CHAPTER 11Mr. Pinkerton made his way in great agitation through the clattering fog-bound traffic of Euston Road until he came to the familiar white front of a well-known restaurant. He wanted some food badly, but still more he wanted a quiet and safe place out of the drenching and nauseating yellow fog where he could sit down and think.
He should have waited for the constable. That was the first thing he should have done. To run headlong from the scene of murder was tantamount to admitting complicity. No one knew that better. If it had not been for the whispering and the light pursuing footfalls down the dark stairs of the house in Bloomsbury Street he would never have dreamed of taking to his heels in such a way. He patted his forehead with the purple handkerchief held in a trembling han
