"Nothing like," the latter said disappointed.
"That doesn't prove anything!" snapped the son. "I didn't suppose that he worked this single-handed. He has confederates."
Evan's momentary discomfiture had subsided. The situation was becoming too absurd. Was he accused of forgery or blackmail? He began to grin.
"You said you were an artist," said George Deaves with a sapient air. "Can you prove it?"
"Certainly," said Evan. "If you'll come to my studio. There are dozens of my canvases there."
"But how would I know you painted them?"
"Oh, I'll do you one while you wait."
"Facetiousness won't do you any good," said Deaves severely. "This is a serious matter. Please explain how you came to be in that little obscure street where you met Papa yesterday?"
"There is no explanation," said Evan. "I was just walking about."
The young man sneered. He tossed over the letter that lay before him. "Read that," he said.