Jessie stared at it in some astonishment. "Where under the sun did that come from?" she exclaimed. "Was it done for you?"
"What do you think of it?" he repeated.
"It isn't perfect," was the answer; "but still, I should know it, I think. Why, Ned, are you cheating me? It isn't meant for Adela, is it? You naughty boy, I could almost think it was an attempt to show how I shall look when I'm stouter! It's a joke."
"Then you think it's like you?" he inquired. "Does it strike you?"
"I won't say another word, until you tell me what it is."
"It is a picture of Gertrude Wylde," Lance returned.
Then there was silence for a moment. Jessie took the drawing and looked at it intently. Her voice was low, and quivered with a sort of frightened tremor when she next spoke. "Why didn't you tell me at first, Ned? And what did you mean by speaking as if it were Adela Reefe? It is like her; and it is like me, too. Oh, what this secret? What is the meaning of it all?"
"As well as I can make it out," said Lance, "the meaning is that Adela is a direct descendant of Gertrude Wylde, and a kinswoman of yours. The only thing remaining, in my mind, is to find out whether her father or his family came from Croatan. If that is proved—"
"And if that is proved, what then?"
"I know of nothing to follow, except that we should recognize her as a relative."