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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 positively brilliant 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. If
not--they're in the town." He was then in East Street, and he started
at once to make the circuit of the place, discovering incidentally that
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