“I pray you to wait.  He’s—­he’s been a very sick man.”

“Dangerously so?”

“Yes.”

Orlando continued to regard her with a peculiar awakening gaze, showing, Mr. Challoner thought, more interest in her than in his brother, and when he spoke it was mechanically and as if in sole obedience to the proprieties of the occasion.

“I did not know he was ill till very lately.  His last letter was a cheerful one, and I supposed that all was right till chance revealed the truth.  I came on at once.  I was intending to come anyway.  I have business here, as you probably know, Miss Scott.”

She shook her head.  “I know very little about business,” said she.

“My brother has not told you why he expected me?”

“He has not even told me that he expected you.”

“No?” The word was highly expressive; there was surprise in it and a touch of wonder, but more than all, satisfaction.  “Oswald was always close-mouthed,” he declared.  “It’s a good fault; I’m obliged to the boy.”

These last words were uttered with a lightness which imposed upon his two highly agitated hearers, causing Mr. Challoner to frown and Doris to shrink back in indignation at the man who could indulge in a sportive suggestion in presence of such fears, if not of such memories, as the situation evoked.  But to one who knew the strong and self-contained man—­to Sweetwater possibly, had he been present, —­there was in this very attempt—­in his quiet manner and in the strange and fitful flash of his ordinarily quick eye, that which showed he was labouring—­and had been labouring almost from his first entrance, under an excitement of thought and feeling which in one of his powerfully organised nature must end and that soon in an outburst of mysterious passion which would carry everything before it.  But he did not mean that it should happen here.  He was too accustomed to self-command to forget himself in this presence.  He would hold these rampant dogs in leash till the hour of solitude; then—­a glittering smile twisted his lips as he continued to gaze, first at the girl who had just entered his life, and then at the man he had every reason to distrust, and with that firm restraint upon himself still in full force, remarked, with a courteous inclination: 

“The hour is late for further conversation.  I have a room at the hotel and will return to it at once.  In the morning I hope to see my brother.”

He was going, Doris not knowing what to say, Mr. Challoner not desirous of detaining him, when there came the sound of a little tinkle from the other side of the hall, blanching the young girl’s cheeks and causing Orlando Brotherson’s brows to rise in peculiar satisfaction.

“My brother?” he asked.

“Yes,” came in faltering reply.  “He has heard our voices; I must go to him.”

“Say that Orlando wishes him a good night,” smiled her heart’s enemy, with a bow of infinite grace.