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 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.

XVIII

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