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Updated: June 18, 2025
As far as I could gather, there was amused discussion among the gossips concerning the salient features of Sergeant Marigold's physical appearance. I heard one lady bid another to look at his wicked old eye, and receive the humorous rejoinder: "Which one?" I should have liked to burn them as witches; but Marigold stood his ground, imperturbable.
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 enjoys repeating an oft-told tale, "I found the pore man and a horrid turn it give me, too, I declare!
I realised with a pang that breakfast was over; that I had enjoyed a delectable meal; that, by some sort of dainty miracle, she had bemused me into eating and drinking twice my ordinary ration; that she had inveigled me into talking a thing I have never done during breakfast for years it is as much as Marigold's ugly head is worth to address a remark to me during the unsympathetic duty why, if my poached egg regards me with too aggressive a pinkiness, I want to slap it and into talking about those confounded Tuftons with a gusto only provoked by a glass or two of impeccable port after a good dinner.
But if you can stand me, for God's sake let me talk to you." "Talk as much as you like," said I. "This is only one of my stupid attacks which a man without legs has to put up with." "But Marigold " "Marigold's an old hen," said I. "Are you sure you're well enough? That's the curse of not being able to see. Tell me frankly." "I'm quite sure," said I.
And by these signs I knew that she had taken herself again in grip and forbade reference to the agony through which she had passed. Quickly she turned the conversation to the Tuftons. What had happened? I told her meagrely. She insisted on fuller details. So, flogged by her, I related what I had gleaned from Marigold's wooden reports.
Then, having trundled me to the front gate, he picked me up luckily I have always been a small spare man and deposited me in the car. I am always nervous of anyone but Marigold trying to carry me. They seem to stagger and fumble and bungle. Marigold's arms close round me like an iron clamp and they lift me with the mechanical certainty of a crane.
The neatly brushed but thinning locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant, cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr. Marigold's external appearance.
It fell out to absolute perfection. For when she saw the book, as I had it got up, the printed and pressed book, lying on her desk in her cart, and saw the title, DOCTOR MARIGOLD'S PRESCRIPTIONS, she looked at me for a moment with astonishment, then fluttered the leaves, then broke out a laughing in the charmingest way, then felt her pulse and shook her head, then turned the pages pretending to read them most attentive, then kissed the book to me, and put it to her bosom with both her hands.
I could take my own malicious pleasure out of Marigold's enforced humility, but I would be hanged if anybody else should. Sergeant Marigold should instruct those volunteers as he once instructed the recruits of his own battery.
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