He looked at her, a smile under the trim mustaches. "You hope they will furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly.
She made no reply. Her wrinkled face was raised to the picture.
"You have one Dürer." He motioned toward a small canvas. "Is it not enough?"
Her eyes turned to it and flashed in disdain. "The Sodom and Gomorrah!" She spoke scornfully. "Not so much as a copy!"
"It is signed."
She glanced at it again. There was shrewd intolerance in the old eyes. "Do you think I cannot tell?" she said grimly. "I know the work of Albrecht Dürer, length and breadth, line for line. You say he painted that!" She pointed a swift finger at the picture across the room. "Have ye looked at Lot's legs?" Her laugh cackled softly.
The young man smiled under his mustaches.
The baroness had turned again to the picture over the fireplace. "But that—" she murmured softly. "It is signed in every line—in the eyes, in the painting of the hair, in the sweep from brow to chin. It will yet be found," she said under her breath. "It shall be found."
He looked at her, smiling. Then he raised his eyes politely to the picture. A slow look formed behind the smile. He half started, gazing intently at the deep, painted canvas. His glance strayed for a second to the green window, and back again to the picture.
The old baroness roused herself with a sigh. She turned toward him. "Your dissertation has brought you honor, they tell me," she said, looking at him critically.