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?”
The answer came readily: “It’s mine, sure enough.”
“Good. The envelope itself is quite an ordinary one, as you see. Now, can you carry your mind back, and give me any particulars of the transaction? Can you tell for whom those letters were cut, and what they stand for?”