thought of an admirable phrase. "You 'ave some communication—"
"We'll call it a communication," said the other man.
"I can spare you the ten minutes," said Mr. Hoopdriver, with dignity.
"This way, then," said the other man in brown, and they walked slowly down the North Street towards the Grammar School. There was, perhaps, thirty seconds' silence. The other man stroked his moustache nervously. Mr. Hoopdriver's dramatic instincts were now fully awake. He did not quite understand in what rớle he was cast, but it was evidently something dark and mysterious. Doctor Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, and Alexander Dumas were well within Mr. Hoopdriver's range of reading, and he had not read them for nothing.
"I will be perfectly frank with you," said the other man in brown.
"Frankness is always the best course," said Mr. Hoopdriver.
"Well, then—who the devil set you on this business?"
"Set me on this business?"
"Don't pretend to be stupid. Who's your employer? Who engaged you for this job?"
"Well," said Mr. Hoopdriver, confused. "No—I can't say."
