“And so do I, if you want to know,” he said. “One can forgive those lads who are fighting out there almost anything. I’ve got a boy in France myself!”
A little sigh escaped him, and then Mr. Marigold remembered “The Yard.”
“I’ll bid you good-day!” he added in his most official voice and took his leave.
He walked down the steps by the Duke of York’s column and through the Horse Guards into Whitehall, seemingly busy with his own thoughts. A sprucely dressed gentleman who was engaged in the exciting and lucrative sport of war profiteering turned color and hastily swerved out towards the Park as he saw the detective crossing the Horse Guards’ Parade. 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.