Yet, for all that, Roger stood fascinated. A chord deep in his nature thrilled as he said to himself, “My brother.” He, the young man, felt himself captive to this imperious boy. He wished he knew the mind of the picture, or could hear its voice. What were the eyes flashing at? At whom or what were the lips thus curled? Was it wickedness, or anger, or insolence, or all together, that made the face so unlike any other face he knew?
How long he spent over these speculations, half afraid, half enamoured of the picture, he could not say. He forgot all about his letter; nor did he finally descend from the clouds till a voice behind him said—
“What have you got there, old fellow?”
“Oh, Armstrong,” said the boy, turning round hurriedly, like one detected in mischief, “look here at this picture.”
The tutor was looking.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“My elder brother, I’m sure. I didn’t know we had it.”
“There’s not much family likeness in it,” said Mr Armstrong. “Are you sure it is he?”
“I feel positive of it. Stay, perhaps there’s something written on the back,” and he lifted the picture from the nail.
The paper at the back was almost black with dust and age. They wiped it carefully with a duster, and took it to the window.