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XVIII.
That glee which finds expression in raised eyebrows and long, low
whistling noises was upon Mr. Hoopdriver. For a space he forgot the
tears of the Young Lady in Grey. Here was a new game!--and a real one.
Mr. Hoopdriver as a Private Inquiry Agent, a Sherlock Holmes in fact,
keeping these two people 'under observation.' He walked slowly back from
the bridge until he was opposite the Angel, and stood for ten minutes,
perhaps, contemplating that establishment and enjoying all the strange
sensations of being this wonderful, this mysterious and terrible thing.
Everything fell into place in his scheme. He had, of course, by a kind
of instinct, assumed the disguise of a cyclist, picked up the first
old crock he came across as a means of pursuit. 'No expense was to be
spared.'
Then he tried to understand what it was in particular that he was
observing. "My wife"--"HER stepmother!" Then he remembered her
swimming
eyes. Abruptly came a wave of anger that surprised him, washed away the
detective superstructure, and left him plain Mr. Hoopdriver. This man in
brown, with his confident manner, and his proffered half sovereign (damn
him!) was up to no good, else why should he object to being watched? He
was married! She was not his sister. He began to understand. A horrible
suspicion of the state of affairs came into Mr. Hoopdriver's head.
Surely it had not come to THAT. He was a detective!--he would find
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