Perhaps he'd tell some more. "It's no good pumping. Is that
all you're after?" said Mr. Hoopdriver.
Bechamel respected himself for his diplomatic gifts. He tried to
catch a remark by throwing out a confidence. "I take it there are
two people concerned in watching this affair."
"Who's the other?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, calmly, but controlling
with enormous internal tension his selfappreciation. "Who's the
other?" was really brilliant, he thought.
"There's my wife and HER stepmother."
"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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