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now alone. It was the occasion he sought. But he would give Chance no
chance against him. He went back round the corner, sat down on the seat,
and watched Bechamel recede into the dimness up the esplanade, before he
got up and walked into the hotel entrance. "A lady cyclist in grey," he
asked for, and followed boldly on the waiter's heels. The door of the
dining-room was opening before he felt a qualm. And then suddenly he was
nearly minded to turn and run for it, and his features seemed to him to
be convulsed.
She turned with a start, and looked at him with something between terror
and hope in her eyes.
"Can I--have a few words--with you, alone?" said Mr. Hoopdriver,
controlling his breath with difficulty. She hesitated, and then motioned
the waiter to withdraw.
Mr. Hoopdriver watched the door shut. He had intended to step out into
the middle of the room, fold his arms and say, "You are in trouble. I
am a Friend. Trust me." Instead of which he stood panting and then spoke
with sudden familiarity, hastily, guiltily: "Look here. I don't know
what the juice is up, but I think there's something wrong. Excuse my
intruding--if it isn't so. I'll do anything you like to help you out of
the scrape--if you're in one. That's my meaning, I believe. What can I
do? I would do anything to help you."
Her brow puckered, as she watched him make, with infinite emotion,
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