But Mr. Gryce was a
grim little local Radical, a champion of the chapel, and one of
those happy people whose work is also their hobby. He turned his
back as the motor car drove away, and walked briskly up the sunlit
high street of the little town, whistling, with political papers
sticking out of his pocket.
Fisher looked pensively after the resolute figure for a moment, and
then, as if by an impulse, began to follow it. Through the busy
market place, amid the baskets and barrows of market day, under the
painted wooden sign of the Green Dragon, up a dark side entry, under
an arch, and through a tangle of crooked cobbled streets the two
threaded their way, the square, strutting figure in front and the
lean, lounging figure behind him, like his shadow in the sunshine.
At length they came to a brown brick house with a brass plate, on
which was Mr. Gryce's name, and that individual turned and beheld
his pursuer with a stare.
"Could I have a word with you, sir?" asked Horne Fisher, politely.
The agent stared still more, but assented civilly, and led the other
into an office littered with leaflets and hung all round with highly
colored posters which linked the name of Hughes with all the higher
interests of humanity.
"Mr. Horne Fisher, I believe," said Mr.
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