as he was standing by the font.  When the ceremony of making the young Daniel Humphrey Caldigate a Christian was all but completed, he fancied that he saw old Mr. Bolton’s eyes fixed on something in the church, and he turned his head suddenly, with no special purpose, but simply looking, as one is apt to look, when another looks.  There he saw, on a seat divided from himself by the breadth of the little nave, Thomas Crinkett sitting with another man.

There was not a shadow of a doubt on his mind as to the identity of the Australian—­nor as to that of Crinkett’s companion.  At the moment he did not remember the man’s name, but he knew him as a miner with whom he had been familiar at Ahalala, and who had been in partnership both with himself and Crinkett at Nobble,—­as one who had, alas! been in his society when Euphemia Smith had been there also.  At that instant he remembered the fact that the man had called Euphemia Smith Mrs. Caldigate in his presence, and that he had let the name pass without remonstrance.  The memory of that moment flashed across him now as he quickly turned back his face towards his child who was still uttering his little wail in the arms of the clergyman.

Utterden church is not a large building.  The seat on which Crinkett had placed himself was one usually occupied by parish boys at the end of the row of appropriated seats and near to the door.  Less than half-a-dozen yards from it, at the other side of the way leading up the church, stood the font, so that the stranger was almost close to Caldigate when he turned.  They were so near that others there could not but have observed them.  Even the clergyman, however absorbed he might have been in his sacred work, could not but have observed them.  It was not there as it might have been in a town.  Any stranger, even on a Sunday, would be observed by all in Utterden church,—­how much then at a ceremony which, as a rule, none but friends attend!  And Crinkett was looking on with all his eyes, leaning forward over his stick and watching closely.  Caldigate had taken it all in, even in that moment.  The other man was sitting back, gazing at nothing as though the matter to him were indifferent.  Caldigate could understand it all.  The man was there simply to act or to speak when he might be wanted.

As the ceremony was completed John Caldigate stood by and played with all proper words and actions the part of the young father.  No one standing there could see by his face that he had been struck violently; that he had for a few moments been almost unable to stand.  But he himself was aware that a cold sweat had broken out all over him as before.  Though he leaned over the baby lying in his mother’s arms and kissed it, and smiled on the young mother, he did so as some great actor will carry out his part before the public when nearly sinking to the ground from sudden suffering.  What would it be right that he should do now,—­now,—­now?  No one there had heard of Crinkett except his wife.  And even she herself had no idea that the man of whom she had heard was in England.  Should he speak to the man, or should he endeavour to pass out of the church as though he had not recognised him?  Could he trust himself even to make the endeavour when he should have turned round and when he would find himself face to face with the man?