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Mr. Challoner simply bowed. "I do not feel called upon," said he,
"to explain my reasons for wishing to know your brother. I will
simply satisfy you upon a point which may well rouse your curiosity.
You remember that - that my daughter's last act was the writing of
a letter to a little protegee of hers. Miss Scott was that protegee.
In seeking her, I came upon him. Do you require me to say more on
this subject? 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. Challoner was
without clew to this struggle, but the might of it and the mystery
of it, drove him in extreme agitation from the room. Though proof
was lacking, though proof might never come, nothing could ever alter
his belief from this moment on that Doris was right in her estimate
of this man's guilt, however unsubstantial her reasoning might
appear.
How far he might have been carried by this new conviction; whether
he would have left the house without seeing Doris again or
exchanging another word with the man whose very presence stifled
him, he had no opportunity to show, for before he had taken another
step, he encountered the hurrying figure of Doris, who was returning
to her guests with an air of marked relief.
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