Sweetwater allowed himself one minute of thought, then he earnestly replied: 

“I will keep your secret for to-day, and longer, if possible.”

“Thank you,” she cried; “thank you.  I thought I saw kindness in your face.”  And she again prepared to close the door.

But Sweetwater had one more question to ask.  “Pardon me,” said he, as he stepped down on the walk, “you say that this is a critical day with your patient.  Is that why every one whom I have seen so far wears such a look of anxiety?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried, giving him one other glimpse of her lovely, agitated face.  “There’s but one feeling in town to-day, but one hope, and, as I believe, but one prayer.  That the man whom every one loves and every one trusts may live to run these Works.”

“Edith!  Edith!” rose in ceaseless reiteration from within.

But it rang but faintly now in the ears of our detective.  The door had fallen to, and Sweetwater’s share in the anxieties of that household was over.

Slowly he moved away.  He was in a confused yet elated condition of mind.  Here was food for a thousand new thoughts and conjectures.  An Orlando Brotherson and an Oswald Brotherson—­relatives possibly, strangers possibly; but whether relatives or strangers, both given to signing their letters with their initials simply; and both the acknowledged admirers of the deceased Miss Challoner.  But she had loved only one, and that one, Oswald.  It not difficult to recognise the object of this high hearted woman’s affections in this man whose struggle with the master-destroyer had awakened the solicitude of a whole town.

XXIV

SUSPENSE

Ten minutes after Sweetwater’s arrival in the village streets, he was at home with the people he found there.  His conversation with Doris in the doorway of her home had been observed by the curious and far-sighted, and the questions asked and answered had made him friends at once.  Of course, he could tell them nothing, but that did not matter, he had seen and talked with Doris and their idolised young manager was no worse and might possibly soon be better.

Of his own affairs—­of his business with Doris and the manager, they asked nothing.  All ordinary interests were lost in the stress of their great suspense.

It was the same in the bar-room of the one hotel.  Without resorting to more than a question or two, he readily learned all that was generally known of Oswald Brotherson.  Every one was talking about him, and each had some story to tell illustrative of his kindness, his courage and his quick mind.  The Works had never produced a man of such varied capabilities and all round sympathies.  To have him for manager meant the greatest good which could befall this little community.