Part 25

“What question?” said Mrs. Milton, in the 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 lapsed a little from his chivalry. “I was a little annoyed at the way he rushed me to do all this business,” he said. “But I’d do a hundred times as much if it would bring you any nearer to her.” Pause. “I would like a little tea.”

“I don’t want to raise any false hopes,” said Widgery. “But I do not believe they even came to Chichester. Dangle’s a very clever fellow, of course, but sometimes these Inferences of his—”

“Tchak!” said Phipps, suddenly.

“What is it?” said Mrs. Milton.

“Something I’ve forgotten. I went right out from here, went to every other hotel in the place, and never thought—But never mind. I’ll ask when the waiter comes.”

“You don’t mean—” A tap, and the door opened. “Tea, m’m? yes, m’m,” said the waiter.

“One minute,” said Phipps. “Was a lady in grey, a cycling lady—”

“Stopped here yesterday? Yessir. Stopped the night. With her brother, sir—a young gent.”

“Brother!” said Mrs. Milton, in a low tone. “Thank God!”

The waiter glanced at her and understood everything. “A young gent, sir,” he said, “very free with his money. Give the name of Beaumont.” He proceeded to some rambling particulars, and was cross-examined by Widgery on the plans of the young couple.

“Havant! Where’s Havant?” said Phipps. “I seem to remember it somewhere.”

“Was the man tall?” said Mrs. Milton, intently, “distinguished looking? with a long, flaxen moustache? and spoke with a drawl?”

“Well,” said the waiter, and thought. “His moustache, m’m, was scarcely long—scrubby more, and young looking.”

“About thirty-five, he was?”

“No, m’m. More like five and twenty. Not that.”

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Milton, speaking in a curious, hollow voice, fumbling for her salts, and showing the finest self-control. “It must have been her younger brother—must have been.”