“Did you bring away from your business any documents or memoranda that would throw light upon this particular transaction?”
The old man reflected for a little while.
“I’m afraid I was a very poor man of business, sir,” he said at length. “I made rough notes from time to time as I received and executed orders, but that was all. I trusted to my memory, which in those days was a good one.”
“Have you any of those old note-books left?”
“Yes, I’ve got some of them upstairs in a couple of boxes which have never been opened since I left the Clerkenwell Road. Would you like me to run through them? It would only mean half-a-day’s work, or less.”
“I should be infinitely obliged if you would, Mr Millington. I will run down here about the same time to-morrow morning. Just one thing more before I go. Were you acquainted with your customer’s handwriting? Did you ever receive any letters from him?”
“He wrote me several times with regard to the work I did for him, but I shouldn’t be able to recognise his hand, even if I saw it.”
Smeaton left, very much chagrined at the result of his visit.
Next morning he, however, presented himself at Beech Cottage. Millington received him with an apologetic air. He explained that he had searched his note-books diligently, but he could find nothing that referred to the cipher letters, the two C’s entwined, or the man who had ordered them.
“I’ve a notion,” he said, when he had finished his rather rambling statement, “that the gentleman who gave the order came from Manchester or Liverpool. But there I may be mixing it up with something else.”