“Mr. Monk, in order for you to understand my anxiety, I must tell you something of my husband and his circumstances. I apologize for taking up your time in this manner, but without this knowledge, what I tell you will make little sense.”

Monk made an effort to appear as if he listened. It was tedious, and in all probability quite unnecessary, but he had learned, through error, to allow people to say what they wished before reaching the purpose of their visit.

If nothing else, it permitted them a certain element of self-respect in a circumstance where they found themselves obliged to ask for help in an acutely private matter, and of someone most of them regarded as socially inferior by dint of the very fact that he earned his living. Their reasons were usually painful, and they would have preferred to have kept the secret.

When he had been a policeman such delicacy would have been irrelevant, but now he had no authority, and he would be paid only according to his client's estimate of his success.

Mrs. Stonefield began in a low voice. “My husband and I have been married for fourteen years, Mr. Monk, and I knew him for a year before that. He was always the gentlest and most considerate of men, without giving the im- pression of being easily swayed. No one has ever found him less than honorable in all his dealings, both personal and professional, and he has never sought to take advantage of others or gain by their misfortune.” She stopped, realizing--perhaps from Monk's face--that she was speaking too much. His features had never concealed his feelings, especially those of impatience, anger or scorn. It had served him ill at times.

“Do you suspect him of some breach in his otherwise excellent character, Mrs. Stonefield?” he asked with as much concern as he was able to pretend.

It was beginning to appear that her interesting face covered a most uninteresting mind.

“No, Mr. Monk,” she said a little more sharply, but the fear was dark in her eyes. “I am afraid he has been done to death. I wish you to find out for me.” In spite of her desperate words, she did not look up at him.

“Nothing you can do will help Angus now,” she continued quietly. “But since he has disappeared, and there is no trace of him, he is presumed by the law simply to have deserted us. I have five children, Mr. Monk, and without Angus, his business will very rapidly cease to provide for us.”

Suddenly the matter became real, and genuinely urgent. He no longer saw her as an overwordy woman fussing over some fancied offense, but one with a profound cause for the fear in her eyes.

“Have you reported his absence to the police?” he asked.