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As I drove slowly toward Squire Marigold's large mansion on Main Street, I met dozens of gay young folks on the way out of town, some of them calling out that I would be late, and to try and catch up with them after I got my girl. As I came in sight of the house my courage failed.
"What do you suppose you are yourself, my dear old friend," said I over Marigold's shoulder. I went away greatly comforted. Both of them were as brave as could be. For the first time I took a more cheerful view of Boyce's future. On the evening before the Reception Betty was shown into the library. It was late, getting on towards my bedtime, and I was nodding in front of the fire.
On the other side, Timbs could not approach my person for the purpose of rendering me any necessary physical assistance, without incurring Marigold's violent resentment. "He'll go on cutting them," said I, "unless you start in at once." He began. I sent off Marigold in search of a wheelbarrow. Then, having Timbs to myself, I summoned him to my side.
On the way Boyce talked gaily of Marigold's gallantry, of the boy's spirit, of the idiotic way in which impossible horses were being foisted on newly formed cavalry units. When we drew up at my front door, it occurred to me that there was no Marigold in attendance. "How the deuce," said I, "am I going to get out?" Boyce laughed. "I don't think I'll drop you."
But I bade him not be an ass, but send her along when he had to finish with her; with the result that for some months my pretty little Phyllis has been an inmate of my house. Marigold keeps a sort of non-commissioned parent's eye on her. To him she seems to be still the child whom he fed solicitously but unemotionally with Mrs. Marigold's cakes at tea parties years ago.
But the new tragedy had rendered the memory less poignant. "It's a dreadful thing about the Colonel, sir," said Marigold as we drove off. "More dreadful than anyone can imagine," said I. "What he's going to do with himself is what I'm wondering," said Marigold. What indeed? The question went infinitely deeper than the practical dreams of Marigold's philosophy.
The good Marigold's never at fault. He rang me up and I slipped round at once." "One of these days," said I, "I'll murder that fellow." He replied by gagging me with his beastly thermometer.
I won't stay" Marigold's smile faded into woodenness "I only turned in idly to see how you were getting on. But just tell me. How is Leonard? Fit, I hope?" "He's wonderful," she said. I motioned Marigold to start the car. "Give him my kind regards," said I. "No, indeed. He doesn't want to see an old crock like me." The engine rattled. "I hope he's pleased at finding his mother looking so bonny."
"Give me Miss Marigold's apartment, please." Helene's voice was soon on the wire. Shirley asked for Warren in a gruff tone. "What do you want?" was that gentleman's musical inquiry, in the tones which were already so familiar to the criminologist. "Chief, dis is de Rat. I wants to meet you down at de Blue Goose on Water Street in half an hour. Kin you'se come? It's important."
As I mused on this unprecedented occurrence, I made a discovery, that of Sergeant Marigold's sense of humour. To that sense of humour my upbraidings, often, I must confess, couched in picturesque and figurative terms so as not too greatly to hurt his feelings, had made constant appeal for the past fifteen years. Hitherto he had hidden all signs of humorous titillation behind his impassive mask.
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