"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. He George Heneage! I sat in greater and greater amazement. But, as I had traced the likeness in Charlotte Delves, so, now that the clue was given me, did I see that the resemblance which had so haunted me in Mr. Chandos, was to the George Heneage of that unhappy time. "You were but a child, you know, then. And a child's remembrance does not retain faces very long." "But, Mr. Chandos, how can George Heneage be your brother?" "Is it perplexing you? Soon after the sad time of which we know too much, my father, Sir Thomas Heneage, had a large estate—this—bequeathed to him by Mr. Chandos, my mother's brother, on condition that he assumed the name. You may be sure we lost no time in doing so,—too thankful to drop our own, which George had disgraced." "Then—his name is no longer George Heneage, but George Chandos?" I said, unable to take the facts in quickly. "Strictly speaking, our name is Heneage-Chandos; and Heneage-Chandos we should have been always styled. But we preferred to drop the name of Heneage completely. It may be—I don't know—that we shall take it up again hereafter." "And where has he been all this while?" "Ah, where! You may well ask. Leading the life of a miserable, exiled man, conscious that Edwin Barley was ever on the watch for him, seeking to bring him to trial for the murder of Philip King." "Did your brother really do it?" I asked, in a low tone. "In one sense, yes. He killed Philip King, but not intentionally. So much as this he said to me for the first time only two days ago. Were he brought to trial, there could be no doubt of his condemnation and execution—and only think of the awful fear that has been ours! You can now understand why I and my brother, Sir Thomas, have felt ourselves bound in honour not to marry while that possible disgrace was hanging over us. Ill-fated George!" "Has he been concealed here always?"