CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEWhen Scotland Yard is on a man’s trail the distinction between night and day is forgot. At half past three in the morning Inspector Bull’s telephone jangled insistently. Bull jumped out of bed, cracked his shin on the chair that he had propped against the door to keep the wind from banging it shut, swore vehemently, and barged, wide awake, into the study.
“Hello! Bull speaking. What—Gates? Voorhees picked him up? Good Lord! I’ll be down in half an hour.”
In five minutes Bull had discarded his lavender pajamas, donned his brown Harris tweeds and set out into the biting March night, completely disregarding, in the hurry of the moment, the small grey figure in long outing flannel night shirt, standing wistfully at the head of the stairs. Mr. Pinkerton had waked up too late
