ile pathway to the front door which
stood open.

"I don't think this is anything in your line, sir," said Mr.
Marigold to the Chief as the three men entered the house, "it's
nothing but just a common burglary. The old man evidently heard a
noise and coming down, surprised the burglar who lost his head
and killed him. The only novel thing about the whole case is that
the old party was shot with a pistol and not bludgeoned, as is
usually the case in affairs of this kind. And I shouldn't have
thought that the man who did it was the sort that carries a
gun..."

"Then you know who did it?" asked the Chief quietly.

"I think I can safely say I do, sir," said Mr. Marigold with the
reluctant air of one who seldom admits anything to be a fact, "I
think I can go as far as that! And we've got our man under lock
and key!"

"That's a smart piece of work, Marigold," said the Chief.

"No, sir," replied the other, "you could hardly call it that. He
just walked into the arms of a constable over there near
Goodmayes Station with the swag on him. He's an old hand... we've
known him for a receiver for years!

"Who is it?" asked the Chief, "not one of my little friends, I
suppose, eh, Marigold!"

"Dear me, no, sir," answered Mr. Marigold, chuckling, "it's one
of old Mackwayte's music-hall pals, name o' Barney!"

CHAPTER V. THE MURDER AT SEVEN KINGS

"This is Mrs. Chugg, sir," said Mr. Marigold, "the charwoman who
found the body!"

The Chief and Desmond stood at the detective's side in the
Mackwaytes' little dining-room. The room was in considerable
disorder. There was a litter of paper, empty bottles, overturned
cruets and other debris on the floor, evidence of the
thoroughness with which the burglar had overhauled the cheap
fumed oak sideboard which stood against the wall with doors and
drawers open. In the corner, the little roll-top desk showed a
great gash in the wood round the lock where it had been forced.
The remains of a meal still stood on the table.

Mrs. Chugg, a diminutive, white-haired, bespectacled woman in a
rusty black cape and skirt, was enthroned in the midst of this
scene of desolation. She sat in an armchair by the fire, her
hands in her lap, obviously supremely content with the position
of importance she enjoyed. At the sound of Mr. Marigold's voice,
she bobbed up and regarded the newcomers with the air of a
tragedy queen.

"Yus mister," she said with the slow deliberation of one who
thoroughly e