ing 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 magnificent mystery, "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 horrible
suspicion 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 i