"Get your bicycle out in the road?"

"Both. Mine alone is no good. At once. Dare you?"

"Which way?"

"Go out by the front door and round. I will follow in one
minute."

"Right!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, and went.

He had to get those bicycles. Had he been told to go out and kill
Bechamel he would have done it. His head was a MaeIstrom now. He
walked out of the hotel, along the front, and into the big,
blackshadowed coach yard. He looked round. There were no bicycles
visible. Then a man emerged from the dark, a short man in a
short, black, shiny jacket. Hoopdriver was caught. He made no
attempt to turn and run for it. "I've been giving your machines a
wipe over, sir," said the man, recognising the suit, and touching
his cap. Hoopdriver's intelligence now was a soaring eagle; he
swooped on the situation at once. "That's right," he said, and
added, before the pause became marked, "Where is mine? I want to
look at the chain."

The man led him into an open shed, and went fumbling for a
lantern. Hoopdriver moved the lady's machine out of his way to
the door, and then laid hands on the man's machine and wheeled it
out of the shed into the yard. The gate stood open and beyond was
the pale road and a clump of trees black in the twilight. He