“My idea exactly,” said Mr. Marigold. “Shall we go upstairs?”
He conducted the Chief and Desmond up the short flight of stairs to the first story. He pushed open the first door he came to.
“Mackwayte’s room, on the back,” he said, “bed slept in, as you see, old gentleman’s clothes on a chair—obviously he was disturbed by some noise made by the burglar and came out to see what was doing! And here,” he indicated a door adjoining, “is Miss Mackwayte’s room, on the front; as you observe. They don’t use the two rooms on the second floor, except for box-rooms... one’s full of old Mackwayte’s theatre trunks and stuff. They keep no servant; Mrs. Chugg comes in each morning and stays all day. She goes away after supper every evening.”
Desmond found himself looking into a plainly furnished but dainty bedroom with white furniture and a good deal of chintz about. There were some photographs and pictures hanging on the walls. The room was spotlessly clean and very tidy.
Desmond remarked on this, asking if the police had put the room straight.
Mr. Marigold looked quite shocked.
“Oh, no, everything is just as it was when Mrs. Chugg found Miss Mackwayte this morning. There’s Miss Mackwayte’s gloves and handbag on the toilet-table just as she left ’em last night. I wouldn’t let her touch her clothes even. She went over to Mrs. Appleby’s in her dressing-gown, in a taxi.”
“Then Master Burglar didn’t burgle this room?” asked the Chief.
“Nothing touched, not even the girl’s money,” replied Marigold.
“Then why did he come up here at all?” asked Desmond.