Marigold would be lean and pale and
bewildering like Mr. Sherlock Holmes or breezy and wiry like the
detectives in American crook plays.
The man before him did not bear the faintest resemblance to
either type. He was a well-set up, broad-shouldered person of
about forty-five, very carefully dressed in a blue serge suit and
black overcoat, with a large, even-tempered countenance, which
sloped into a high forehead. The neatly brushed but thinning
locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to
the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the
vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the
detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant,
cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr.
Marigold's external appearance. But there was something so patent
about the man, his air of reserve, his careful courtesy, his
shrewd eyes, that Desmond at once recognized him for a type, a
cast from a certain specific mould. All services shape men to
their own fashion. There is the type of Guardsman, the type of
airman, the type of naval officer. And Desmond decided that Mr.
Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said,
he was totally unacquainted with the genus.
"Major Okewood, Marigold," said the Chief, "a friend of mine!"
Mr.
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