"No, I can't. All I can say is that for some reason, quite inexplicable by me, if I had come upon you in a crowd of a thousand, I should have had to attend to you."
"That's very strange," said Chichester, in a low voice; "very strange indeed."
"There's a reason for it, of course. There's a reason for everything, but very often it isn't found." At this point the professor thrust his head toward Chichester, and added, "you can't tell me the reason, I suppose?"
Chichester looked much startled and taken aback.
"I—oh, no!"
"Then we must get along in the dark and make the best of it."
Having said this, the professor abruptly dismissed the subject and began to talk of other things. When he chose he could be almost charming. He chose on this occasion. And when at last he hailed a bus, declaring that he was due at home, Chichester expressed a hope that some day he would find himself in Hornton Street, and visit number 4a.
The professor assented, and was carried westward.
Several days passed, but he did not find himself near Horton Street, and he had ceased to visit the South Kensington Museum. Then the curate wrote and invited him to tea. Despite a pretence at indifference in the phraseology of the note, the professor discovered a deep anxiety in the writing. Among other things he had studied, and minutely, graphology.
He sat down and very politely refused the invitation.