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slightly.
    Jeff had gone into the little bathroom and was fussing about with glasses and ashtrays.
    “How many years ago did you paint ‘The Clock’?” Murchison asked.
    “That I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Tom said in a frank manner. He had grasped Murchison’s point, at least in regard to time, and he added, “It could have been four or five years ago. It’s an old picture.”
    “It wasn’t sold to me as an old one. And ‘The Tub.’ That’s dated only last year, and it has the same straight cobalt violet in it.”
    The cobalt for the purpose of shadow, one might say, was not dominant in ‘The Clock.’ Murchison had an eagle eye. Tom thought ‘The Red Chairs’—the earlier and genuine Derwatt—had the same straight cobalt, and he wondered if it had a fixed date? If he could say ‘The Red Chairs’ was only three years old, prove it somehow, Murchison could simply go to hell. Check with Jeff and Ed later on that, Tom thought.
    “You definitely remember painting ‘The Clock’?” Murchison asked.
    “I know it’s my picture,” Tom said. “I might have been in Greece or even Ireland when I painted it, because I don’t remember dates, and the dates the gallery might have are not always the dates when I painted something.”
    “I don’t think ‘The Clock’ is your work,” Murchison said with good-natured American conviction.
    “Good heavens, why not?” Tom’s good nature matched Murchison’s.
    “I have a nerve sticking my neck out like this, I know. But I’ve seen some of your earlier work in a museum in Philadelphia. If I may say so, Mr. Derwatt, you’re—”
    “Just call me Derwatt. I like it better.”
    “Derwatt. You’re so prolific, I think you might forget—I should say not remember a painting. Granted ‘The Clock’ is in your style and the theme is typical of your—”
    Jeff, like Ed, was listening attentively, and in this pause Jeff said, “But after all this picture came from Mexico along with a few others of Derwatt’s. He always sends two or three at a time.”
    “Yes. ‘The Clock’ has a date on the back. It’s three years old, written in the same black paint as Derwatt’s signature,” Murchison said, swinging his painting round so all could see it. “I had the signature and the date analyzed in the States. That’s how carefully I’ve gone into this,” Murchison said, smiling.
    “I don’t quite know what the trouble is,” Tom said. “I painted it in Mexico if the date’s three years old in my own writing.”
    Murchison looked at Jeff. “Mr. Constant, you say you received ‘The Clock’ along with two others, perhaps, in a certain shipment?”
    “Yes. Now that I recall—I think the other two are here now lent by London owners—‘The Orange Barn’ and— Do you recall the other, Ed?”
    “I think it’s ‘Bird Specter’ probably. Isn’t it?”
    From Jeff’s nod, Tom could see it was true, or else Jeff was doing well at pretending.
    “That’s it,” said Jeff.
    “They’re not in this technique. There’s purple in them, but made by mixed colors. The two you’re talking about are genuine—genuinely later pictures at any rate.”
    Murchison was slightly wrong, they were phonies as well. Tom scratched his beard, but very gently. He kept a quiet, somewhat amused air.
    Murchison looked from Jeff to Tom. “You may think I’m being bumptious, but if you’ll excuse me, Derwatt, I think you’ve been forged. I’ll stick my neck out farther, I’ll bet my life that ‘The Clock’ isn’t yours.”
    “But Mr. Murchison,” Jeff said, “that’s a matter of simply—”
    “Of showing me a receipt for a certain number of paintings in a certain year? Paintings received from Mexico which might not be even titled? What if Derwatt doesn’t give them a title?”
    “The Buckmaster Gallery is the only authorized dealer for Derwatt’s work. You bought that picture from us.”
    “I’m aware of that,” said Murchison. “And I’m not accusing