CHAPTER 10“I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself,” Mr. Pinkerton blurted out miserably, going at a sharp clip to keep up with the long strides of Inspector Bull.
“Now, Mr. Pinkerton,” Bull said mildly, “I’m only doing my duty.”
“Rot,” Mr. Pinkerton said boldly. “And her trusting you.”
“No more than that girl Kathleen trusted you, Mr. Pinkerton.”
The little man stopped short by the house with the crooked chimney that everybody who paints comes to Rye to paint, they say because it is impossible to get the chimney any crookeder than it already is. He blinked nervously at his large friend, who had stopped too, a few steps along, and was waiting patiently for him.
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Then I don’t know what you mean, Pinkerton,” Inspector Bull replied. “So
