shadow of the window. She spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper.
"Why—Have you seen a young lady in a grey bicycling costume?"
Dangle caught at his lower lip. "What's that?" he said. "Yesterday! A man asking after her then! What can that mean?"
"Heaven knows," said Phipps, sitting down wearily. "You'd better infer."
"What kind of man?" said Dangle.
"How should I know?—in bicycling costume, the fellow said."
"But what height?—What complexion?"
"Didn't ask," said Phipps.
"Didn't ask! Nonsense," said Dangle.
"Ask him yourself," said Phipps. "He's an ostler chap in the White Hart,—short, thick-set fellow, with a red face and a crusty manner. Leaning up against the stable door. Smells of whiskey. Go and ask him."
"Of course," said Dangle, taking his straw hat from the shade over the stuffed bird on the chiffonier and turning towards the door. "I might have known."
Phipps' mouth opened and shut.
"You're tired, I'm sure, Mr. Phipps," said the lady, soothingly. "Let me ring for some tea for you." It suddenly occurred to Phipps that he had
