He, Orlando Brotherson, had never thought much of love.  Science had been his mistress; ambition his lode-star.  Such feeling as he had acknowledged to had been for men—­struggling men, men who were down-trodden and gasping in the narrow bounds of poverty and helplessness.  Miss Challoner had roused—­well, his pride.  He could see that now.  The might of this new emotion made plain many things he had passed by as useless, puerile, unworthy of a man of mental calibre and might.  He had never loved Edith Challoner at any moment of their acquaintanceship, though he had been sincere in thinking that he did.  Doris’ beauty, the hour he had just passed with her, had undeceived him.

Did he hail the experience?  It was not likely to bring him joy.  This young girl whose image floated in light before his eyes, would never love him.  She loved his brother.  He had heard their names mentioned together before he had been in town an hour.  Oswald, the cleverest man, Doris, the most beautiful girl in Western Pennsylvania.

He had accepted the gossip then; he had not seen her and it all seemed very natural;—­hardly worth a moment’s thought.  But now!

And here, the other Demon sprang erect and grappled with him before the first one had let go his hold.  Oswald and Challoner!  The secret, unknown something which had softened that hard man’s eye when his brother’s name was mentioned!  He had noted it and realised the mystery; a mystery before which sleep and rest must fly; a mystery to which he must now give his thought, whatever the cost, whatever the loss to those heavenly dreams the magic of which was so new it seemed to envelope him in the balm of Paradise.  Away, then, image of light!  Let the faculties thou hast dazed, act again.  There is more than Fate’s caprice in Challoner’s interest in a man he never saw.  Ghosts of old memories rise and demand a hearing.  Facts, trivial and commonplace enough to have been lost in oblivion with the day which gave them birth, throng again from the past, proving that nought dies without a possibility of resurrection.  Their power over this brooding man is shown by the force with which his fingers crush against his bowed forehead.  Oswald and Challoner!  Had he found the connecting link?  Had it been—­could it have been Edith?  The preposterous is sometimes true; could it be true in this case?

He recalled the letters read to him as hers in that room of his in Brooklyn.  He had hardly noted them then, he was so sure of their being forgeries, gotten up by the police to mislead him.  Could they have been real, the effusions of her mind, the breathings of her heart, directed to an actual O. B., and that O. B., his brother?  They had not been meant for him.  He had read enough of the mawkish lines to be sure of that.  None of the allusions fitted in with the facts of their mutual intercourse.  But they might with those of another man; they might with the possible acts and affections