It took her a few days to go through her task, for she was fearful of missing a line in those carefully docketed piles of papers. But it was all to no purpose.
If there had been a secret in Reginald Monkton’s life, no evidence had been preserved in these documents.
“Newsom-Perry is pretty sure to have some papers in his possession,” said Wingate, when she had finished her futile task. “I want to spare you everything I can, dear. Will you give me a note to him, and I will ask him to hand them over to you?”
Mr Newsom-Perry was Monkton’s solicitor, the head of the firm which had acted for the missing statesman, and his father before him.
Wingate presented himself at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and sent in his sweetheart’s note.
The solicitor, a genial, kindly-looking man of fifty or thereabouts, welcomed the young man cordially.
“Pleased to see you, Mr Wingate,” he said, as they shook hands. “Poor Monkton has spoken to me several times of you, in warm terms. I understand that you were a frequent visitor at the house before the sad event.”
Wingate explained that he was with Sheila awaiting her father, on the night when the dying man was brought to Chesterfield Street.
The shrewd, kindly eyes watched him as he made the explanation. Mr Newsom-Perry had his own ideas as to how matters stood between the young couple.
“And what can I do for you, Mr Wingate?”