“All day after you left, sir, I was wild with myself to think what a useless old cumber-ground I was; me that used to have such a good memory, too. I thought and thought again, hoping that something would come back from that twenty or twenty-five years ago.”
“There was no need to distress yourself,” said Smeaton kindly.
“And then in a flash I remembered another box in which I had stuffed a lot of odd papers. Well, sir, I opened that box, went over those papers one by one, and this is what I found.”
He held out in his shaking hand an old letter. Smeaton took it from him.
“Before you read it, Mr Smeaton, I must explain that this gentleman always treated me in a very friendly way. We were both very fond of heraldry, and he used often to come to my shop and chat over our hobby. That accounts for the familiar way in which he addresses me.”
This is what Smeaton read:
“Dear Mr Millington,—I enclose you a cheque for the last work you did for me, which is as satisfactory as ever. It will be news to you that my company, the Compagnia Corezzo, is about to go into voluntary liquidation. I have accepted the position of manager of a big firm in Manchester, and shall take up my new post in the course of a few weeks. If I can possibly find time between now and then, I shall run in to say good-bye.
“I may have an opportunity of putting further work in your way. If that opportunity arises, I shall have the greatest pleasure in availing myself of it. I am afraid I shall not come across anybody who takes such a keen interest in my favourite hobby.—Yours truly, James Whyman.”
Over Smeaton’s face came a glow of satisfaction. He had got the name he wanted. Was he on the right track at last? He took the threatening letter out of his pocket, and compared the handwritings.
But here disappointment awaited him. They were totally dissimilar. Whyman wrote a small and niggling hand, the hand of a mean man. The other calligraphy was large, bold and free.