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He stared at this chair; for, peeping out above the back, making a splash of deep golden brown against the black sheen of the upholstery, was a mass of curls... Barbara Mackwayte's hair. As he advanced towards the girl, she moaned in a high, whimpering voice: "No, no, not again! Let me sleep! Please, please, leave me alone!" Desmond sprang to her side.
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!" "This is Mrs.
Up I nips to Miss Mackwayte's room on the first floor and in I bursts. 'Miss, sez I, 'Miss, there's been burglars in the house! and then I sees the pore lamb all tied up there on 'er blessed bed! Lor, mister, the turn it give me and I ain't telling you no lies! She was strapped up that tight with a towel crammed in 'er mouth she couldn't 'ardly dror 'er breath!
No!" he added, seeing that Desmond was about to expostulate, "I want to hear nothing from you. However obscure the circumstances of Miss Mackwayte's disappearance may be, one fact is perfectly clear, namely, that she went to the Mill House, as she was ordered and you were not there. For no man or woman in my service ever dares to disobey an order I have given."
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.
I found that pass in the front garden of the Mackwayte's house in Laleham Villas, half trodden into the earth of the flower-bed by a heavy boot, a service boot, studded with nails. There had been a lot of rain in the night, and it had washed the mosaic-tiled pathway up to the front door almost clean.
"The murder of Monsieur Mackwayte," said Nur-el-Din, and her tears broke forth anew. "I have read of this in the newspapers," said Desmond. "I remember you told me he was a friend of yours." Briefly, with many sobs, the dancer told him of the silver box which she had entrusted to Barbara Mackwayte's charge.
He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte's name, he knew that the dancer must allude to the tragedy. Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduced the old comedian's name herself.
"Certainly, sir," said Mr. Marigold. Desmond stood by the door, vastly amused by this duel of wits. The Chief and Mr. Marigold made a move towards the door, Desmond turned to open it and came face to face with a large framed photograph of the Chief hanging on the wall of Miss Mackwayte's bedroom. "Why, Chief," he cried, "you never told me you knew Miss Mackwayte!"
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!"
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