CHAPTER 23Mr. Pinkerton stirred on the floor. As his feet and hands were quite numb, he no longer felt the stabbing pain. There was only a dull, steady ache, something, Mr. Pinkerton thought, like pain that you remembered. His throat was parched, his swollen tongue gagged him under the bandage that he had not been able to get off his mouth. His body was very cold. He tried not to think any more, or be. All through the long hours of the night and morning he had lain there, tortured with the thought that if he had only told them to tell Bull where he was going . . . but that was futile. He knew that. In any case, Bull was busy. In any case, furthermore, Bull wasn’t concerned with people such as these that Mr. Pinkerton had run into. He was concerned with domestic crime. The man in the brown
