CHAPTER 25The quarterboys struck once, twice, three times, before Mr. Pinkerton finally closed his eyes. The meagre facts at his disposal went round and round in his little grey skull like a ghastly carrousel in a dingy side street in Clapham. Mrs. Darcy Atwater was frightened, desperately frightened. That was self-evident. But, as Bull had said, why? And of whom? Of the person who had murdered twice, and consequently might murder again—that was the likeliest answer to the second question. But . . . Mr. Pinkerton shook his head in tired perplexity. He tried wearily to recall if she had ever appeared nervy before. She certainly had not been about going through the dark narrow streets of Rye, past the churchyard, with its slanting tombstones and dark ancient trees.
The carrousel of his mind
