CHAPTER 4Mr. Pinkerton sat down on the edge of his oak settle and bit the nail of his left forefinger. If only he knew what was up, he thought dejectedly. Whatever could the man from Scotland Yard be doing here, under a name not his own, when he was supposed to be in Brighton? Whatever could be the matter with the girl Kathleen? It occurred to him suddenly together with the thought that it should have occurred to him before—that she spoke of Jeffrey Atwater as “Poor Mr. Jeffrey,” as if she knew him quite well—even better, Mr. Pinkerton thought, than he would do, no matter how many weeks he’d spent at the Old Angel.
Then through the old walls behind the oak panelling he heard Sir Lionel’s voice.
“He hasn’t got a bent farthing, madam. Have you thought of that, madam?”
The slightly husky v
