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"
"
"
And you want to know which it is?"
Yes," said Bechamel.
Well--arst 'em!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, his exultation getting the better
of him, and with a pretty consciousness of repartee. "Arst 'em both."
Bechamel turned impatiently. Then he made a last effort. "I'd give a
five-pound note to know just the precise state of affairs," he said.
"I told you to stow that," said Mr. Hoopdriver, in a threatening tone.
And added with perfect truth and a magnificent mystery, "You don't quite
understand who you're dealing with. But you will!" He spoke with such
conviction that he half believed that that defective office of his in
London--Baker Street, in fact--really existed.
With that the interview terminated. Bechamel went back to the Angel,
perturbed. "Hang detectives!" It wasn't the kind of thing he had
anticipated at all. Hoopdriver, with round eyes and a wondering smile,
walked down to where the mill waters glittered in the moonlight, and
after meditating over the parapet of the bridge for a space, with
occasional murmurs of, "Private Inquiry" and the like, returned, with
mystery even in his paces, towards the town.
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