"
Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small
two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only
difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and
the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each.
The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of
smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight
and, in the dull yellow atmosphere of the winter morning,
unspeakably depressing.
The abode of small clerks and employees, Laleham Villas had
rendered up, an hour before, its daily tribute of humanity to the
City-bound trains of the Great Eastern Railway. The Mackwayte's
house was plainly indicated, about 200 yards down on the
right-hand side, by a knot of errand boys and bareheaded women
grouped on the side-walk. A large, phlegmatic policeman stood at
the gate.
"You'll like Marigold," said the Chief to Desmond as they got out
of the car, "quite a remarkable man and very sound at his work!"
British officers don't number detective inspectors among their
habitual acquaintances, and the man that came out of the house to
meet them was actually the first detective that Desmond had ever
met. Ever since the Chief had mentioned his name, Desmond had
been wondering whether Mr.
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