“You noticed them?” the Duke asked.
“Yes – while we were waiting for the carriage.”
“And you realised who drew them?”
She nodded.
“Toulouse Lautrec and, when I saw him, I understood – how he could draw only those crude but very very clever posters.”
“You think a man expresses himself in what he paints?”
As he spoke, Una envisioned the painting that had stood on the easel in her father’s studio.
That had been himself – that had been what he was like before he died.
She shrank away from the thought of it, as if from something foul and evil.
The Duke saw the expression on her face and did not understand it.
‘I am worrying her,’ he said to himself and thought again that she had an unusual intelligence for a woman, let alone one so young.
Then he was sure that Dubucheron was behind i
