“I cannot,” said he—­“not even the left one.  May God forgive me!”

Orlando, struck silent for a moment, dropped his hand and slowly turned away.  Mr. Challoner felt Oswald stiffen in his arms, and break suddenly away, only to stop short before he had taken one of the half dozen steps between himself and his departing brother.

“Where are you going?” he demanded in tones which made Orlando turn.

“I might say, To the devil,” was the sarcastic reply.  “But I doubt if he would receive me.  No,” he added, in more ordinary tones as the other shivered and again started forward, “you will have no trouble in finding me in my own room to-night.  I have letters to write and—­other things.  A man like me cannot drop out without a ripple.  You may go to bed and sleep.  I will keep awake for two.”

“Orlando!” Visions were passing before Oswald’s eyes, soul-crushing visions such as in his blameless life he never thought could enter into his consciousness or blast his tranquil outlook upon life.  “Orlando!” he again appealed, covering his eyes in a frenzied attempt to shut out these horrors, “I cannot let you go like this.  To-morrow—­”

“To-morrow, in every niche and corner of this world, wherever Edith Challoner’s name has gone, wherever my name has gone, it will be known that the discoverer of a practical air-ship, is a man whom they can no longer honour.  Do you think that is not hell enough for me; or that I do not realise the hell it will be for you?  I’ve never wearied you or any man with my affection; but I’m not all demon.  I would gladly have spared you this additional anguish; but that was impossible.  You are my brother and must suffer from the connection whether we would have it so or not.  If it promises too much misery—­and I know no misery like that of shame—­come with me where I go to-morrow.  There will be room for two.”

Oswald, swaying with weakness, but maddened by the sight of an overthrow which carried with it the stifled affections and the admiration of his whole life, gave a bound forward, opened his arms and—­fell.

Orlando stopped short.  Gazing down on his prostrate brother, he stood for a moment with a gleam of something like human tenderness showing through the flare of dying passions and perishing hopes; then he swung open the door and passed quietly out, and Mr. Challoner could hear the laughing remark with which he met and dismissed the half-dozen men and women who had been drawn to this end of the hall by what had sounded to them like a fracas between angry men.

XLI

FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

The clock in the hotel office struck three.  Orlando Brotherson counted the strokes; then went on writing.  His transom was partly open and he had just heard a step go by his door.  This was nothing new.  He had already heard it several times before that night.  It was Mr. Challoner’s step, and every time it passed, he had rustled his papers or scratched vigorously with his pen.  “He is keeping watch for Oswald,” was his thought.  “They fear a sudden end to this.  No one, not the son of my mother knows me.  Do I know myself?”