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 out. How was
it to be done? He began to submit sketches on approval to
himself.
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