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 came—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.”