One day, after the even-song at St. Joseph's, Stepton saw flit across the face of the curate, whom he was meeting, a flicker of something like fear. The two men passed each other, and immediately, like one irresistibly compelled, the professor looked back. As he did so, Chichester also turned round to spy upon this unknown. Encountering the gaze of the professor, he started, flushed scarlet, and pursued his way, walking with a quickened step.
The professor went homeward, chuckling.
"To-day's Tuesday," he thought. "By Saturday, at latest, he'll have spoken to me. He'll have to speak to me to relieve the tension of his nerve-ganglions."
Chichester did not wait till Saturday. On Friday afternoon, coming suddenly upon Stepton at a corner, he stopped abruptly, and said:
"May I ask if you want anything of me?"
"Sir!" barked Stepton. "Mr. Chichester!"
"You know my name?" said the curate.
"And probably you know mine—Professor Stepton."
A relief that was evidently intense dawned in the curate's face.
"You are Professor Stepton! You are Mr. Malling's friend!"