hatever suffering or shock awaited him. For, Orlando
Brotherson, unlike his usual self, kept him waiting while he collected
his own wits, which, strange to say, seemed to have vanished with the
girl.

But the question finally came.

"Mr. Challoner, do you know my brother?"

"I have never seen him."

"Do you know him? Does he know you?"

"Not at all. We are strangers."

It was said honestly. They did not know each other. Mr. Challoner was
quite correct in his statement.

But the other had his doubts. Why shouldn't he have? The coincidence
of finding this mourner if not avenger of Edith Challoner, in his
own direct radius again, at a spot so distant, so obscure and so
disconnected with any apparent business reason, was certainly startling
enough unless the tie could be found in his brother's name and close
relationship to himself.

He, therefore, allowed himself to press the question:

"Men sometimes correspond who do not know each other. You knew that a
Brotherson lived here?"

"Yes."

"And hoped to learn something about me?"

"No; my interest was solely with your brother."

"With my brother? With Oswald? What interest can you have in him apart
from me? Oswald is--"

Suddenly a thought name--an unimaginable one; one with power to
blanch even his hardy cheek and shake a soul unassailable by all small
emotions.

"Oswald Brotherson!" he repeated; adding in unintelligible tones to
himself--"O. B. The same initials! They are following up these initials.
Poor Oswald." Then aloud: "It hardly becomes me, perhaps, to question
your motives in this attempt at making my brother's acquaintance.
I think I can guess them; but your labour will be wasted. Oswald's
interests do not extend beyond this town; they hardly extend to me. We
are strangers, almost. You will learn nothing from him on the subject
which naturally engrosses you."

Mr. Challoner simply bowed. "I do not feel called upon," said he, "to
explain my reasons for wishing to know your brother. I will simply
satisfy you upon a point which may well rouse your curiosity. You
remember that--that my daughter's last act was the writing of a letter
to a little protegee of hers. Miss Scott was that protegee. In seeking
her, I came upon him. Do you require me to say more on this subject?
Wait till I have seen Mr. Oswald Brotherson and then perhaps I can do
so."

Receiving no answer to this, Mr. Challoner turned again to the man who
was the object of his deepes