CHAPTER 7Mr. Pinkerton sank down on a bench at the far end of the British Museum porch behind a black mass that might have been an Easter Island deity rampant, and mopped his forehead with his purple handkerchief. Why on earth should Brenda Nash have thought he was coming in to see her, and why should she have made an appointment to see him, when men like Lovat Gwatley-Wells and Miss Cameron’s brother, and the great Mr. Biddle, were so anxious to see her? Mr. Pinkerton inserted two trembling fingers between his neck and his collar and breathed a trifle more freely. It was most extraordinary.
He took a deep breath suddenly and tried to control his agitation. His landlord was strolling down the porch, followed by a couple of pigeons giving what Mr. Pinkerton thought was a very passable imit
