who put them up, and its Guildhall is a Tudor building, very pleasant to

see, and in the afternoon the shops are busy and the people going to and

fro make the pavements look bright and prosperous. It was nice to peep

in the windows and see the heads of the men and girls in the drapers'

shops, busy as busy, serving away. The High Street runs down at an angle

of seventy degrees to the horizon (so it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver, whose

feeling for gradients was unnaturally exalted), and it brought his heart

into his mouth to see a cyclist ride down it, like a fly crawling down a

window pane. The man hadn't even a brake. He visited the castle early in

the evening and paid his twopence to ascend the Keep.

At the top, from the cage, he looked down over the clustering red roofs

of the town and the tower of the church, and then going to the southern

side sat down and lit a Red Herring cigarette, and stared away south

over the old bramble-bearing, fern-beset ruin, at the waves of blue

upland that rose, one behind another, across the Weald, to the lazy

altitudes of Hindhead and Butser. His pale grey eyes were full of

complacency and pleasurable anticipation. Tomorrow he would go riding

across that wide valley.

He did not notice any one else had come up the Keep after him until he

heard a soft voice behind him saying: "Well, MISS BEAUMONT, here's the

view." Something in the accent pointed to a jest in the name.

It's a dear old town, brother George," answered another voice that

sounded familiar enough, and turning his head, Mr. Hoopdriver saw the

The Wheels of Chance