“Does Mr. Chichester share your interest?” said Malling.

“In a minor degree, in a minor degree,” answered the rector, rather evasively.

They were now in Sloane Street and Malling said: 

“I must turn off here.”

“I’ll go with you as far as your door if you’ve no objection,” said the rector, who seemed very loath to leave his companion.  “It’s odd how men change, isn’t it?”

“As they grow older?  But surely development is natural and to be expected?”

“Certainly.  But when a man changes drastically, sheds his character and takes on another?”

“You are talking perhaps of what is called conversion?”

“Well, that would be an instance of what I mean, no doubt.  But there are changes of another type.  We clergymen, you know, mix intimately with so many men that we are almost bound to become psychologists if we are to do any good.  It becomes a habit with many of us to study closely our fellow-men.  Now I, for instance; I cannot live at close quarters with a man without, almost unconsciously, subjecting him to a minute scrutiny, and striving to sum him up.  My curates, for example—­”

“Yes?” said Malling.

“There are four of them, our friend Chichester being the senior one.”

“And you have ‘placed’ them all?”

“I thought I had, I thought so—­but—­”

Mr. Harding was silent.  Then, with a strange abruptness, and the air of a man forced into an action against which something within him protested, he said: 

“Mr. Malling, you are the only person I know who, having been acquainted with Henry Chichester, has at last met him again after a prolonged interval of separation.  Two years, you said.  People who see a man from day to day observe very little or nothing.  Changes occur and are not noticed by them.  A man and his wife live together and grow old.  But does either ever notice when the face of the other begins first to lose its bloom, to take on that peculiar, unmistakable stamp that the passage of the years sets on us all?  Few of us really see what is always before us.  But the man who comes back—­he sees.  Tell me the honest truth, I beg of you.  Do you or do you not, see a great change in Henry Chichester?”

The rector’s voice had risen while he spoke, till it almost clamored for reply.  His eyes were more clamorous still, insistent in their demand upon Malling.  Nevertheless voice and eyes pushed Malling toward caution.  Something within him said, “Be careful what you do!” and, acting surprise, he answered: 

“Chichester changed!  In what way?”

The rector’s countenance fell.

“You haven’t observed it?”

“Remember I’ve only seen him to-day and walking in the midst of crowds.”

“Quite true!  Quite true!”

Mr. Harding meditated for a minute, and then said: 

“Mr. Malling, I daresay my conduct to-day may surprise you.  You may think it odd of me to be so frank, seeing that you and I have not met before.  But Stepton has told me so much about you that I cannot feel we are quite strangers.  I should like you to have an opportunity of observing Henry Chichester without prejudice.  I will say nothing more.  But if I invite you to meet him, in my house or elsewhere, will you promise me to come?”