She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the table beside her.
He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine. You see—it is mine!"
"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had read the paper."
With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed, "you have painted it out. I saw him sign it—years ago—twenty-five years!"
She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases.
He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I should know it in a thousand!"
"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?"
He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out of sight."
She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal.
He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my collection. You will want to sell them."