and determinedcharacter."
Even though the writer of the anonymous threat had overlooked the factthat a watermark was on the paper, the latter point was not half so easyto clear up as Sheila and Wingate expected.
To the chief firms of paper makers and paper agents in the City Smeaton,through the following days, showed a tracing of the watermark, butwithout result.
Nobody could identify it.
The managing director of one firm of paper agents in Queen VictoriaStreet declared it to be a foreign paper, even though it was marked"Westford Mill."
"The vogue for English notepaper on the Continent has led French andGerman mills to produce so-called `English writing paper'," he added."And if I am not mistaken this is a specimen."
For nearly a week Smeaton prosecuted his inquiries of stationers,wholesale and retail, in all parts of the metropolis, taking with himalways the tracing of the watermark. He did not carry the letter, forobvious reasons.
One day at a small retail stationer's in the Tottenham Court Road, whenhe showed the tracing to the elderly shopkeeper, the man exclaimed:
"Oh, yes! I've seen that before. It's foreign. When I was anassistant at Grimmel and Grice's in Bond Street, Mr Grice bought aquantity of it from Paris because of its unusual colour and texture. Itwas quite in vogue for a time, and it could only be obtained from us."
"Then all of this particular paper came from Grimmel and Grice's?"
"Certainly, sir, I recollect the `Westford Mill' well. We supplied itto half the aristocracy of London."
Smeaton, much pleased with his discovery, took a taxi to Bond Street,and entering the fashionable stationers' addressed himself to the firstperson he saw, a young man of about twenty-five.
"Do you make this paper nowadays?" he asked.
The shopman examined it, and shook his head. "No, sir, that paper hasnot been sold here since I've been in the business."
"And how long would that be?"
"A matter of six years or so."
"I am anxious to make some further inquiries," said Smeaton, after amoment's pause. "Who is the oldest assistant in the shop?"
"Mr Morgan, sir. He's been with Grimmel and Grice a matter of nearlyfifty years, man and boy. He's on the other side. I will take you tohim."
Smeaton was introduced to the veteran Mr Morgan, an alert-looking man,in spite of his years. Smeaton explained his name and errand, addingthat he was from Scotland Yard. Morgan at once became interested. Helooked at the watermark.
"I remember that paper well," he said at length. "It had a tremendousvogue for a little time; we couldn't get it over from Paris fast enough.Then it went as suddenly out of fashion."
"I suppose you can't help me with any dates?"
"Oh, but indeed I can, Mr Smeaton. I have a wonderful memory foreverything connected with the business. Old Mr Grice used to say thatmy memory was as good as the firm's books. The paper started justtwenty-five years ago, and it ran for five years. After that, no morewas made."
Smeaton expressed his gratitude. Mr Morgan's excellent memory wouldshorten his labours considerably.
"Can you give me any clue to these letters on the envelope, I wonder?"
But here Mr Morgan was at fault. "We supplied hundreds upon hundredsof customers at the time. And all our old ledgers were burnt in ourfire fifteen years ago. But I think I recognise the workmanship of thecipher. I should say that stamp was cut by Millingtons in ClerkenwellRoad. They made a speciality of that kind of thing years ago. If yougo there, they may have some record. They're new people there now; oldMr Millington is my senior by ten years or more. He sold the businessabout fifteen years ago. But he is still alive, and lives somewhere inthe Camberwell direction."
Smeaton entered the address in his notebook, and shook Mr Morgancordially by the hand. He would go to the Clerkenwell Road, and, ifnecessary, hunt up the ancient Mr Millington. If he possessed as gooda memory as his friend some very useful information might be gathered.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
WHO WAS MONKTON'S ENEMY?
At the dingy little shop in Clerkenwell Smeaton received a check. Theproprietor was out, and a stupid-looking youth who was in charge couldgive no information. He turned the envelope listlessly in his fingers,handed it back to the detective, and suggested that he should call laterin the day, when his master would be in.
The business bore the appearance of decay, Smeaton thought, and if themaster should prove no more intelligent than his assistant, it wouldonly be a waste of time to question him.
Subsequently he called and saw the head of the declining firm, and fromhim learnt that the last he had heard of old Mr Millington was that hewas living in New Church Road, Camberwell.
He at once took a taxi there, but on arrival was sadly disappointed tosee that the house was to let, and that inquiries were to be made of afirm of house-agents.
He was soon at their office, and here he found an intelligent clerk, towhom he explained that he wished to make a few inquiries.
"I seem to remember the name," said the clerk at length. "I believe hewas the tenant when I first came into this business; a nice, quiet oldman, who paid his rent on the day. The house has been let to two peoplesince 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 afresh pilgrimage. In a few moments he was interviewing the landlord, aretired builder who had invested his savings in small property.
"Pleased to give you any help I can," he said heartily, when thedetective had explained the object of his visit. "I remember Millingtonwell; very decent old chap he was too; paid his rent punctually. Hemoved away some years ago. I don't know where he went. But I don'tthink it matters much. I heard about twelve months ago that the old manwas dead."
Smeaton's face clouded. So all his inquiries had been waste of time.Millington would never throw any light upon the anonymous andthreatening 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 youhad not heard of it?"
Morgan looked surprised. "When did he die, sir?"
"My informant told me he heard of it about a year ago."
"A mistake, sir, a mistake, somebody of the same name," cried MrMorgan. "Two months ago I met him in the Strand, and we chatted for afew seconds. We didn't say much to each other for I was in a hurry toget 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 stillthere. But I don't suppose we exchanged a couple of dozen wordsaltogether. I remember I told him he was looking as well as ever, andhe 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 theright one in the Walworth Road. The proprietor referred to his books,and gave Smeaton the information he wanted. The goods had been takendown by road to Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford, a little village in theThames Valley.
So far, so good. Unless he had been seized with another desire forchange, Millington would be found at Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford.
It was too late to pursue the affair further that day. Smeaton wouldrun down the next morning. Millington was an old man; his wits wouldprobably be brighter in the early hours.
The morning found him knocking at the door of Beech Cottage, a prettylittle cottage overhung with climbing roses, facing the river. The doorwas opened by a