XVII. THE ENCOUNTER AT MIDHURST

We left Mr. Hoopdriver at the door of the little tea, toy, and tobacco

shop. You must not think that a strain is put on coincidence when I

tell you that next door to Mrs. Wardor's--that was the name of the

bright-eyed, little old lady with whom Mr. Hoopdriver had stopped--is

the Angel Hotel, and in the Angel Hotel, on the night that Mr.

Hoopdriver reached Midhurst, were 'Mr.' and 'Miss' Beaumont, our

Bechamel and Jessie Milton. Indeed, it was a highly probable thing; for

if one goes through Guildford, the choice of southward roads is limited;

you may go by Petersfield to Portsmouth, or by Midhurst to Chichester,

in addition to which highways there is nothing for it but minor roadways

to Petworth or Pulborough, and cross-cuts Brightonward. And coming to

Midhurst from the north, the Angel's entrance lies yawning to engulf

your highly respectable cyclists, while Mrs. Wardor's genial teapot is

equally attractive to those who weigh their means in little scales.

But to people unfamiliar with the Sussex roads--and such were the

three persons of this story--the convergence did not appear to be so

inevitable.

Bechamel, tightening his chain in the Angel yard after dinner, was the

first to be aware of their reunion. He saw Hoopdriver walk slowly across

the gateway, his head enhaloed in cigarette smoke, and pass out of sight

up the street. Incontinently a mass of cloudy uneasiness, that had been

partly dispelled during the day, reappeared and concentrated rapidly

The Wheels of Chance