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"What!" said the other man in brown, surprised. "Eigh?" And so saying he
stowed it in his breeches pocket.
"
D'yer think I'm to be bribed?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, whose imagination
was rapidly expanding the situation. "By Gosh! I'd follow you now--"
"My dear sir," said the other man in brown, "I beg your pardon. I
misunderstood you. I really beg your pardon. Let us walk on. In your
profession--"
"
"
What have you got to say against my profession?"
Well, really, you know. There are detectives of an inferior
description--watchers. The whole class. Private Inquiry--I did not
realise--I really trust you will overlook what was, after all--you must
admit--a natural indiscretion. Men of honour are not so common in the
world--in any profession."
It was lucky for Mr. Hoopdriver that in Midhurst they do not light the
lamps in the summer time, or the one they were passing had betrayed him.
As it was, he had to snatch suddenly at his moustache and tug fiercely
at it, to conceal the furious tumult of exultation, the passion of
laughter, that came boiling up. Detective! Even in the shadow Bechamel
saw that a laugh was stifled, but he put it down to the fact that the
phrase "men of honour" amused his interlocutor. "He'll come round yet,"
said Bechamel to himself. "He's simply holding out for a fiver." He
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