here 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. 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. Marigold mustered Desmond in one swift, comprehensive look.

"I won't give you my hand, Major," the detective said, looking
down at Desmond's proffered one, "for I'm in a filthy mess and no
error. But won't you come in, sir?" he said to the Chief and led
the way across the mosaic t