"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?"