Now that the likeness to George had been pointed out I could see it clearly enough, but the absence of all hair had imparted so different a look to the face that I doubt whether I myself would ever have discovered it.
"And why the deuce should he sketch George like that?" I asked, thoroughly perplexed. "I remember how relieved he seemed when I did not recognise it."
"Can't say," replied my uncle. "It's another of those little mystifications which he delights to put upon his friends. By the way, wasn't Cæsar bald, and beardless?"
"'Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head,'" I murmured. "Yes, at the time of his death he was. But I don't quite see the relevancy of your remark."
"Merely a passing thought," he said lightly. "It's not much of a portrait of George; it's like him, and yet not like him. And there is a most uncanny expression about the eyes."
He threw aside the sketch, which the Baronet took up. As soon as his eyes fell upon it a half-repressed exclamation escaped his lips, and setting his gold-rimmed glasses upon his nose he took a long and careful look at the drawing.
"Do you say this is Captain Willard?" he asked, elevating his eyebrows in surprise.
"Yes," I replied. "That is my brother."
"He is a handsome man," said Sir Hugh, studying the sketch as if it were some puzzle offered to him for solution.
"Do you know him?" I asked.