"This lady," he continued, "fancies or discerns an extraordinary resemblance to her husband, my father—and to myself—in your son, Lady Woodroffe. The resemblance is very striking. He has most undoubtedly my father's face, the same colour of his hair—his figure even more strongly, it is said, than myself. Yet I am considered like him."
"And because there is this resemblance, she imagined——"
"Hardly imagined. She dreamed——"
"Dreamed! What have I to do with her dreams? Well, she has only to ascertain the real parentage of Sir Humphrey—my son. Oh, I have your letter in my mind! Sir Humphrey, you said, the second baronet. We shall come to your letter presently."
"One would think——"
"Has she any other reason to go upon besides the resemblance?"
By this time it was evident that she understood exactly what was meant.
"She had, until yesterday, no other reason. Yet, from one or two simple facts that I have discovered—they are in my letter—I am certain that she is right."
"Indeed! Do you understand, Mr. Woodroffe, the exact meaning of those words, 'that she is right.' Then what is my son?"