Mr. Hoopdriver returned to the little room where he had eaten dinner. The leaded windows looked out over the vicarage, and his bed had already been made for the night.
He sat on the wooden box beneath the window and stared at the moon rising above the bright roof.
He tried to sort out his thoughts.
At first, they were all over the place.
It was after ten o’clock. Most of Midhurst was already asleep. Somewhere farther up the street, someone was practicing the violin. Every now and then, a late traveler hurried home, disturbing the quiet streets with his footsteps.
From the vicarage garden came the constant chirping of a corncrake.
The sky was a deep blue. A faint glow still lingered along the dark hills, while the white moon hung above them. Only two or three yellow stars were brave enough to show themselves.
For a while, Hoopdriver thought only about what he should do.
There was a villain.
There was a victim.
And somehow, he had been drawn into the middle of the whole affair.
The man was married.
Did the girl know that?
Hoopdriver never once suspected anything bad about her. He was simple-minded, but sometimes simple-minded people understood right and wrong more clearly than clever people who had spent too much time thinking themselves into confusion.
He had heard her voice.
He had seen the honest look in her eyes.
He had seen her crying.
That was enough for him.
He didn’t understand every detail of the situation yet, but he was determined to find out.
And as for that smug fellow in brown—
“Swine,” Hoopdriver muttered.
Then he remembered what had happened beneath the railway bridge.
He imitated Bechamel’s voice in a ridiculous tone.
“Then we won’t detain yer, thanks.”
He shook his head angrily.
“Oh, the beggar! I’ll get even with him yet. He’s frightened of us detectives. I’ll swear he is.”
He secretly hoped Mrs. Wardor might happen to be standing on the other side of the door and hear him.
For a while, his imagination became filled with revenge.
He imagined punching Bechamel so hard that the man went flying backward.
He imagined beating him with a riding crop until he could barely stand.
Then the fantasies became even more ridiculous.
There were duels.
There were violent fights.
There were even murders.
The more he imagined, the happier he became.
Moonlight fell across his face, and his expression changed completely. He looked almost blissful.
Eventually, after his imaginary revenge had gone far enough, his thoughts returned to the Young Lady in Grey.
She really was brave.
He thought about what the barmaid at the Angel Hotel had told him.
His thoughts gradually became calmer.
Instead of a storm, his mind became like a clear mirror, and the girl’s image appeared in it with remarkable sharpness.
He had never met anyone quite like her.
Then he remembered the barmaid.
He gave a contemptuous little laugh.
“Fancy dressing like that,” he muttered.
He compared the barmaid with the young women he had known from the shops where he had worked.
There was no comparison.
The Young Lady in Grey had a different kind of energy. Her voice, her eyes, even the way she carried herself seemed stronger and more alive.
And even when she cried, she had looked beautiful.
Perhaps she had looked even more beautiful because of her tears. They made her seem softer and more vulnerable.
Hoopdriver had seen plenty of young shop assistants cry.
He was almost an expert on the subject.
When a young woman lost her job, there were usually tears, a pale face, a red nose, and hair coming loose from its curls.
But this girl had cried differently.
And she could smile, too.
He knew that.
Suddenly, as if he were acting in one of his imaginary dramas, Hoopdriver smiled confidentially at the pale moon.
It was impossible to say how long he sat there thinking.
Eventually, practical thoughts returned.
He remembered that he was supposed to be a detective.
Tomorrow, he had work to do.
A detective should take notes.
He pulled out his little notebook.
Then he began thinking again.
Would Bechamel tell Jessie that someone was following them?
If he did, would she become more anxious to escape?
Hoopdriver would have to be careful.
If he got the chance, he wanted to speak to her privately.
Perhaps he could give her a simple warning.
Something like:
“Your friend isn’t what you think. Trust me.”
He liked the sound of that.
Then another thought occurred to him.
Perhaps the two fugitives would leave very early the next morning to avoid being followed.
Hoopdriver looked at the time.
It was already half past eleven.
“Lord!” he exclaimed. “I’d better make sure I wake up.”
He yawned and stood.
The window blind was already raised.
He pulled back the little curtains and let the moonlight fall across the bed.
Then he hung his watch where he could easily see it from the pillow. He placed it on a nail that also held a little kettle holder.
Satisfied, he sat on the edge of the bed and began undressing.
He lay down soon afterward.
For a little while, he remained awake, imagining everything that might happen the next day.
There were endless possibilities.
Perhaps he would uncover the truth.
Perhaps he would save the Young Lady in Grey.
Perhaps he would finally outsmart Bechamel.
The possibilities were wonderful.
Eventually, his thoughts faded.
And Mr. Hoopdriver drifted peacefully into another world of dreams.