That was the question that had carried him through the trip, from the silken fields of Sussex to the bright din of King’s Cross Station. It was so hard to say. The names and files of their clients were all held securely in a safe in Lenox’s office. Only the three partners had access to that safe and therefore the list, though obviously each of the agency’s detectives, Atkinson, Weld, Mayhew, and Davidson, knew some of the names on it, since each was responsible for the day-to-day needs of four or five of the companies who retained the agency’s services. Of the three clients that had taken their business to LeMaire, one had belonged to Mayhew and two to Davidson, the new fellow. Could it be that Davidson had turncoated them? He had come with impeccable references; had an honest, open face; worked very hard. He was also close with Mayhew, however, and despite his best precautions, Mayhew might have let a name slip. Or Davidson might have—two names, and Mayhew, who was talented but mercurial, a bit of an enigma, perhaps too smart for his own good, could have sold them to LeMaire … In a way, that would be the best thing.
