"I never said it was."
"No; but still—you spoke just now of my sermons. I preached one not very long ago which I have typed myself. If I send it to you do you think you could find time to read it?"
"Certainly."
"I will send it, then. Good night."
"I'll come down with you."
The professor let Chichester out. The rain was still falling in torrents. Shrouded in his mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the curate walked away. Looking after him, Stepton thought:
"Very odd! It isn't only in the face. Even the figure, all covered up and umbrella-roofed, seems to have something—he'll send me the sermon of the man and his double to-morrow."
And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post. Having read it, the professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note:
_The White House, Westminster.
Dear Mr. Chichester:_