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Past the Old Pinakothek rolled the flying carriage–on past the New Pinakothek. An old face peered out upon the marble walls, wistful and suspicious. A mass of buildings loomed in view.

“The university,” she muttered under her breath. “Some upstart Herr Professor–to tell me of Albrecht Duerer! Fool–fool!” She croaked softly in her throat.

“The Herr Doctor is a learned man, grandmamma–and a gentleman!” said a soft voice beside her.

“A gentleman can be a fool!” returned the old woman tartly. “What building is this?”

The carriage had stopped before a low, square doorway.

“It is the chemistry laboratory, grandmamma,” said the girl timidly.

The old woman leaned forward, gray with rage, pulling at the closed door. “Chemistry lab–” Her breath came in pants. “He will–destroy–burn–melt it!” Four men lifted down the huge parcel from the carriage and turned toward the stone door. “Stop!” she gestured wildly to them.

The door flew open. The young scientist stood before her, bowing and smiling. She shook a knotted finger at him. “Stop those men!” she cried sternly.

At a gesture the men waited. She descended from the carriage, shaking and suspicious, her cane tapping the pavement before her. The Fraeulein Marie leaped lightly down after her. Her hand had rested for a moment on the young man’s sleeve. A white rose trembled in the fingers. His face glowed.

“Is your Highness ready?” he asked. He had moved to the old woman’s side.

She was standing, one hand on the wrapped parcel, the other on her stout cane, peering suspiciously ahead.

“Is your Highness ready?” he repeated.

“Go on,” she said briefly.

Four men were in the hall when they entered–the director of the Old Pinakothek, the artist Adrian Kauffmann, the president of the university, and a young man with a scared, helpful face, who proved to be a laboratory assistant.

“They are your witnesses,” murmured the young man in her ear.

She greeted them stiffly, her eyes on the precious parcel. Swiftly the wrappings were undone, and the picture lifted to a huge easel across the room. The light fell full upon it.

The witnesses moved forward in a body, silent. The old face watching them relaxed. She smiled grimly.

“Is it a Duerer?” she demanded. She was standing behind them.

They started, looking at her doubtfully. The artist shrugged his shoulders. He stepped back a little. The director shook his head with a sigh. “Who can tell?” he said softly. “The marks—-“

The baroness’s eyes glowed dangerously. “I did not suppose you could tell,” she said curtly.

The young scientist interposed. “It is a case for science,” he said quickly. “You shall see–the Roentgen rays will tell. The shutters–Berthold.”

The assistant closed them, one by one, the heavy wooden shutters. A last block of light rested on the shadowy picture. A last shutter swung into place. They waited–in darkness. Some one breathed quickly, with soft, panting breath. Slowly a light emerged through the dark. The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed. Light pierced it till it shone with strokes of brushes. Deeply and slowly in the bluish patina, at the edge of the flowing locks, on the shoulder of the Christ, a glimmer of shadow traced itself, faintly and unmistakably.

Confused murmurs ran through the darkness–the voice of the director–a woman’s breath.

“Ready, Berthold.” It was the voice of the Herr Doctor.

There was a little hiss, a blinding flash of light, the click of a camera, and blackness again.

A shutter flew open.

In the square of light an old woman groped toward the picture. Her knotted hands were lifted to it.

Close at hand, a camera tucked under his arm, the laboratory assistant stood–on his round, practical face the happy look of successful experiment.

A little distance away the Herr Professor Doctor moved quickly. The one with the rose looked up.

High above them all–on the great easel, struck by a ray of light from the shutter–the Duerer Face of Sorrow–out of its four hundred years–looked forth and waited in the modern world.