“It might,” returned Smeaton, who was nothing if not cautious. He ruminated for a few moments, and then said, abruptly, “You have brought it with you?”
Sheila, who had taken that precaution, handed it to him. He turned it over, peering at it in that slow, deliberate fashion of a man who examines with the microscopic detail everything submitted to him.
“Taken, I see, by the well-known firm of Kester and Treeton in Dover Street. Well, somebody ordered it, so we’ve got to find out who that somebody was. I will go to them at once, and let you know the result in due course.”
Sheila looked at him eagerly. She had great faith in him, although so far he had had nothing but failure to report.
“Have you formed any opinion about it?” she asked timidly.
Smeaton smiled grimly, but he answered her very kindly.
“My dear Miss Monkton, I have formed many theories about your father’s disappearance, and, alas! they have all been wrong. I am leaning to distrust my own judgment. I will say no more than this. This curious incident may end as everything else has done, but I think it is worth following up. I will put you into your car, and go on to the photographers.”
“Let me drive you there, and wait,” urged Sheila eagerly. “I shall know the result so much quicker.”
The photographers in Dover Street had palatial premises. Smeaton was ushered from one apartment to another, till he reached the private sanctum of the head of the firm, where he produced his card, and explained his errand.
Mr Kester was very obliging; he would do all he could to help, and it would only be a matter of a few moments. They kept a record of every transaction, and in all probability this was quite a recent one.