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"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 maelstrom now. He walked
out of the hotel, along the front, and into the big, black-shadowed
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 stooped and examined the chain with
trembling fingers. How was it to be done? Something behind the gate
seemed to flutter. The man must be got rid of anyhow.
"I say," said Hoopdriver, with an inspiration, "can you get me a
screwdriver?"
The man simply walked across the shed, opened and shut a box, and came
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