"No; as he said nothing about it I took it for granted that he was still there. But I don't suppose we exchanged a couple of dozen words altogether. I remember I told him he was looking as well as ever, and he laughed, and said he came of a long-lived family." Smeaton breathed again. An hour later he was back again at Camberwell, on the track of the retired engraver. A man cannot move a houseful of furniture without leaving some traces. After visits to half-a-dozen moving establishments, he hit upon the right one in the Walworth Road. The proprietor referred to his books, and gave Smeaton the information he wanted. The goods had been taken down by road to Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford, a little village in the Thames Valley. So far, so good. Unless he had been seized with another desire for change, Millington would be found at Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford. It was too late to pursue the affair further that day. Smeaton would run down the next morning. Millington was an old man; his wits would probably be brighter in the early hours. The morning found him knocking at the door of Beech Cottage, a pretty little cottage overhung with climbing roses, facing the river. The door was opened by a stout, pleasant-faced woman, whom he at once discovered to be Millington's niece and housekeeper. "My uncle is not very well this morning," she told him; "he suffers a good deal from asthma. But if you'll come into the parlour, I'll take your card in. He likes to see people when he can, for it's terribly dull down here." A moment later she reappeared. "My uncle will be glad to see you, sir. I was afraid he was a bit too poorly, but a visitor brightens him up at once. Please step this way." Mr Millington was seated in a small room overlooking a somewhat rough and uncultivated piece of garden at the back. He was a bright-looking old man, of small stature, with a wonderfully pink complexion, and small twinkling eyes. He was dressed in a nondescript sort of attire, a long frock-coat, a skullcap, and a pair of carpet slippers. "Sit down, sir, please," he said, in a voice that was cordial, if a trifle wheezy. "I see by your card you are from Scotland Yard--eh? What can I do for you?" Smeaton went to the point at once. "I heard of you from Morgan, of Grimmel and Grice. I went there to make a few inquiries, and he recommended me to you." Mr Millington nodded his head. "A very good fellow, Morgan; he always put as much business in my way as he could." "He directed me to you," Smeaton said, and he pulled out the envelope and handed it to Millington. "This kind of cipher Mr Morgan tells me was in great vogue between twenty and twenty-five years ago. He thinks that you cut it. Will you kindly examine it, and tell me if you recognise it as your handiwork?" The answer came readily: "It's mine, sure enough."