“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?”
Morgan looked surprised. “When did he die, sir?”