Mr. Hoopdriver was so delighted that he raised his eyebrows and let out a long, low whistle.
For a while, he completely forgot about the tears he had seen in the Young Lady in Grey’s eyes.
This was a new game.
And, even better, it was a real one.
Mr. Hoopdriver was now a private detective.
In his imagination, he was practically Sherlock Holmes.
His mission was simple: keep the mysterious couple under observation.
He slowly walked back from the bridge until he was standing opposite the Angel Hotel.
Then he stopped and stared at the building for several minutes.
He enjoyed the feeling enormously.
He was no longer an ordinary shop assistant on a bicycle.
He was a mysterious and dangerous investigator working on an important case.
Everything suddenly made sense.
Of course he had disguised himself as an ordinary cyclist.
Of course he had deliberately chosen an old bicycle so that he could follow his targets without attracting attention.
“No expense is to be spared,” he whispered to himself.
Then he stopped.
What exactly was he investigating?
He thought back to Bechamel’s words.
“My wife.”
“Her stepmother.”
Then he remembered the Young Lady in Grey’s tearful eyes.
His detective fantasy disappeared almost instantly.
He was just Hoopdriver again.
That man in brown had behaved suspiciously from the beginning.
He had even tried to offer him money.
A half-sovereign!
“Damn him!”
Why would an innocent man object to being watched?
And Bechamel was married.
The girl was clearly not his sister.
Suddenly, Hoopdriver began to understand what might really be happening.
A horrible suspicion entered his mind.
Surely it wasn’t that bad?
If it was, then he had to find out.
After all, he was a detective.
He began thinking about how a proper detective would investigate the matter.
Eventually, he gathered enough courage to walk into the Angel Hotel’s bar.
“A lemonade with a little bitter, please,” he said.
Then he cleared his throat.
“Are Mr. and Mrs. Bowlong staying here?”
The barmaid looked at him.
“A gentleman and a young lady? On bicycles?”
“Yes. Fairly young. A married couple.”
“No,” she said. “We haven’t got any married couples staying here.”
Hoopdriver felt relieved.
“But there is a Mr. and Miss Beaumont.”
She carefully spelled the name.
“Are you sure you’ve got the name right?”
“Quite sure.”
“There’s a Beaumont here, certainly. But nobody called Bowlong.”
“Bowlong,” Hoopdriver repeated.
“No. No Bowlong.”
She picked up a glass and began polishing it with a cloth.
“At first I thought perhaps you meant Beaumont. The names sound a bit alike.”
“Did they arrive on bicycles?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose they might be the people I’m looking for.”
“They may well be.”
Hoopdriver smiled.
His terrible suspicion was beginning to disappear.
The barmaid was clearly enjoying the conversation.
She leaned closer.
“They’re upstairs now.”
Hoopdriver looked interested.
The barmaid lowered her voice.
“I must say, that young lady is something.”
“In what way?”
“Her clothes, for one thing. Very bold.”
Hoopdriver smiled.
“Fashion,” he said.
The barmaid giggled.
“You should have seen her arrive. She got off her bicycle and handed it straight to him.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Then she marched inside as if she owned the place.”
The barmaid imitated the girl’s voice.
“She said, ‘My brother and I want to stay here tonight. My brother doesn’t care what sort of room he gets, but I’d like one with a good view if you’ve got one.'”
Hoopdriver laughed.
“And what did the gentleman say?”
“He came hurrying in after her and just stared at her.”
The barmaid grinned.
“Then she told him she’d already arranged the rooms.”
“And he said…?”
“‘Damn!’ Just like that.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t imagine my own brother letting me boss him around like that.”
“I suppose you can imagine it,” said Hoopdriver.
The barmaid lowered her eyes and smiled.
“Perhaps I can.”
She put down the glass and picked up another.
“She’ll be quite a handful when she gets married.”
Hoopdriver’s smile faded.
“She’ll be wearing those new-fashioned things before long, I suppose.”
He did not particularly enjoy hearing the Young Lady in Grey mocked.
“Fashion,” he said, taking his change.
“That’s what all you ladies care about. Always have.”
The barmaid laughed.
“You’ll probably be wearing them yourself within a couple of years.”
“Imagine those things on me!”
She laughed again.
“No, I’m not one of those fashionable women. Good heavens, I’d feel as though I wasn’t wearing anything at all.”
She suddenly realized what she was saying.
“Well, listen to me! I’m talking nonsense.”
She put down the glass.
“I suppose I’m old-fashioned.”
Then she walked away down the bar, humming to herself.
“Not you,” Hoopdriver called after her.
He waited until she looked back.
Then, with his usual courtesy, he smiled, raised his cap, and said:
“Good evening.”