to keep the sneer out of his voice—"to come and find out what a Van Roon really looks like."
William modestly said that he thought he knew that already.
His master shook the head of wisdom. "Judging by the way you've been going on lately I take leave to doubt it. If you can trace the slightest resemblance to that thing of ours"—as Uncle Si half turned to point to the picture, June noticed that he was careful to say "ours"—"I'm afraid, boy, you're qualifying for Colney Hatch."
William laughed gaily at his master's humour. He felt bound in honour to do so, since the jokes from that quarter were thin and few. But June did not laugh. Something cold, subtle, deadly, was creeping into her heart.
The old fox struck an attitude before the Van Roon. "How a man who has his wits can compare that daub of ours with this acknowledged masterpiece passes me altogether."
As a fact, William had not exactly compared his Crowdham Market purchase with Number 2020 in the official catalogue. He had merely affirmed that it was by the same hand.
June was privileged to hear great argument. And as at her birth a kind fairy had bestowed the gift of penetration upon her, she listened to all that passed with a fixity of mind that was almost painful. Carefully weighing the pros and the cons as they were advanced, she was fully determined to get a real insight into the merits of a most singular and perplexing matter.
Who was in the right? It was the opinion of Will-
