He was staring at the picture. "Why, it is my own work," he said, with a flush of pleasure. "The picture I painted at Beyrout, and that I sold for a mere song. Of course the fellow cheated me, he was a mean sort of chap; but it is not so bad after all. And what's this?--'Goddard.' Well, of all the cads! He has put his own name to it, but I swear I painted it. Abdul and his son Hassan were my models. Oh, I see by your face that you like it, Mrs. Luttrell. I don't think myself that I ever did anything better. Isn't it Carlyle that says 'Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.' Well, I took lots of pains with that picture. I meant to get it into the Royal Academy, but ill-luck obliged me to sell it." "You painted that picture of the Prodigal Son!" exclaimed Olivia, excitedly. "Oh, yes, I painted it all right. It was a nasty trick of Goddard's putting his name to it. Look, that was Abdul's wife, the one with the distaff; the other two were two women I saw sitting under a palm-tree one evening. Well, your old gentleman has sent it to the right person to touch it up. It shall be done to-morrow before I go." Olivia was so full of this wonderful piece of intelligence that she could hardly wait until Phoebe had closed the library door. "Oh, Mr. Gaythorne," she exclaimed, "what do you think! Your beautiful picture of the Prodigal Son is Mr. Barton's work. Goddard is only the name of the man who bought it. Yes," as Mr. Gaythorne looked very much astonished at this. "You will not call him the gentlemanly tramp any longer, now that he is a real artist." "Look here, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, abruptly, "I don't believe all this. You are being gulled. Goddard painted that picture, not Barton; I hate imposition. I daresay the fellow can paint in a pretty amateurish sort of way, and he will be able to do my job, but I am not going to swallow this without proof. Tell him to bring the picture back himself, and you can come too if you like. If he has been imposing on your credulity I shall very soon detect him." But Olivia was indignant at this. "Of course he shall bring back the picture if you wish it," she said, a little stiffly. "And I shall ask him to bring the sketch of Dot, too, and then you will see for yourself how well he paints, but he is no impostor, I am certain of that;" but as usual Mr. Gaythorne only held obstinately to his opinion. "My dear young lady," he said, irritably, "you have hardly enough experience to judge in a case like this. If Mr. Barton really painted that picture, which I deny, for Goddard painted it, he is a worse scamp than I thought him. What business had he to be starving on a doorstep or supping off dry bread and thin cocoa in a casual ward? My dear, we old fellows know the world better than that. Robert Barton is a black sheep, and not all your charity can wash him white."