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The baroness smiled grimly. “I don’t understand chemical jargon.” Her tone was dry. “I understand you are going to be famous.”

The young man bowed again absently. He glanced casually at the picture above the fireplace. “What would you give to know”–he nodded toward it–“that it is a genuine Duerer?”

The shrewd eyes darted at him.

The clean-cut face was compact and expressionless.

“Give! I would give”–her eye swept the apartment with its wealth of canvas and gilt and tapestry–“I would give all, everything in the room”–she raised a knotted hand toward the picture–“to know that Albrecht Duerer’s monogram belongs there.” The pointing finger trembled a little.

He looked at it reflectively. Then his glance travelled about the great room. “Everything in this room,” he said slowly. “That means–” He paused, glancing toward the window.

The young girl had left her seat. The papers had dropped to the floor. She was leaning from the casement to pick a white rose that swayed and nodded, out of reach.

He waited a breath. Her fingers closed on it and she sank back in her chair, smiling, the rose against her cheek.

The eyes watching her glowed softly. “Everything in this room–” He spoke very low. “The one with the rose?”

The old face turned to him with a look. The heavy jaw dropped and forgot to close. The keen eyes scanned his face. The jaws came together with a snap. She nodded to him shrewdly.

The young man rose to his feet. The cynical smile had left his face. It was intent and earnest. He looked up for a moment to the picture, and then down at the wrinkled, eager face.

“To-morrow, at this time, you shall know,” he said gravely.

The old eyes followed him, half in doubt, half in hope. They pierced the heavy door as it swung shut behind him.

The stiff, dapper figure had crossed the hall. The outer door clanged.

Against the green window, within, the soft curls and gentle, questioning eyes of the Fraeulein Marie waited. As the door clanged, a rose was laid lightly to her lips and dropped softly into the greenness below.

IV

At a quarter to ten the next morning a closed carriage drew up before the heavy gate. A dapper figure pushed open the door and leaped out. It entered the big gateway, crossed a green garden and was ushered into the presence of the Baroness von Herkomer.

She stood beneath the picture, her eyebrows bent, her lips drawn, and her hands resting on the stout cane.

“Will you come with me?” he asked deferentially.

“Where to?”

He hesitated. “You will see. I cannot tell you–now. But I need you–with the picture.” He motioned toward it.

She eyed him grimly for a second. Then she touched a bell.

The wooden butler appeared. “Send Wilhelm,” she commanded.

Half an hour later the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer was handing a bundled figure into the closed carriage that stood before the gate. A huge, oblong package rested against a lamp-post beside him, and near it stood the Fraeulein Marie, rosy and shy. The young man turned to her with a swift gesture.

“Come,” he said.

He placed her beside her grandmother, and watched carefully while the heavy parcel was lifted to the top of the carriage. With an injunction to the driver for its safety, he turned to spring into the carriage.

The voice of the baroness, from muffled folds, arrested him.

“You will ride outside with the picture,” it said. “I do not trust it to a driver.”

With a bow he slammed the carriage door and mounted the box. In another minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtzenschuer was driving rapidly through the streets of Munich, on the outside of a common hack, a clumsy parcel balanced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders.

From the windows below, on either side, a face looked out upon the flying streets–a fairy with gentle eyes and a crone with toothless smile.

“The Pinakothek!” grumbled the old woman. “Does he think any one at the Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht Duerer than Henriette von Herkomer?” She sniffed a little and drew her folds about her.