THE WHEELS OF CHANCE
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. It required an effort before he could walk into the Angel bar. "A lemonade and bitter, please," said Mr. Hoopdriver.
He cleared his throat. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Bowlong stopping here?"
"What, a gentleman and a young lady—on bicycles?"
"Fairly young—a married couple."
"No," said the barmaid, a talkative person of ample dimensions. "There's no married couples stopping here. But there's a Mr. and Miss Beaumont." She spelt it for precision. "Sure you've got the name right, young man?"
"Quite," said Mr. Hoopdriver.
"Beaumont there is, but no one of the name of—What was the name you gave?"
"Bowlong," said Mr. Hoopdriver.
"No, there ain't no Bowlong," said the barmaid, taking up a glasscloth and a drying tumbler and beginning to polish the latter. "First off, I thought you might be asking for Beaumont—the names being similar. Were you expecting them on bicycles?"
"Yes—they said they might be in Midhurst to-night."
"P'raps they'll come presently. Beaumont's here, but no Bowlong. Sure that Beaumont ain't the name?"
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