“If we are to find out anything,” I said, speaking under the new influence which was now directing me, “we had better not let another minute slip by us unemployed. I can only suggest, once more, the propriety of questioning the gardener a second time, and of inquiring in the village immediately afterwards.”
“I think I may be of help to you in both cases,” said Miss Halcombe, rising. “Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at once, and do the best we can together.”
I had the door in my hand to open it for her—but I stopped, on a sudden, to ask an important question before we set forth.
“One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter,” I said, “contains some sentences of minute personal description. Sir Percival Glyde’s name is not mentioned, I know—but does that description at all resemble him?”
“Accurately—even in stating his age to be forty-five—”
Forty-five; and she was not yet twenty-one! Men of his age married wives of her age every day—and experience had shown those marriages to be often the happiest ones. I knew that—and yet even the mention of his age, when I contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and distrust of him.