CHAPTER 14AT TWENTY minutes to three o’clock the postman going indifferently about his business in Godolphin Square came to more active life and set off toward the top of the road a short distance ahead of the small man in the shoddy grey suit and faded brown bowler who had come out of Number 4. Mr. Pinkerton, his furled umbrella clutched in one hand, nervously adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles with the other as he glanced behind him to see if anyone was following him out of the house.
It was seldom Mr. Pinkerton told a deliberate falsehood, and almost never to his friend and former lodger Chief Inspector Bull. But desperate times demand desperate remedies. Having denied any and all complicity with Daniel McGrath, the Winships en masse and Arthur Pegott in particular, in any degree wha
