Chugg arriving at her bedside this morning.” 

 “What time did this attack take place?” asked the Chief. 

 “She has no idea,” answered the detective. “She couldn’t see her watch and they haven’t got a striking clock in the house.” 

 “But can she make no guess!” 

 “Well, she says she thinks it was several hours before Mrs. Chugg arrived in the morning... as much as three hours, she thinks!” 

 “And what time did Mrs. Chugg arrive!” 

 “At half-past six!” 

 “About Mackwayte... how long was he dead when they found him? What does the doctor say?” 

 “About three hours approximately, but you know, they can’t always tell to an hour or so!” 

 “Well,” said the Chief slowly, “it looks as if one might figure the murder as having been committed some time between 3 and 3.30 a.m.” 

 “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, 

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