"It is," she said, looking at it with absolute tenderness. "It's the image of 'im, though he's older now than when it was took; but it's 'is face as clear as clear can be."
"Sophy," I said, rising in my excitement, "are you mad? Do you know what you are saying?"
"'Course I do. It's Number One I tell yer. I'll take my Bible oath on it!"
"You must be dreaming," I said. "This is the portrait of a gentleman who died many years ago."
"If he's dead," she persisted, "he's come to life agin, like Mr. Felix. It's Number One's pickcher, and nobody else's."
She was so positive that I was confounded by the possibilities her statement opened up, supposing her not to be mistaken. Nothing that I said could shake her conviction.
"I know 'is face as well as I know your'n," she said. "I can't be mistook. It's the pickcher of Number One."
At this juncture Bob entered the room. Anxious as I was to hear his news I first explained the incident to him, and it was an additional surprise to me when he ranged himself on Sophy's side.
"I accept everything," he said. "No villainy too monstrous for Peterssen. Corroborative evidence handy. Crawley!"
The man was outside in the passage, and at the summons he came in.