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 equally attractive 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