knees.

“Fine looking old fellow,” said Tom.

“Yes,” agreed Tuckerman. “Sir Peter was really handsome. I’ve seen pictures of him before. He was a great beau in his time, before the Revolution. What a shame it was that he couldn’t agree with his neighbors about the right of the colonies to be free. That made it mighty hard for his wife and children.”

He went over to look closer at the portrait, and as he held the candle near to the canvas he saw a folded piece of paper stuck into a corner of the heavy frame. “What’s this?” he exclaimed, and drew the paper out. “You don’t suppose the old fellow has left me a message?”

The candle set on the table, Tuckerman opened the sheet. “This is an authentic portrait of Peter Cotterell, painted in 1770,” he read aloud. “He shared with me, his descendant, Christopher Cotterell, a dislike for the society of his kind, though for a different reason. But with me the line of the Cotterells comes to an end, and I care not whether any now learn my ancestor’s secret or not.”

Tuckerman dropped the paper. “So there was a secret, boys! You remember, Tom, what I told you. And Uncle Christopher knew what it was.”

“Hello!” exclaimed Ben. “My candle’s blown out!” He turned. “Why, that window’s open a little at the bottom. See how the curtains blow.”

“Spooks,” scoffed David. “It looks to me as if Crusty Christopher were playing a joke on us.”