"The mill-stream. That's past the village, isn't it?"
"That's right, sir. If you was to think of taking a look at the picture you'll find him painting it on the near bank, just below the mill."
"I rather think I'll wander along that way," Charles said.
"I take it you don't want me?" Peter asked him.
"N-no. Might perturb him if two of us rolled up. I'll see what I can find out."
They took their leave of the constable, and drove on to the village. At the Bell, Charles got out of the car and proceeded on foot down the street to the fields that lay beyond.
It was no more than a ten minutes' walk to the mill, and as Flinders had predicted, Charles was rewarded by the sight of M. Duval at work on his sketch.
Charles approached from behind him, and thus had leisure to observe the artist before his own presence was detected. The man looked more of a scarecrow than ever, but if he was under the influence of drink or drugs this was not immediately apparent. He seemed to be absorbed in his work, and it was not until Charles stopped at his elbow that he looked round.
There was suspicion in his nervous start, and he glared up at Charles out of his bloodshot eyes.
"Good afternoon," Charles said pleasantly. "I apologise for being so inquisitive. If I may say so, you are painting a very remarkable picture."