and walked upon his way, leaving the inhabitant marvelling what
part of a bicycle a spoor might be. Mr. Hoopdriver, abandoning
tracking, began asking people if they had seen a Young Lady in
Grey on a bicycle. Six casual people hadn't, and he began to feel
the inquiry was conspicuous, and desisted. But what was to be
done?

Hoopdriver was hot, tired, and hungry, and full of the first
gnawings of a monstrous remorse. He decided to get himself some
tea and meat, and in the Royal George he meditated over the
business in a melancholy frame enough. They had passed out of his
world--vanished, and all his wonderful dreams of some vague,
crucial interference collapsed like a castle of cards. What a
fool he had been not to stick to them like a leech! He might have
thought! But there!--what WAS the good of that sort of thing now?
He thought of her tears, of her helplessness, of the bearing of
the other man in brown, and his wrath and disappointment surged
higher. "What CAN I do?" said Mr. Hoopdriver aloud, bringing his
fist down beside the teapot.

What would Sherlock Holmes have done? Perhaps, after all, there
might be such things as clues in the world, albeit the age of
miracles was past. But to look for a clue in this intricate
network of cobbled streets, to examine every muddy interstice!
There was a chance by looking about and inquiry at the various
inns. Upon that he began. But of course they might have ridden
straight through and scarcely a soul have marked them. And then
came a positivelybrilliant idea. "'Ow many ways are there out of
Chichester?" said Mr. Hoopdriver. It was really equal to Sherlock
Holmes--that." If they've made tracks, I shall find those tracks.