Still turning the matter over in his mind, he rose, stoked the fire and set up the guard, then put on his coat and hat and took a hansom cab south from his rooms in Fitzroy Street, down Tottenham Court Road, Chasing Cross Road, then the Strand, right at Wellington Street and across Waterloo Bridge to the business address on the card Mrs. Stonefield had given him. He alighted, paid the driver and dismissed him. He turned to look at the building. The outside appeared prosperous, in a discreet fashion, either from old money so well known it had no need to advertise or money newly earned but with the tact to remain unostentatious.

He pushed the front door, which was open to the public, and was greeted in the room inside by a smart young clerk dressed in stiff wing collar, cutaway jacket and shining boots.

“Yes sir?” he inquired, summing up Monk's sartorial elegance and concluding he was a gentleman. “May I be of service?”

Monk was too proud to introduce himself as an agent of inquiry. It equated him with the policeman he had been until his irreparable quarrel with his superior, only now he had not the authority.

“Good morning,” he replied. “Mrs. Stonefield has requested me to be of what assistance I may in contacting her husband since he left last Tuesday morning.” He allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face. “I hope she is mistaken, but she fears some harm may have come to him.” As he spoke he produced the letter of authority.

The clerk accepted it, read it at a glance, and returned it to him. The anxiety which he had been holding in check now flooded his face and he looked at Monk almost pleadingly. “I wish we could help you, sir. Indeed, I wish with all my heart we knew where he was. We require him for the business. His presence is essential.” His voice was rising in earnestness.

“There are decisions to be made for which Mr. Arbuthnot and myself have neither the legal power nor the professional knowledge.” He glanced around to make sure none of the three young ledger clerks were within earshot, and moved a step closer. “We are at our wits' end to know what to do next, or how to put people off any longer without their guessing that something is most seriously amiss. Business is most competitive, sir. Others will seize the chance to profit from our indecision.” His face grew pinker and he bit his lip. “Do you think that he could have been kidnapped, sir?”

It was not among the possibilities that had occurred to Monk.

“It would be a most extreme step,” he replied, watching the young man's face. He saw nothing in it but fear and sympathy. If he knew anything more, he was an actor to rival Henry living and had missed a career on the stage.

“Then he must have been taken ill,” the clerk said with concern. “And is even now lying in some hospital, unable to contact us. He would never wittingly leave us in this way.” He grew even pinker. “Nor his family either, of course! That I need hardly say.” His expression indicated he knew he should have said it to begin with.

“Does he have business rivals who might think to profit if he were out of the way?” Monk asked, casting his eye discreetly around the tidy, well-furnished room with its desks and shelves of books and files of ledgers. The winter sun came in through high, narrow windows. He still thought a domestic answer more likely.

“Oh yes, sir,” the clerk replied with assurance. “Mr. Stonefield is most successful, sir. A rare gift he has for knowing what will sell, and for precisely how much. Made a profit where quite a few others would have burned their fingers… and did!” There was a lift of pride in his voice, then as he looked at Monk, a sudden anxiety. “But always strictly honest!” he added, regarding Monk gravely to make sure he understood that.

“There's never been a whisper against him anywhere! Not in the City, not on the Exchange.”

“The Stock Exchange?” Monk asked.

“Oh no, sir, the Corn Exchange.”

He should have asked before he spoke.

“These rivals of Mr. Stonefield's,” he said quickly, his voice harder.

“Whose business in particular has he taken lately, or whose does he threaten?”

“Well…” The clerk hesitated unhappily.

For a moment there was no sound but the scratching of pens and someone shifting his feet.

“I don't like to speak ill…” the clerk resumed.

“If there is a possibility Mr. Stonefield has been kidnapped, then you will do him little service if you remain silent!” Monk snapped.

The clerk colored. “Yes. I understand. I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Marchmont, of Marchmont and Squires, lost out to him rather badly last month, but they are large enough they will ride that out.” He thought hard. “Mr. Peabody, of Goodenough and Jones, took it very badly when we beat them to a very good price about six weeks ago. But the only person I know who really suffered was poor Mr. Niven. He is no longer in business, I am sorry to say. Took it like a gentleman, but very hard for him, it was, especially with him and Mr. Stonefield being acquaintances socially. Very sad.” He shook his head very slightly. “But having said that, sir, I cannot imagine Mr. Niven wishing Mr. Stonefield any harm. He's not like that at all. Very decent sort of gentleman, just not as clever as Mr. Stonefield. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. It's… it's really very hard to know what to do for the best.” He looked at Monk miserably, seeking some kind of indication. “You have done quite the right thing,” Monk assured him. “Without information we cannot even make a judgment, let alone pursue the best course.” As he was speaking he was looking beyond the young man and around the offices. The place had every appearance of prosperity. Several clerks were busy with ledgers, accounts, business letters to other houses, possibly overseas as well. They were all smartly dressed with stiff white collars and tidy hair, and they looked diligent, and content enough in their work. Nothing was shabby or obviously mended. There was no air of discouragement: only anxiety, a discreet glance one to another.

He returned his attention to the immediate.

“When was the last occasion on which Mr. Stonefield came into the office?”

“Three days ago, sir. The morning of the last day in which”-he bit his lip-”on which he was seen.” He eased his neck in his rather tight collar.

“But you will have to ask Mr. Arbuthnot what transpired, and he is not here at present. I really do not feel able to tell you anything further. It is… well, company business, sir.” He was apologetic and obviously uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Monk doubted it would have any relevance anyway, and was quite content to leave it for the time being. But before he took his leave, he obtained the address of Mr. Titus Niven, now no longer in business because of the skill of Angus Stonefield.

Monk left the offices and walked briskly back along the Waterloo Road in the sharp wind.

It still remained the strongest possibility that the answer to Angus Stonefield's disappearance lay in his personal life, therefore it was necessary for Monk to learn as much about it as he was able. However, he had no possible grounds to call upon neighbors, still less to question them as to Stonefield's habits or his comings and goings. It would hardly be in the best interest of his client. Having her neighbors gossiping about the fact that her husband was missing, and she had called in a person to try to find him, was the very last thing she would wish. But the fact that there was no crime-in fact, no acknowledged problem at all- was extremely restricting. The only course open to him in that direction would be to pursue servants' chatter from nearby houses. Servants frequently knew a great deal more than their masters or mistresses supposed. They were most often regarded in much the same light as a favorite piece of furniture, without which one would be lost but in front of which discretion was not a consideration.