As a footman closed the door, the Duke made no effort to shake hands with the Frenchman, but walked across the room towards the canvasses that were stacked against the side of a chair.
“You have found some more of Thoreau’s pictures?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. I am afraid that the majority of them are only rough sketches, but interesting, most of them showing the promise that he undoubtedly achieved with his later efforts.”
Philippe Dubucheron had no intention of telling the Duke about the picture that Julius Thoreau had been working on when he died, which was at this moment waiting in his Gallery to be burnt.
He had recognised, as Una had, that it was the meandering of a drunkard’s mind that had made his brush run wild in a travesty of colour that was unpleasantly revealing.
The Du
