"No one whatever was there except the servants and Charlotte Delves?"
"Stop a bit. Charlotte Delves—C. D. P.; C. D. would stand for that name. Is Mrs. Penn Charlotte Delves?" The question nearly took my breath away.
"But, Mr. Chandos, look at Mrs. Penn's hair! Charlotte Delves had pretty hair—very light; quite different from this."
He smiled sadly.
"You must be inexperienced in the world's fashions, my dear, if you have believed the present colour of Mrs. Penn's hair to be natural. She must have dyed her hair, intending, no doubt, to change it to golden: instead of which it has come out of the ordeal a blazing vermilion. I think Mrs. Penn is Charlotte Delves."
Little by little, as I compared the past Charlotte Delves with the present Mrs. Penn, the truth dawned upon me. All that was obscure, that had puzzled me in the likeness I could not trace, became clear. She had grown older; she had grown much stouter; shape of both figure and face had changed. Mrs. Penn, with a plump face and glowing red hair taken back, was quite another person from Miss Delves with a thin face and long fair ringlets shading it.
"You are right," I said, in a low, earnest tone. "It is Charlotte Delves."
"And has been here trying to find out what she can of George Heneage. I see it all."
"But, Mr. Chandos, what is George Heneage to you?"
"He is my brother, Anne. He is George Heneage," he added, pointing in the direction of the west wing.