“A very old gentleman wants to see you, sir. He says you will remember him,” and he handed the detective a slip of paper on which was written “Mr Millington.”
“The gentleman seems to have one foot in the grave, and half of the other, to judge by appearances,” the constable went on. “The journey has tried him terribly. He’s wheezing so, that you’d think each moment would be his last. I made him sit down, and he’s trying to recover himself and get his breath.”
Smeaton sprang up. It was with difficulty he could retain his official calm. This plucky old man had not made the journey up to town for nothing. He had remembered something, or discovered something.
“That’s right. Baker,” he said. “Give him time, and when he is ready, show him in.”
It was a full five minutes before Millington was in a fit state to present himself. At last he entered, still husky of voice, but with a beaming aspect.
Smeaton greeted him cordially. “Mr Millington, this is indeed good of you. But why did you distress yourself with the journey? If you had sent me a wire, I would have run down to you,” he said.
“I owe you some amends, sir, for my failure yesterday. And besides, a little jaunt does me good.”
He smiled cheerfully, evidently wishing to convey that, at his time of life, an excursion up to London was a tonic.
“Again many thanks,” cried the grateful Smeaton. “Well, you came to see me, because you have remembered something—or found something fresh—eh?”
The old man spoke earnestly.