"There's no need, sir, provided you know it is yourself."
"But that's just what I don't know," said the old man. "Anyhow you had better go upstairs and fetch it. I'll have a look at the signature of Mynheer Van Roon." And then Uncle Si scowled at his niece who, in a state of growing excitement, had already begun to remove the bread and cheese from the supper table.
While the young man went up to the attic, his master ruminated.
"Fellow's cracked," he declared, a hostile eye still fixed upon June. "That's his trouble. I'll never be able to make anything of him. This comes of Hobbemaising. Van Fiddlestick!"
"Uncle Si," said June, in the voice of a dove, "if it is a Van Roon, what is the value of it?"
"Heh?" growled Uncle Si, and his eye became that of a kite. "Never you mind. Get on with the clearing of that table, and don't interfere. I never knew such creatures as women for minding other people's business. But I can tell you this, only a born fool would talk of Van Roon."
A born fool came down the stairs at that moment, the picture in one hand, a microscope in the other.
"It's not a very good light, sir—" William's voice trembled a little—"but I think if you hold it up to the gas, you will be able to see the signature right down in the corner. Just there, sir, along by my thumb."
The old man, glass in hand, brought a close scrutiny to bear upon the spot along by William's thumb. Then he shook his head.
"No, it is just as I thought. There doesn't begin to be the sign of a signature."
