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