Away to the east, light was beginning to disperse the gloom of the black-out, and for the first time the inspector was thankful for the resumption of normal time. Otherwise it would have meant another groping journey back to Dean Street; quite bad enough in those narrow thoroughfares, even with a torch. They pushed along in silence, McCarthy feeling in no mood for talking after the recent major surprise discovery, and, apparently, Mr. Regan still less so—unless his particular silence was to be put down to an observance of the golden rule of speaking when he was spoken to. By the time they arrived in Regent Street it was quite daylight. “We’ll turn down as far as Glasshouse Street, Danny, and cut through to my crib that way,” the inspector said suddenly. “It’ll have to be a hasty breakfast, because I’m due in Soho Square before eight o’clock.” At Glasshouse Street the pair turned, cutting through Brewer Street and working in a northerly direction.
