“Fellow’s cracked,” he declared, a hostile eye still fixed upon June. “That’s his trouble. I’ll never be able to make anything of him. This comes of Hobbemaising. Van Fiddlestick!”
“Uncle Si,” said June, in the voice of a dove, “if it is a Van Roon, what is the value of it?”
“Heh?” growled Uncle Si, and his eye became that of a kite. “Never you mind. Get on with the clearing of that table, and don’t interfere. I never knew such creatures as women for minding other people’s business. But I can tell you this, only a born fool would talk of Van Roon.”
A born fool came down the stairs at that moment, the picture in one hand, a microscope in the other.
“It’s not a very good light, sir—” William’s voice trembled a little—“but I think if you hold it up to the gas, you will be able to see the signature right down in the corner. Just there, sir, along by my thumb.”
The old man, glass in hand, brought a close scrutiny to bear upon the spot along by William’s thumb. Then he shook his head.
“No, it is just as I thought. There doesn’t begin to be the sign of a signature.”
“Don’t you see the upstroke of the R?”
“Don’t I see the leg of my grandmother!”
“Just there, sir. Round by the edge of my finger nail.”