"Are you sure? You can't be sure——"
"I am. I remember the queer cravat and the pose of the hands on the chair. I remember him, too—perfectly. Do you think I wouldn't know my own brother?"
"Oh, there must be some mistake—it is dreadful. I can't——"
"What is dreadful, child? What do you mean?" She laid a hand on Camilla's arm, and Camilla caught at it, her nerves quivering.
"The photograph is——"
"Where did you get it? It isn't mine, is it? or Cortland's?"
"No, no. It has been in that tin box for more than thirty years. It isn't yours. It's Jeff's—my husband's—do you understand? It's his—oh, I can't tell you. It's too horrible. I can't believe it myself. I don't want to believe it."
She sank into the chair at the desk, trembling violently. Mrs. Rumsen, somewhat surprised and aware of the imminence of a revelation the nature of which she could not even faintly surmise, bent over Camilla kindly and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Compose yourself, Camilla, and if you think I ought to know, tell me. What had my brother to do with you or yours? How did his picture come here?"
Camilla replied with difficulty.