The old man gave his assistant a look almost super-*human in its caution.
"Heh?" said he.
The question was repeated.
"Depends whose it is," was the testy answer. "You know that as well as I do. If it's Hobbema's, it might be worth money."
"It isn't Hobbema's."
"Ah!" said S. Gedge Antiques. "Interesting to know that." Had he been on winking terms with his niece, he would have winked at her; as it was, he had to be content with a sarcastic glance at the tablecloth. "But how do you know?" he added, idly careless.
"Anyone can see it isn't."
Anyone could not see it wasn't a Hobbema, and that was the snag in the mind of the old man at this moment. Neither Mr. Thornton nor his friend, Mr. Finch, was quite certain it was not a Hobbema; they were even inclined to think that it was one, but in the absence of proof they were not disposed to gamble upon it.
"How do you mean, boy, that anyone can see it isn't?"
"That gleam of sunlight, sir." The voice of William was music and poetry in the ear of June. "I doubt whether even Hobbema could have painted that."
"You tell that to the Marines," said S. Gedge Antiques impatiently. All the same he knew better than to discourage William in the process of unbosoming himself. The young man was continually betraying such a knowledge of a difficult and abstruse subject that it was becoming a source of wonder to his master. "Maybe you've found somebody else's signature?" The tone was half a sneer.
