he conversed with her in that cultivated voice of his--of the weather,

of the distance from London, and of the excellence of the Ripley

road--wandered to the incomparable freshness and brilliance of the Young

Lady in Grey. As he sat at meat he kept turning his head to the window

to see what signs there were of that person, but the face of the

Golden Dragon displayed no appreciation of the delightful morsel it

had swallowed. As an incidental consequence of this distraction, Mr.

Hoopdriver was for a minute greatly inconvenienced by a mouthful of

mustard. After he had called for his reckoning he went, his courage

being high with meat and mustard, to the door, intending to stand, with

his legs wide apart and his hands deep in his pockets, and stare boldly

across the road. But just then the other man in brown appeared in the

gateway of the Golden Dragon yard--it is one of those delightful inns

that date from the coaching days--wheeling his punctured machine. He

was taking it to Flambeau's, the repairer's. He looked up and saw

Hoopdriver, stared for a minute, and then scowled darkly.

But Hoopdriver remained stoutly in the doorway until the other man in

brown had disappeared into Flambeau's. Then he glanced momentarily at

the Golden Dragon, puckered his mouth into a whistle of unconcern, and

proceeded to wheel his machine into the road until a sufficient margin

for mounting was secured.

Now, at that time, I say, Hoopdriver was rather desirous than not of

seeing no more of the Young Lady in Grey. The other man in brown he

guessed was her brother, albeit that person was of a pallid fairness,

The Wheels of Chance