When the woman emailed him yesterday, insisting she had found a painting that belonged to his family—a painting executed by his grandfather, no less—he almost deleted the message out of hand. But before he could swipe the communication out of existence, a pixelated photo attachment popped up on his screen, and Gabriel found himself looking at a rendition of Millbrook Hall, his family’s estate in Norfolk. The painting in the photo was executed in the same flat colors that were characteristic of his grandfather’s work, but the composition itself exhibited a hopeful quality, as though any shortcomings could be eclipsed by the sheer enthusiasm of its creator. It was a style that was as familiar to Gabriel as his own face after a lifetime of seeing dozens of similar paintings that still lined the walls of his ancestral home.

In her message, the woman—Aurelia Leclaire—indicated that she was emptying out an apartment that had once belonged to a deceased relative. Ms. Leclaire asked if Gabriel had any idea how the painting might have made its way to Paris, or if the name Estelle Allard meant anything to him. She further wondered if the painting might be valuable—she was unfamiliar with the artist, she said, and did not know if the market for his work was at all significant. Ms. Leclaire made it clear that she did not intend to keep the painting either way; she was determined to return the work to Gabriel’s family, its rightful owners, free of cost. She concluded her message by inviting him to Paris to view it.

The message communicated several things to Gabriel right away. First, its author had plenty of her own money. Too much, probably, to care about potentially adding to an existing fortune. And, second, whoever this woman was, she knew absolutely nothing about art. This last realization was further substantiated when Gabriel noticed the second canvas that was visible in the photo attachment, hiding just behind the optimistic little landscape.

A nude woman glared out of that second canvas, the bold style and deliberate colors obvious even considering the poor quality of the photo. Gabriel nearly dropped his phone when he saw it, the thrill of discovery running like lightning through his veins. Within seconds, he was booking a Eurostar ticket from London to Paris for the first train out the following morning. Years of experience had taught him that no matter how certain he might be about identifying a particular artist and their work, a careful and thorough examination needed to be done in person before making grand pronouncements. Offering a client false hope about a piece in their possession never ended well for anyone. And so he told Ms. Leclaire only that he wanted to come get a better look at the plain little landscape.

He’d lied. Without regret. Because if that nude canvas turned out to be what he suspected it might be…