The grey head turned, and the many eyes watching showed surprise at the expression of dislike and repulsion with which this New York gentleman met the request thus emphatically urged.  But his answer was courteous enough.  If Mr. Brotherson knew a place where they would be left undisturbed, he would listen to him if he would be very brief.

For reply, the other pointed to a small room quite unoccupied which opened out of the one in which they then stood.  Mr. Challoner bowed and in an other moment the door closed upon them, to the infinite disappointment of the men about the hearth.

“What do you wish to ask?” was Mr. Challoner’s immediate inquiry.

“This; I make no apologies and expect in answer nothing more than an unequivocal yes or no.  You tell me that you have never met my brother.  Can that be said of the other members of your family —­of your deceased daughter, in fact?”

“No.”

“She was acquainted with Oswald Brotherson?”

“She was.”

“Without your knowledge?”

“Entirely so.”

“Corresponded with him?”

“Not exactly.”

“How, not exactly?”

“He wrote to her—­occasionally.  She wrote to him frequently—­but she never sent her letters.”

“Ah!”

The exclamation was sharp, short and conveyed little.  Yet with its escape, the whole scaffolding of this man’s hold upon life and his own fate went down in indistinguishable chaos.  Mr. Challoner realised a sense of havoc, though the eyes bent upon his countenance had not wavered, nor the stalwart figure moved.

“I have read some of those letters,” the inventor finally acknowledged.  “The police took great pains to place them under my eye, supposing them to have been meant for me because of the initials written on the wrapper.  But they were meant for Oswald.  You believe that now?”

“I know it.”

“And that is why I found you in the same house with him.”

“It is.  Providence has robbed me of my daughter; if this brother of yours should prove to be the man I am led to expect, I shall ask him to take that place in my heart and life which was once hers.”

A quick recoil, a smothered exclamation on the part of the man he addressed.  A barb had been hidden in this simple statement which had reached some deeply-hidden but vulnerable spot in Brotherson’s breast, which had never been pierced before.  His eye which alone seemed alive, still rested piercingly upon that of Mr. Challoner, but its light was fast fading, and speedily became lost in a dimness in which the other seemed to see extinguished the last upflaring embers of those inner fires which feed the aspiring soul.  It was a sight no man could see unmoved.  Mr. Challoner turned sharply away, in dread of the abyss which the next word he uttered might open between them.

But Orlando Brotherson possessed resources of strength of which, possibly, he was not aware himself.  When Mr. Challoner, still more affected by the silence than by the dread I have mentioned, turned to confront him again, it was to find his features composed and his glance clear.  He had conquered all outward manifestation of the mysterious emotion which for an instant had laid his proud spirit low.