I could hear pandemonium break loose in the bar.
I slipped down a dark passage to another which ran at right angles to it, and which seemed to connect the street door of the inn itself with the back premises.

I could hear voices in the little hall, and that stopped me short.
One of them was Linklater's, but he was not talking as Linklater had talked.

He was speaking educated English.

I heard another with a Scots accent, which I took to be the landlord's, and a third which sounded like some superior sort of constable's, very prompt and official.

I heard one phrase, too, from Linklater--'He calls himself McCaskie.' Then they stopped, for the turmoil from the bar had reached the front door.