“It was no imagination on your part, the resemblance is very marked, not only in face, but in voice and manner as well.”
“How do you account for it?” asked Mr. Cameron quickly, “Who is she?”
“She is the one who, of all the world, would have the best right to resemble your daughter,” replied Houston; then, in answer to Mr. Cameron’s look of perplexed inquiry, he continued:
“Pardon me, uncle, for any painful allusion, but at the time of my cousin’s death, I believe you had no direct proof as to the fate of her child?”
“No absolute proof, of course,” replied Mr. Cameron, “only the testimony of those who identified the mother, that there was no child with her, and no child among any of those saved answering to the description given, from which we naturally supposed the little one to have been killed outright. Why, Everard,” he exclaimed, as a new thought occurred to him, “you certainly do not think this Edna’s child, do you?”
“Why might it not be possible?” inquired Houston, wishing to lead his uncle gradually up to the truth.
“Is this her home?” asked Mr. Cameron in turn.
“Yes,” said Houston, “this has been her home, I believe, for the last ten years.”
“If the supposition mentioned a moment ago were correct, how would she be here, amid such surroundings?”
“Do you know the man who runs this house?” Houston asked.