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 into definite suspicion.
He put his screw hammer into his pocket and walked through the
archway into the street, to settle the business forthwith, for he
prided himself on his decision. Hoopdriver was merely
promenading, and they met face to face.
At the sight of his adversary, something between disgust and
laughter seized Mr. Hoopdriver and for a moment destroyed his
animosity. "'Ere we are again!" he said, laughing insincerely in
a sudden outbreak at the perversity of chance.
The other man in brown stopped short in Mr. Hoopdriver's way,
staring. Then his face assumed an expression of dangerous
civility. "Is it any information to you," he said, with immense
politeness, "when I remark that you are following us?"
Mr. Hoopdriver, for some occult reason, resisted his
characteristic impulse to apologise.
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