Chichester did not follow, but the next day, on the pavement not far from the museum, he stopped once more in front of the professor with a “Good afternoon.”

“Good day,” said Stepton.

“Since you know who I am,” began the curate, “and I have heard so much of you, I hope you will forgive me for asking you something.”

“Certainly.”

“What is it in me which has attracted your attention?”

“I wish I knew,” returned the professor.

“You wish you knew!  Do you mean that you don’t know?”

“I don’t know at all.”

“But—­but—­you—­I was not wrong in feeling sure that you were—­that something in me had aroused your attention?”

“Not wrong at all; but ‘something’ is not the word.”

“What is the word?”

“Everything.  Everything in you rouses my attention, Mr. Chichester.  But I can’t think why.”

“Did you know I was Mr. Harding’s curate the first time you met me?”

“Yes; I had seen you at St. Joseph’s once or twice when I came to hear your rector preach.  You didn’t interest me at all then, I’m bound to say.”

Chichester stood in silence for a minute.  Then he said: 

“I might walk a little way back with you, if you have no objection.”

Stepton jerked his head in assent.  And so the acquaintance of these two men was begun.  Their first conversation was a delight to the professor.  After a short silence the curate said: 

“I could not help seeing each time we have met how your attention was fastened upon me.”

“Just so,” rejoined Stepton, making no apology.

“And I really think,” continued Chichester, with a sort of pressure—­“I really think I am entitled to ask for some explanation of the matter.”

“Certainly you are.”

“Well?” He paused, then said again, “Well, Professor Stepton?”

“I’m afraid I’ve nothing to tell you, I like to stick to facts.”

“I only ask you for facts.”

“The facts amount to very little.  Coming from the museum I ran across a man.  You were the man.  My attention was riveted at once.  I said to myself, ‘I must see that man again.’  Next day I took my chance.  I had luck.  You were there at pretty much the same hour.”

“I always come from St. Joseph’s—­”

“Exactly.  And so it’s happened on several days.  And that’s all I have to tell you.”

“But surely you can indicate why—­”

“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?”