But what?  Now for Henry Chichester!

Stepton was by nature unemotional, but he was an implicit believer in the hysteria of others, and he thought clergymen, as a class, more liable to that malady than other classes of men.  Curates, being as a rule young clergymen, were, in his view, specially subject to the inroads of the cloudy complaint, which causes the mind to see mountains where only mole-hills exist, and to appreciate anything more readily and accurately than the naked truth.  Henry Chichester was young and he was a curate.  He was therefore likely to be emotional and to be attracted by the mysterious, more especially since he had recently been knocking on its door, according to Malling’s statement.

After a good deal of thought, the professor resolved to cast aside convention, and to make Chichester’s acquaintance without any introduction; indeed, with the maximum of informality.

He learned something about Chichester’s habits, and managed to meet him several times when he was walking from the daily service at St. Joseph’s to his rooms in Hornton Street.  In this walk Chichester passed the South Kensington Museum.  What more natural than that the professor should chance to be coming out of it?

The first time they met, Stepton looked at the curate casually, the second time more sharply, the third time with scrutiny.  He knew how to make a crescendo.  The curate noticed it, as of course the professor intended.  He did not know who Stepton was, but he began to wonder about this birdlike, sharp-looking man, who evidently took an interest in him.  And presently his wonder changed into suspicion.  This again accorded with the professor’s intention.

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!”

“Exactly.  Good day.”

And the professor marched on.