Finally he turned his attention to Lot No. 43, Daniel in the Lions’ Den, Erasmus Quellinus, 86 inches by 128 inches, oil on canvas, abraded and extremely dirty. So dirty, in fact, that the cats at the edge of the image seemed entirely concealed by shadow. He crouched and tilted his head in order to view the canvas with raked lighting. Then he licked three fingers and scrubbed at the figure of Daniel, which caused Crabbe to cluck and roll his bloodshot eyes. Ignoring him, Gabriel placed his face a few inches from the canvas and examined the manner in which Daniel’s hands were folded and the way one leg was crossed over the other.

“Where did this come from?”

Crabbe removed his pipe and looked into the bowl. “A drafty Georgian pile in the Cotswolds.”

“When was it last cleaned?”

“We’re not quite sure, but by the looks of it, Disraeli was prime minister.”

Gabriel looked up at Isherwood, who in turn looked at Crabbe. “Give us a moment, Jeremy.”

Crabbe slipped from the room. Gabriel opened his bag and removed the ultraviolet lamp. Isherwood doused the lights, casting the room into pitch darkness. Gabriel switched on the lamp and shone the bluish beam toward the painting.

“Well?” asked Isherwood.

“The last restoration was so long ago it doesn’t show up in ultraviolet.”

Gabriel removed the infrascope from his bag. It bore an uncanny resemblance to a pistol, and Isherwood felt a sudden chill as Gabriel wrapped his hand around the grip and switched on the luminescent green light. An archipelago of dark blotches appeared on the canvas, the retouching of the last restoration. The painting, though extremely dirty, had suffered only moderate losses.

He switched off the infrascope, then slipped on his magnifying visor and studied the figure of Daniel in the searing white glow of the halogen flashlight.

“What do you think?” asked Isherwood, squinting.

“Magnificent,” Gabriel replied distantly. “But Erasmus Quellinus didn’t paint it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure enough to bet two hundred thousand pounds of your money.”

“How reassuring.”

Gabriel reached out and traced his forefinger along the muscular, graceful figure. “He was here, Julian,” he said, “I can feel him.”

THEY WALKED TO St. James’s for a celebratory lunch at Green’s, a gathering place for dealers and collectors in Duke Street, a few paces from Isherwood’s gallery. A bottle of chilled white burgundy awaited them in their corner booth. Isherwood filled two glasses and pushed one across the tablecloth toward Gabriel.

“Mazel tov, Julian.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I won’t be able to make a positive authentication until I get a look beneath the surface with infrared reflectography. But the composition is clearly based on Rubens, and I have no doubt the brushwork is his.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time restoring it.”

“Who said I was going to restore it?”

“You did.”