CHAPTER 19Inspector Bull closed Mrs. Atwater’s door. Mr. Pinkerton peered up at him timidly. He might possibly suggest, he thought.—Then he stopped very short, for there was a look on Inspector Bull’s normally quite expressionless face that on any other face would have been called grim amusement. On Inspector Bull’s, Mr. Pinkerton did not quite know what to call it. It was something, in any case, that made his voice fade away in his scrawny throat.
“I’ll be busy for a bit, now, Mr. Pinkerton,” Bull said, almost cheerfully. “It’s not for me to tell you what to do, but I think I’d keep out of the bar, if I were you.”
He crossed the hall, opened the door of Jeffrey Atwater’s room and closed it behind him.
Mr. Pinkerton stood flushing painfully for a moment, and then turned and went slowly
