But the sound of a young voice, subdued yet very clear, made claim upon his attention.

‘Sidwell!—­Sidwell!’

She who spoke was behind him; on looking up, he saw that a lady just in front had stopped and turned to the summons; smiling, she retraced her steps.  He moved, so as to look discreetly in the backward direction, and observed a group of four persons, who were occupied with a tablet on the wall:  a young man (not long out of boyhood), a girl who might be a year or two younger, and two ladies, of whom it could only be said that they were mature in the beauty of youth, probably of maidenhood—­one of them, she who had been called back by the name of ‘Sidwell’.

Surely an uncommon name.  From a guide-book, with which he had amused himself in the train, he knew that one of the churches of Exeter was dedicated to St. Sidwell, but only now did his recollection apprise him of a long past acquaintance with the name of the saint.  Had not Buckland Warricombe a sister called Sidwell?  And—­did he only surmise a connection between the Warricombes and Devon?  No, no; on that remote day, when he went out with Buckland to the house near Kingsmill, Mr. Warricombe spoke to him of Exeter,—­mentioning that the town of his birth was Axminster, where William Buckland, the geologist, also was born; whence the name of his eldest son.  How suddenly it all came back!

He rose and moved apart to a spot whence he might quietly observe the strangers.  ‘Sidwell’, once remarked, could not be confused with the companion of her own age; she was slimmer, shorter (if but slightly), more sedate in movement, and perhaps better dressed—­ though both were admirable in that respect.  Ladies, beyond a doubt.  And the young man—­

At this distance it was easy to deceive oneself, but did not that face bring something back?  Now, as he smiled, it seemed to recall Buckland Warricombe—­with a difference.  This might well be a younger brother; there used to be one or two.

They were familiar with the Cathedral, and at present appeared to take exclusive interest in certain mural monuments.  For perhaps ten minutes they lingered about the aisle, then, after a glance at the west window, went forth.  With quick step, Godwin pursued them; he issued in time to see them entering an open carriage, which presently drove away towards High Street.

For half an hour he walked the Cathedral Close.  Not long ago, on first coming into that quiet space, with its old houses, its smooth lawns, its majestic trees, he had felt the charm peculiar to such scenes—­the natural delight in a form of beauty especially English.  Now, the impression was irrecoverable; he could see nothing but those four persons, and their luxurious carriage, and the two beautiful horses which had borne them—­whither?  As likely as not the identity he had supposed for them was quite imaginary; yet it would be easy to ascertain whether a Warricombe family dwelt at Exeter.  The forename of Buckland’s father—?  He never had known it.  Still, it was worth while consulting a directory.