Hoopdriver was up with the sun.
He was alert, energetic, and completely convinced that he was now a professional detective.
He left one section of the leaded window slightly open and kept his ears ready for any sound from the Angel Hotel. Every few seconds, he stole a quick glance through the corner of the window toward the hotel entrance.
Mrs. Wardor wanted him to come downstairs and have breakfast in her kitchen.
But Hoopdriver refused.
He couldn’t possibly abandon his post.
His bicycle stood ready inside the shop, positioned exactly where he could grab it at a moment’s notice.
By six in the morning, he was waiting.
By nine, however, terrible thoughts began to trouble him.
What if they had already escaped?
Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, he slipped out and quietly checked the yard of the Angel.
There he found the stableman cleaning and brushing the bicycles.
Hoopdriver immediately felt relieved.
“They’re still here,” he whispered.
He returned to Mrs. Wardor’s shop and resumed his watch.
At about ten o’clock, the two finally appeared.
They mounted their bicycles and rode quietly up North Street.
Hoopdriver watched them carefully.
As soon as they disappeared around the post office, he grabbed his bicycle.
“Now!”
He mounted and followed them in grand style.
They passed the old engine house, where the ancient stocks and whipping posts still stood, and then turned onto the Chichester road.
The great chase had begun.
The two riders never looked back.
Hoopdriver kept them within sight but was careful not to get too close.
Whenever he accidentally caught up with them around a corner, he slowed down or dismounted until they were safely ahead again.
Fortunately, they weren’t traveling very fast.
Hoopdriver had to work hard, and he soon became hot. His knees were a little stiff from the previous day’s riding, but otherwise he was doing surprisingly well.
There was also one great advantage.
The road was covered with a thin layer of pale chalk dust.
The young woman’s tire left a clear pattern in the dust, almost like the ridges on a coin.
Hoopdriver’s own tire left a different, checkered trail behind it.
“So long as I can see the tracks,” he thought, “I can’t lose them.”
They passed a monument to Cobden and continued through a series of beautiful villages.
Eventually the downs rose steeply in front of them.
The two stopped at the only inn in the area.
Hoopdriver immediately took up a position where he could watch the entrance.
He wiped the sweat from his face, smoked a Red Herring cigarette, and waited.
The couple stayed inside for quite a while.
Hoopdriver became increasingly thirsty.
Then a group of schoolchildren appeared.
They stopped in front of him and stared.
They simply stood there.
Ten minutes passed.
Hoopdriver stared back.
“Go away,” he said.
The children didn’t move.
They seemed fascinated by him.
Hoopdriver tried asking their names.
They answered in a collection of barely understandable whispers.
Eventually he gave up.
He leaned against the gate and ignored them.
After a while, they lost interest and wandered away.
Meanwhile, the couple remained inside the inn.
Hoopdriver began to feel hungry as well as thirsty.
“They must be having lunch,” he thought.
The sky was completely clear.
The midday sun beat down directly on his head, making him feel as if someone were pouring hot light over his skull.
His head began to spin.
At last, the two travelers came out.
As they mounted their bicycles, Bechamel glanced back.
He saw Hoopdriver.
Then they rode toward the foot of the downs.
There they dismounted and began pushing their bicycles up the long, steep hill.
Hoopdriver looked at the slope.
“That’ll take them twenty minutes at least,” he thought.
Beyond the hill was nothing but open countryside.
He made a decision.
“I’ll get something to eat.”
He returned to the inn and ordered food.
They gave him biscuits, cheese, and a large measure of strong ale.
The beer tasted cool and pleasant.
Unfortunately, it soon made his legs feel heavy.
When Hoopdriver came back outside, he felt like a powerful man.
But the moment he reached the bottom of the hill, the sun began attacking his head again.
The hill seemed even steeper than before.
The white chalk road blazed under the sunlight.
His front wheel had also developed an irritating squeak.
Everything suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
He imagined that this was what it must feel like to be a man from Mars suddenly dropped onto Earth.
The two riders had already disappeared over the top of the hill.
Hoopdriver looked at the tracks in the dust.
“The tracks’ll be all right,” he said.
That thought comforted him.
It gave him permission to climb the hill slowly.
When he finally reached the top, he collapsed onto the grass beside the road.
From there he looked out across the Weald.
In only two days, he had crossed that enormous valley.
Green hills rolled across the landscape like frozen waves.
Tiny villages and towns were scattered between woods, fields, ponds, and streams.
Everything glittered under the afternoon sun.
Far away, the North Downs disappeared beyond the hills.
Below him stood the little village of Cocking.
Halfway up another hill, a flock of sheep grazed peacefully.
Above him, a nervous peewit circled against the blue sky and occasionally cried out.
A pleasant breeze cooled the heat.
Hoopdriver felt strangely content.
He lit another cigarette and stretched out comfortably on the grass.
Perhaps Sussex ale really was made from the waters of forgetfulness, poppies, and pleasant dreams.
His eyes became heavy.
He fell asleep.
When he woke, he sat up with a guilty start.
He was lying face down on the grass, his cap covering one eye.
He rubbed his eyes.
Then he suddenly remembered the chase.
“The chase!”
He jumped to his feet and picked up his fallen bicycle.
He pulled out his watch.
It was after two.
“Good Lord! Look at the time!”
He stared at the empty road.
“But the tracks’ll be all right,” he reminded himself.
He pushed his bicycle back onto the chalk road.
“I must scorch till I overtake them.”
He mounted and rode as fast as the heat and his tired body allowed.
Whenever the road divided, he sometimes had to stop and inspect the ground.
He actually enjoyed this part.
“Tracking,” he said proudly.
He began to believe he had a natural talent for following spoor.
“A wonderful instinct,” he told himself.
He continued past Goodwood Station and Lavant.
By about four o’clock, he was approaching Chichester.
Then disaster struck.
In some places the road became hard and the tracks disappeared.
Elsewhere, the ground was covered with the marks left by a flock of sheep.
Then he reached the city.
There were cobbled streets everywhere, branching in every direction.
North.
South.
East.
West.
Near the stone cross beneath the cathedral, the tracks vanished completely.
Hoopdriver stopped.
“Oh, crikey!”
He got off his bicycle and stared at the ground in horror.
A man standing nearby noticed him.
“Lost something?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Hoopdriver said miserably. “I’ve lost the spoor.”
The man looked confused.
He probably wondered what part of a bicycle a “spoor” was.
Hoopdriver abandoned his detective work and began asking people whether they had seen a young woman riding a bicycle.
Six people said no.
After that, he became afraid that his questions were attracting too much attention.
He stopped asking.
But what was he supposed to do now?
He was hot.
He was exhausted.
He was hungry.
And, worst of all, the first terrible feeling of regret was beginning to eat away at him.
He went to the Royal George, ordered tea and some meat, and sat there sadly thinking about the situation.
They were gone.
They had completely disappeared from his world.
All his wonderful plans to somehow rescue the Young Lady in Grey had collapsed like a house of cards.
“What a fool I’ve been,” he thought.
“I should have stayed right behind them.”
He could have planned better.
He could have watched more carefully.
But what was the use of thinking about that now?
He remembered the girl’s tears.
He remembered how helpless she had seemed.
He remembered the arrogant way Bechamel had treated him.
His anger returned.
“What can I do?” Hoopdriver said aloud.
He slammed his fist down beside the teapot.
Then another thought occurred to him.
What would Sherlock Holmes have done?
Surely there had to be clues.
Perhaps miracles were no longer common, but clues might still exist.
The problem was finding one in a city full of cobbled streets.
Should he examine every bit of muddy ground?
He might also ask at the various hotels.
That seemed worth trying.
So he began.
But there was a serious problem.
The couple might have ridden straight through Chichester.
They might have stopped nowhere.
Perhaps nobody had noticed them at all.
Then Hoopdriver suddenly had an idea.
He sat up.
“How many ways are there out of Chichester?”
He was extremely pleased with himself.
That, he thought, was exactly the sort of question Sherlock Holmes would ask.
“If they’ve left tracks, I’ll find them.”
“And if they haven’t…”
He looked around.
“Then they’re still in the city.”
He was in East Street, so he immediately began walking around the city.
Along the way, he discovered something he hadn’t known before.
Chichester was surrounded by old walls.
He questioned people at the Black Swan, the Crown, and the Red Lion.
Nobody could give him anything useful.
By six o’clock, Hoopdriver was walking along the road toward Bognor.
His head was down.
He kicked at the dust as he walked.
He looked like a man who had lost his money and was too angry to admit it.
The great detective was completely defeated.
Then something caught his eye.
He stopped.
There, running along the road, was a broad tire track with ridges like a coin.
Beside it was another track.
A checkered one.
Hoopdriver stared.
Then his face lit up.
“Found!”
He spun around immediately.
The tracks had returned.
His bicycle was still being kept for him at the Royal George.
He rushed back to collect it.
The ostler looked at him with some annoyance.
Hoopdriver, however, was far too excited to care.
The chase was back on.