ST

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 smoke, and pass out of sight
up the street. Incontinently a mass of cloudy uneasiness, that had been
partly dispelled during the day, reappeared and concentrated rapidly
into definite suspicion. He put his screw hammer into his pocket and
walked through the archway into the street, to settle the business
forthwith, for he prided himself on his decision. Hoopdriver was merely
promenading, and they met face to face.

At the sight of his adversary, something between disgust and laughter
seized Mr. Hoopdriver and for a moment destroyed his animosity. "'Ere
we are again!" he said, laughing insincerely in a sudden outbreak at the
perversity of chance.

The other man in brown stopped short in Mr. Hoopdriver's way, staring.
Then his face assumed an expression of dangerous civility. "Is it any
information to you," he said, with immense politeness, "when I remark
that you are following us?"

Mr. Hoopdriver, for some occult reason, resisted his characteristic
impulse to apologise. He wanted to annoy the other man in brown, and a
sentence that had come into his head in a previous rehearsal cropped up
appropriately. "Since when," said Mr. Ho