CHAPTER 16Mr. Pinkerton flushed to the very roots of his sparse grey hair, and moistened his lips hurriedly.
“Why, it . . . it’s quite simple, Inspector,” he said. “I just heard a noise and woke up, and there he was, standing in the panel by the chimney-piece in my room.”
There was an odd and, to Mr. Pinkerton’s mind, rather alarming silence in Inspector Bull’s present room.
“What . . . panel?” Bull enquired, mildly.
Mr. Pinkerton flushed still more deeply.
“Why, the secret panel,” he stammered. “The one that goes up the steps to the attic where Kathleen’s room is.”
He blinked nervously at the Inspector, and did not dare to look at Inspector Kirtin of the Rye Police.
“You mean,” Bull said slowly, “that there’s a secret panel in your own room, and you didn’t tell me about it?”
Mr. P
