"Hold on, there!" came a sharp challenge from the stairs behind
and below me. "What are you doing? And what's that picture
doing?"
It was one of the Museum's guards.
"I was going to ask somebody that same question," I told him as
austerely as I could manage. "What about this picture? I thought
there was a B cklin hanging here."
The guard relaxed. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you
were somebody else--the man who brought that thing." He nodded at
the picture. "Personally, I think it's plain beastly."
"And the Museum has accepted it at last?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Oh, no, sir."
I, too, came close. There was no plate beneath the painting. But
in the lower left-hand corner of the canvas were sprawling
capitals, pale paint on the dark, spelling out the word "GOLGOTHA."
Beneath these, in small, barely readable script:
"I sold my soul that I might paint a living picture."
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