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.