He was unpleasantly reminded
of making the acquaintance of Mr. Marigold over a bucketshop a
few years ago with the result that he had vanished from the eye
of his friends for eighteen months. He congratulated himself on
thinking that Mr. Marigold had not seen him, but he would have
recognized his mistake could he but have caught sight of the
detective's face. A little smile flitted across Mr. Marigold's
lips and he murmured to himself:
"Our old friend is looking very prosperous just now. I wonder
what he's up to?"
Mr. Marigold didn't miss much.
The detective made his way to the Chief's office. Barbara
Mackwayte, in a simple black frock with white linen collar and
cuffs, was at her old place in the ante-room. A week had elapsed
since the murder, and the day before, Mr. Marigold knew, the
mortal remains of poor old Mackwayte had been laid to rest. He
was rather surprised to see the girl back at work so soon.
She did not speak to him as she showed him into the Chief, but
there was a question lurking in her gray eyes.
Mr. Marigold looked at her and gravely shook his head.
"Nothing fresh," he said.
The Chief was unusually exuberant. Mr. Marigold found him
surrounded, as was his wont, by papers, and a fearsome collection
of telephone receivers.
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