Things, you see, have jarred a little, and they ride on their way
together with a certain aloofness of manner that promises ill for

the orthodox development of the Adventure. He perceives he was
too precipitate. But he feels his honour is involved, and

meditates the development of a new attack. And the girl? She is
unawakened. Her motives are bookish, written by a haphazard

syndicate of authors, novelists, and biographers, on her white
inexperience. An artificial oversoul she is, that may presently

break down and reveal a human being beneath it. She is still in
that schoolgirl phase when a talkative old man is more

interesting than a tongue-tied young one, and when to be an
eminent mathematician, say, or to edit a daily paper, seems as

fine an ambition as any girl need aspire to. Bechaniel was to
have helped her to attain that in the most expeditious manner,

and here he is beside her, talking enigmatical phrases about
passion, looking at her with the oddest expression, and once, and

that was his gravest offence, offering to kiss her. At any rate
he has apologised. She still scarcely realises, you see, the

scrape she has got into.
THE ENCOUNTER AT MIDHURST

XVII
We left Mr. Hoopdriver at the door of the little tea, toy, and

tobacco shop. You must not think that a strain is put on
coincidence when I tell you that next door to Mrs. Wardor's--that

was the name of the bright-eyed, little old lady with whom Mr.
Hoopdriver had stopped--is the Angel Hotel, and in the Angel

Hotel, on the night that Mr. Hoopdriver reached Midhurst, were
'Mr.' and 'Miss' Beaumont, our Bechamel and Jessie Milton.

Indeed, it was a highly probable thing; for if one goes through
Guildford, the choice of southward roads is limited; you may go

by Petersfield to Portsmouth, or by Midhurst to Chichester, in
addition to which highways there is nothing for it but minor

roadways to Petworth or Pulborough, and cross-cuts Brightonward.
And coming to Midhurst from the north, the Angel's entrance lies

yawning to engulf your highly respectable cyclists, while Mrs.
Wardor's genial teapot is equallyattractive to those who weigh

their means in little scales. But to people unfamiliar with the
Sussex roads--and such were the three persons of this story--the

convergence did not appear to be so inevitable.
Bechamel, tightening his chain in the Angel yard after dinner,

was the first to be aware of their reunion. He saw Hoopdriver
walk slowly across the gateway, his head enhaloed in cigarette

smoke, and pass out of sight up the street. Incontinently a mass
of cloudy uneasiness, that had been partly dispelled during the

day, reappeared and concentrated rapidly into definitesuspicion.
He put his screw hammer into his pocket and walked through the

archway into the street, to settle the business forthwith, for he
prided himself on his decision. Hoopdriver was merely

promenading, and they met face to face.
At the sight of his adversary, something between disgust and

laughter seized Mr. Hoopdriver and for a moment destroyed his
animosity. "'Ere we are again!" he said, laughing insincerely in

a sudden outbreak at the perversity of chance.
The other man in brown stopped short in Mr. Hoopdriver's way,

staring. Then his face assumed an expression of dangerous
civility. "Is it any information to you," he said, with immense

politeness, "when I remark that you are following us?"
Mr. Hoopdriver, for some occult reason, resisted his

characteristic impulse to apologise. He wanted to annoy.the other
man in brown, and a sentence that had come into his head in a

previous rehearsal cropped up appropriately. "Since when," said
Mr. Hoopdriver, catching his breath, yet bringing the question

out valiantly, nevertheless,--"since when 'ave you purchased the
county of Sussex?"

"May I point out," said the other man in brown, "that I object--
we object not only to your proximity to us. To be frank--you

appear to be following us--with an object."
"You can always," said Mr. Hoopdriver, "turn round if you don't

like it, and go back the way you came."
"Oh-o!" said the other man in brown. "THAT'S it! I thought as

much."
"Did you?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, quite at sea, but rising pluckily

to the unknown occasion. What was the man driving at?
"I see," said the other man. "I see. I half suspected--" His

manner changed abruptly to a quality suspiciously friendly. "Yes-
-a word with you. You will, I hope, give me ten minutes."

Wonderful things were dawning on Mr. Hoopdriver. What did the
other man take him for? Here at last was reality! He hesitated.

Then he thought of an admirablephrase. "You 'ave some
communication--"

"We'll call it a communication," said the other man.
"I can spare you the ten minutes," said Mr. Hoopdriver, with

dignity.
"This way, then," said the other man in brown, and they walked

slowly down the North Street towards the Grammar School. There
was, perhaps, thirty seconds' silence. The other man stroked his

moustache nervously. Mr. Hoopdriver's dramatic instincts were now
fully awake. He did not quite understand in what role he was

cast, but it was evidently something dark and mysterious. Doctor
Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, and Alexander Dumas were well within

Mr. Hoopdriver's range of reading, and he had not read them for
nothing.

"I will be perfectly frank with you," said the other man in
brown.

"Frankness is always the best course," said Mr. Hoopdriver.
"Well, then--who the devil set you on this business?"

"Set me ON this business?"
"Don't pretend to be stupid. Who's your employer? Who engaged you

for this job?"
"Well," said Mr. Hoopdriver, confused. "No--I can't say."

"Quite sure?" The other man in brown glanced meaningly down at
his hand, and Mr. Hoopdriver, following him mechanically, saw a

yellow milled edge glittering in the twilight. Now your shop
assistant is just above the tip-receiving class, and only just

above it--so that he is acutely sensitive on the point.
Mr. Hoopdriver flushed hotly, and his eyes were angry as he met

those of the other man in brown. "Stow it!" said Mr. Hoopdriver,
stopping and facing the tempter.

"What!" said the other man in brown, surprised. "Eigh?" And so
saying he stowed it in his breeches pocket.

"D'yer think I'm to be bribed?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, whose
imagination was rapidly expanding the situation. "By Gosh! I'd

follow you now--"
"My dear sir," said the other man in brown, "I beg your pardon. I

misunderstood you. I really beg your pardon. Let us walk on. In
your profession--"

"What have you got to say against my profession?"
"Well, really, you know. There are detectives of an inferior

description--watchers. The whole class. Private Inquiry--I did
not realise--I really trust you will overlook what was, after

all--you must admit--a natural indiscretion. Men of honour are
not so common in the world--in any profession."

It was lucky for Mr. Hoopdriver that in Midhurst they do not
light the lamps in the summer time, or the one they were passing

had betrayed him. As it was, he had to snatch suddenly at his
moustache and tug fiercely at it, to conceal the furious tumult

of exultation, the passion of laughter, that came boiling up.
Detective! Even in the shadow Bechamel saw that a laugh was

stifled, but he put it down to the fact that the phrase "men of
honour" amused his interlocutor. "He'll come round yet," said

Bechamel to himself. "He's simply holding out for a fiver." He
coughed.

"I don't see that it hurts you to tell me who your employer is."
"Don't you? I do."