In the French Arts Section, they found room 313 belonging to Edward Binghampton Barrow IV. The man who answered the door was not gangly, out of shape, and dressed in tweed, as Lara expected, but rather a man with brown skin and close-cropped hair that was graying at the temples. He was slight and thin and dressed in black pants with a crisp white shirt, horn-rimmed glasses, and Gucci loafers. That’s where the fine detailing stopped. Much like fossils, all of his plants were dead and seemed to have been trying to flee out the window in search of sun or rain before they petrified in their terra-cotta pots. His office held hundreds of books organized in haphazard, thigh-high stacks, several with deep curves that threatened to topple, like dominoes. Any visitor wanting to avoid disaster walked sideways to the lone chair.

“Teddy,” said Gaston, referring to Barrow’s mother’s embarrassing moniker of Teddy Bear-row.

“Boucher! You haven’t changed a bit.” Barrow pulled Gaston into a tight, almost violent embrace that seemed to rattle the slight Frenchman.

“Nor you, my friend.” Gaston turned to Lara. “This is Mademoiselle Lara Barnes. Lara without a u.”

“My mother was a fan of Doctor Zhivago,” said Lara, feeling the need to explain the odd spelling.

“Lara,” said Barrow, emphasizing the a in her name in a clipped upper-crust English accent. Barrow’s smile was quick, and his hands were warm and large. “It is wonderful to meet you. Let me guess, I am not what you expected?” He turned his head expectantly, waiting for her response.

Lara wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “True, I expected more tweed.”

“She said your name was ridiculous,” said Gaston wryly, rubbing his chin as he studied his phone.

“So when did you two last see each other?”

Barrow looked at Gaston, and they both seemed to blank. “What has it been? Twenty years?”

“Nineteen eighty-five, I think,” agreed Gaston.

“And neither of you say you’ve changed?” Lara raised her eyebrow. “Liars.”

The two men looked at each other and laughed. “Un peu,” said Barrow, bringing his fingers together.

“We are great liars,” agreed Gaston.

Dismissing the small talk, Barrow rubbed his hands together. His worktable was in disarray, and he began clearing it. “I have been waiting all week to see the painting.” He looked at them, disappointed to see only luggage trailing behind them. “Did you bring it?”

Gaston lifted the suitcase onto the table and unzipped it. Removing the wrap, he slid the canvas out and presented it to Barrow like a swaddled newborn.