Through that are our bicycles. Go down, get them out, and I will come down to you. Dare you?"
"Get your bicycle out in the road?"
"Both. Mine alone is no good. At once. Dare you?"
"Which way?"
"Go out by the front door and round. I will follow in one minute."
"Right!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, and went.
He had to get those bicycles. Had he been told to go out and kill Bechamel he would have done it. His head was a Maëlstrom now. He walked out of the hotel, along the front, and into the big, black-shadowed coach yard. He looked round. There were no bicycles visible. Then a man emerged from the dark, a short man in a short, black, shiny jacket. Hoopdriver was caught. He made no attempt to turn and run for it. "I've been giving your machines a wipe over, sir," said the man, recognising the suit, and touching his cap. Hoopdriver's intelligence now was a soaring eagle; he swooped on the situation at once. "That's right," he said, and added, before the pause became marked, "Where is mine? I want to look at the chain."
The man led him into an open shed, and went fumbling for a lantern. Hoopdriver moved the
