But there was one name which did not appear in any
account. Langholm sought it in bound volume after bound volume, until
even the long-suffering attendants, who trundle the great tomes from
their shelves on trolleys, looked askance at the wanton reader who
filled in a new form every five or ten minutes. But the reader's face
shone with a brighter light at each fresh failure. Why had the name he
wanted never come up in open court? Where was the evidence of the man
who had made all the mischief between the Minchins? Langholm intended
having first the one and then the other; already he was on the spring to
a first conclusion. With a caution, however, which did infinite credit
to one of his temperament, the amateur detective determined to look a
little further before leaping even in his own mind.
Early in the afternoon he was back in Chelsea, making fraudulent
representations to the house-agent near the Vestry Hall.
"Not more than ninety," repeated that gentleman, as he went through his
book, and read out particulars of several houses at about that rental;
but the house which Langholm burned to see over was not among the
number.
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