The char-a-banc, called by courtesy a coach, which was bound for what is known locally as "the long drive," waited at Billing's Corner for any Old Town passengers.
It had started from Holywell, and Colonel and Mrs. Lewknor sat beside the driver.
A ramshackle old gentleman came rambling furtively across the road.
The coachman nudged the Colonel.
"That's old Mr. Caspar," he whispered. He had for learning the profound respect of the illiterate. "They say he knows so much he don't know all he do know. Talks Hebrew in his sleep, they say."
The Colonel answered musingly.
"Is that Caspar?" and thought how little this old man had changed from the young man who forty years before had shambled just thus about the courts of Trinity.
The old gentleman, who had the air of being pursued, climbed to his place at the back of the char-a-banc.
Mrs. Lewknor turned. She knew that for some reason Fear had laid hold once more of her Man of Faith.
"Ah, Mr. Caspar!" she called in her gay voice. "I thought it was you!—I forget if you've ever met my husband."