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
coughed.
"I don't see that it hurts you to tell me who your employer is."
"Don't you? I do."
"Prompt," said Bechamel, appreciatively. "Now here's the thing I
want to put to you--the kernel of the whole business. You need
not answer if you don't want to. There's no harm done in my
telling you what I want to know. Are you employed to watch me--or
Miss Milton?"
"I'm not the leaky sort," said Mr. Hoopdriver, keeping the secret
he did not know with immense enjoyment. Miss Milton! That was her
name.
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