“Lecky,” Cecil said to his valet, who had entered the room, “I want you to go to No. 155, Rue de la Paix, and find out on which floor they are disposing of seats for the Opéra to-night. When you have found out, I want you to get me four seats—preferably a box. Understand?”
The servant stared at his master, squinting violently for a few seconds. Then he replied suddenly, as though light had just dawned on him. “Exactly, sir. You intend to be present at the gala performance?”
“You have successfully grasped my intention,” said Cecil. “Present my card.” He scribbled a word or two on a card and gave it to the man.
“And the price, sir?”
“You still have that blank cheque on the Crédit Lyonnais that I gave you yesterday morning. Use that.”
“Yes, sir. Then there is the question of my French, sir, my feeble French—a delicate plant.”
“My friend,” Belmont put in. “I will accompany you as interpreter. I should like to see this thing through.”
Lecky bowed and gave up squinting.
In three minutes (for they had only to go round the corner), Lionel Belmont and Lecky were in a room on the fourth floor of 155, Rue de la Paix. It had the appearance of an ordinary drawing-room, save that it contained an office table; at this table sat a young man, French.
“You wish, messieurs?” said the young man.