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“April 6, 1528,” said the old woman promptly.

The girl’s eyes grew round and misty. “Four hundred years ago–almost,” she murmured softly. She looked down, a little awed, at the paper in her hand.

“It is very old,” she said.

The old woman nodded sharply. Her eyes were on the papers. “Take good care of them,” she croaked; “they may tell it to us yet.”

She straightened her bent figure and glanced toward the door.

A wooden butler was bowing himself to the floor. “The Herr Professor Doctor Polonius Holtzenschuer,” he announced grandly.

A dapper young man with trim mustaches and spotless boots advanced into the room.

The girl by the window swayed a breath. The clear color had mounted in her cheek.

The old woman waited, immovable. Her hands were clasped above the stout cane and her bead-like eyes surveyed the advancing figure.

At two yards’ distance it paused. The heels came together with a swift click. He bowed in military salute.

The old woman achieved a stiff courtesy and waited. The dim eyes peered at him shrewdly.

“I have the honor to pay my respects to the Baroness von Herkomer,” said the young man, with deep politeness.

The baroness assented gruffly. She seated herself on a large divan, facing the picture, and motioned with her knotted hand to the seat beside her.

The young man accepted it deferentially. His eyes were on a bowed head, framed in shadows and leaves across the room.

“I trust Fraeulein Marie is well?” he said promptly.

“Marie—-“

The girl started vaguely.

“Come and greet the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer.”

She rose lightly from her place and came across the room. A soft curl, blown by the wind, drifted across her flushes as she came.

The young man sprang to his feet. His heels clicked again as he bent low before her.

She descended in a shy courtesy and glanced inquiringly at her grandmother.

The old woman nodded curtly. “Go on with your papers,” she said.

The girl turned again to the green window. Her head bowed itself above the papers.

The young man’s eyes followed them. He turned to the old woman beside him. “Is it something about–the picture?” he asked.

She nodded sharply. “Private papers of Willibald Pirkheimer,” she said, “ancestor of the von Herkomers–sixteenth century. He was a friend of Duerer’s.” Her lips closed crisply on the words.

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 Duerer.” 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 Duerer, 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.

He acknowledged the remark with a bow. “It is nothing,” he replied indifferently. “Only a step toward molecules and atoms.”