ome in Nuernberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, Albrecht
Duerer."

She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The
discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes,
waited. "His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady."

For a moment she hesitated. Then her fingers opened on the bit of
paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it
with her thin smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I
shall receive him here," she said.

He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He
laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her.

She returned the look coldly.

"It is mine!" he said.

She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the
table beside her.

He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine.
You see--it is mine!"

"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had
read the paper."

With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered
oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round
eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet
brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed,
"you have painted it out. I saw him sign it--years ago--twenty-five
years!"

She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said
sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases.

He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I
should know it in a thousand!"

"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it
sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?"

He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out
of sight."

She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with
downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal.

He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the
same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of
hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the
city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low
room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my
collection. You will want to sell them."

The downcast eyes did not leave the floor. "They are sold," she said,
"to Herr Umstaetter." A little smile played about the thin lips.

"Sold! Already!" The round e