CHAPTER 7He was still asleep when the potboy Jo banged on his door, clanking his hot-water can against it. It seemed to Mr. Pinkerton that there was a respectful light in the boy’s squinting eyes he had not noticed before. Whether it was due to him in his capacity of suspect for murder, or his even more dubious one of functionary to Scotland Yard, he could not tell. In any case, he was grateful for it, though it seemed to preclude their hitherto comfortable morning chat about the state of the weather. He noticed, as Jo put his water can down, that it was full instead of half full, and quite hot instead of possessing a degree of heat that to call tepid would be a definite exaggeration of known and experienced fact.
At the door the boy looked out, then leaned his towhead back.
“Don’t let ’
