“Thanks,” he said, leading me down a hallway lined with ornately painted pottery on pedestals.

“Greek?” I asked.

“You have a good eye. Mid-eighth century. Late Geometric.”

“So you do still collect.”

“Oh, I’ve had these for centuries. No pun intended.” Baine smiled. “Come. This way to the Rembrandt.”

He led me into a small study, more dark wood, upholstered chairs, a built-in bookcase, a rug the color of blood. “There,” he said, pointing to a heavily framed print set atop an antique desk and leaning against the wall. “Have a look while I get you a drink.” He turned to a bar cart with bottles of wine and liquors, crystal glasses in several shapes and sizes.

“You don’t hang it?” I asked, moving closer to the print.

“It’s been packed away. I brought it out for you.”

I told him he shouldn’t have bothered, and he said it was no bother at all.

“Wine?” he asked. “Or something more serious? I have a wonderful single-malt scotch.”

“Sounds great,” I said, “but I don’t drink.”

“You may want to change your mind.” Baine raised the bottle. “Macallan 25, aged twenty-five years. You sure?”

“I’d love to, but no thanks. Water will be fine.”

“A shame,” Baine said, pouring scotch for himself, Perrier for me. “Here’s to art,” he said, clinking his glass against mine, then lifted a large bone-handled magnifying glass from the desk, handed it to me, and told me to check out the details.

I moved the glass over the print, the same as I had done with the Mona Lisa, with an eerie feeling of déjà vu. There were figures hidden in the trees and clouds, astonishing and beautiful. I told him it was so much better in person, as if I knew the piece.

“That’s true of everything, isn’t it? Nowadays, people think they know something because they can see it on a computer screen, but that’s no way to see art or the artist’s hand, the texture, the paint… Forgive me, I go on.”

I told him I liked hearing someone who was passionate about art. “I think some of my students prefer seeing a facsimile on their laptop. It’s easier and more convenient—no crowds, no noise.”

“I’d have to agree about the crowds and noise. I’ve stopped going to museums. I dislike peering over shoulders, hearing everyone’s opinion. That’s no way to appreciate art,” he said, just beside me, both of us studying the Rembrandt. “This print is only one of three that exist in the world today, though I didn’t know that when I bought it. I just admired all the work Rembrandt had put into it.” He faced me. “So tell me about this article of yours.”

I started to explain a theory about Rembrandt’s way of working—something I’d lifted off the internet—when there was the soft thud of a door closing.

“My wife,” Baine said and excused himself.

I continued to look at the print but was distracted by voices. I could make out two, Baine’s and a woman’s, their conversation muffled by distance, thick walls, and carpet. It went on for five minutes, then ten. After another five, I’d had enough and ventured into the hallway.