the middle of a yawn, pulled out his watch, saw the
time was halfpast eleven, and marched off, with a fine sense of heroism,
bedward.

XXVI. THE SURBITON INTERLUDE

And here, thanks to the glorious institution of sleep, comes a break in
the narrative again. These absurd young people are safely tucked away
now, their heads full of glowing nonsense, indeed, but the course of
events at any rate is safe from any fresh developments through their
activities for the next eight hours or more. They are both sleeping
healthily you will perhaps be astonished to hear. Here is the girl--what
girls are coming to nowadays only Mrs. Lynn Linton can tell!--in company
with an absolute stranger, of low extraction and uncertain accent,
unchaperoned and unabashed; indeed, now she fancies she is safe, she is,
if anything, a little proud of her own share in these transactions. Then
this Mr. Hoopdriver of yours, roseate idiot that he is! is in illegal
possession of a stolen bicycle, a stolen young lady, and two stolen
names, established with them in an hotel that is quite beyond his means,
and immensely proud of himself in a somnolent way for these incomparable
follies. There are occasions when a moralising novelist can merely wring
his hands and leave matters to take their course. For all Hoopdriver
knows or cares he may be locked up the very first thing to-morrow
morning for the rape of the cycle. Then in Bognor, let alone that
melancholy vestige, Bechamel (with whom our dealings are, thank
Goodness! over), there is a Coffee Tavern with a steak Mr. Hoopdriver
ordered, done to a cinder long ago, his American-cloth parcel in a
bedroom, and his own proper bicycle, by way of guarantee, carefully
locked up in the hayloft. To-morrow he will be a Mystery, and they will
be looking for his body along the sea front. And so far we have never
given a glance at the desolate home in Surbiton, familiar to you no
doubt through the medium of illustrated interviews, where the unhappy
stepmother--

That stepmother, it must be explained, is quite well known to you.
That is a little surprise I have prepared for you. She is 'Thomas
Plantagenet,' the gifted authoress of that witty and daring book, "A
Soul Untrammelled," and quite an excellent woman in her way,--only it
is such a crooked way. Her real name is Milton. She is a widow and
a charming one, only ten years older than Jessie, and she is always
careful to dedicate her more daring works to the 'sacr