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"Prompt," said Bechamel, appreciatively. "Now here's the thing I

want to put to you--the kernel of the whole business. You need



not answer if you don't want to. There's no harm done in my

telling you what I want to know. Are you employed to watch me--or



Miss Milton?"

"I'm not the leaky sort," said Mr. Hoopdriver, keeping the secret



he did not know with immenseenjoyment. Miss Milton! That was her

name. Perhaps he'd tell some more. "It's no good pumping. Is that



all you're after?" said Mr. Hoopdriver.

Bechamel respected himself for his diplomatic gifts. He tried to



catch a remark by throwing out a confidence. "I take it there are

two people concerned in watching this affair."



"Who's the other?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, calmly, but controlling

with enormousinternaltension his selfappreciation. "Who's the



other?" was really brilliant, he thought.

"There's my wife and HER stepmother."



"And you want to know which it is?"

"Yes," said Bechamel.



"Well--arst 'em!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, his exultation getting the

better of him, and with a pretty consciousness of repartee. "Arst



'em both."

Bechamel turned impatiently. Then he made a last effort. "I'd



give a five-pound note to know just the precise state of

affairs," he said.



"I told you to stow that," said Mr. Hoopdriver, in a threatening

tone. And added with perfect truth and a magnificentmystery,



"You don't quite understand who you're dealing with. But you

will!" He spoke with such conviction that he half believed that



that defective office of his in London--Baker Street, in fact--

really existed.



With that the interview terminated. Bechamel went back to the

Angel, perturbed. "Hang detectives!" It wasn't the kind of thing



he had anticipated at all. Hoopdriver, with round eyes and a

wondering smile, walked down to where the mill waters glittered



in the moonlight, and after meditating over the parapet of the

bridge for a space, with occasional murmurs of, "Private Inquiry"



and the like, returned, with mystery even in his paces, towards

the town.



XVIII

That glee which finds expression in raised eyebrows and long, low



whistling noises was upon Mr. Hoopdriver. For a space he forgot

the tears of the Young Lady in Grey. Here was a new game!--and a



real one. Mr. Hoopdriver as a Private Inquiry Agent, a Sherlock

Holmes in fact, keeping these two people 'under observation.' He



walked slowly back from the bridge until he was opposite the

Angel, and stood for ten minutes, perhaps, contemplating that



establishment and enjoying all the strange sensations of being

this wonderful, this mysterious and terrible thing. Everything



fell into place in his scheme. He had, of course, by a kind of

instinct, assumed the disguise of a cyclist, picked up the first



old crock he came across as a means of pursuit. 'No expense was

to be spared.'



Then he tried to understand what it was in particular that he was

observing. "My wife"--"HER stepmother!" Then he remembered her



swimming eyes. Abruptly came a wave of anger that surprised him,

washed away the detective superstructure, and left him plain Mr.



Hoopdriver. This man in brown, with his confident manner, and his

proffered half sovereign (damn him!) was up to no good, else why



should he object to being watched? He was married! She was not

his sister. He began to understand. A horriblesuspicion of the



state of affairs came into Mr. Hoopdriver's head. Surely it had

not come to THAT. He was a detective!--he would find out. How was



it to be done? He began to submit sketches on approval to

himself. It required an effort before he could walk into the



Angel bar. "A lemonade and bitter, please," said Mr. Hoopdriver.

He cleared his throat. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Bowlong stopping here?"



"What, a gentleman and a young lady--on bicycles?"




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