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Updated: May 19, 2025
The doctor has shut down on all kinds of spirits for two months more, at least. But don't let me hinder you. I can bear to smell the stuff. My turn will come again some day." But Brotherson did not drink. Setting down the glass he carried, he took up the book lying near, weighed it in his hand and laid it down again, with an air of thoughtful inquiry. Then he suddenly pushed it towards Sweetwater.
There was nothing in his whole history to give him an understanding of such feelings as these. Can a man be seized as it were by the hair, and swung up on the slopes of paradise or down the steeps of hell without a forewarning, without the chance even to say whether he wished such a cataclysm in his life or no? He, Orlando Brotherson, had never thought much of love.
Brotherson's invitation, he stepped into the room, it was with a dash of his former audacity, which gave him, unfortunately, perhaps, a quick, strong and unexpected likeness to his old self. But if Brotherson noticed this, nothing in his manner gave proof of the fact.
None suggested themselves, yet he had promised Miss Scott that he would ensure his silence in this regard, and it was with this difficulty and no other he had been struggling when Mr. Brotherson came upon him in the other room. "You have still something to say," suggested the latter, as an oppressive silence swallowed up that icy sentence I have already recorded. "I have," returned Mr.
Brotherson was pacing the floor, and talking softly to himself. At first, the cadence and full music of the tones conveyed nothing to our far from literary detective. The victim of his secret machinations was expressing himself in words, words; that was the point which counted with him.
Wait till I have seen Mr. Oswald Brotherson and then perhaps I can do so." Receiving no answer to this, Mr. Challoner turned again to the man who was the object of his deepest suspicions, to find him still in the daze of that unimaginable thought, battling with it, scoffing at it, succumbing to it and all without a word. Mr.
It was so straight a one and led so directly northward that he could follow with his eye the doctor's whole course, and even get a glimpse of his figure as he stepped from the buggy and proceeded to tie up the horse. There was an energy about him pleasing to Sweetwater. He might have much to do with this doctor. If Oswald Brotherson died but he was not willing to consider this possibility yet.
"Do you want to play the police-officer here and arrest me in mid air?" "Mr. Brotherson, you understand me as little as I am supposed to understand you. Humble as my place is in society and, I may add, in the Department whose interests I serve, there are in me two men. One you know passably well the detective whose methods, only indifferently clever show that he has very much to learn.
He wished to be present at the interview soon to be held with Mr. Brotherson, and he had no good reason to advance why such a privilege should be allotted him. "It's not curiosity," said he. "There's a question I hope to see settled.
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.
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