There was a light tap at the door and it flew open.
The painter looked up quickly. The tense, earnest gaze broke into a sunny smile. "Pirkheimer!" He sprang to his feet. "What now?"
The other man came leisurely across the room, his eyes on the easel. He nodded toward it approvingly.
"Wanted to see it," he said. His eyes studied the picture. "I got to thinking it over after you left me—I was afraid you might touch it up and spoil it—I want it just as it is." His eyes sought his companion's face.
The painter shook his head. "I don't know—not yet—you must leave it with me. It's yours. You shall have it—when it's done."
"It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here—sign." He picked up a brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to the painter.
He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny figures, a date—1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he stepped back with a little sigh.
His companion reached out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "I'll take it."
The artist interposed a hand. "Not yet," he said.
"It's mine," replied the other. "You said it."