This he did, and I placed a chair in position for him. He sat down, having previously dusted the chair with a graceful sweep of his lace-edged handkerchief. Then he raised a gold-rimmed eyeglass to his right eye with a superlatively elegant gesture, and surveyed me critically for a moment or two ere he said:
“I am told, my good M. Ratichon, that you are a trustworthy fellow, and one who is willing to undertake a delicate piece of business for a moderate honorarium.”
Except for the fact that I did not like the word “moderate,” I was enchanted with him.
“Rumour for once has not lied, Monsieur,” I replied in my most attractive manner.
“Well,” he rejoined—I won’t say curtly, but with businesslike brevity, “for all purposes connected with the affair which I desire to treat with you my name, as far as you are concerned, shall be Jean Duval. Understand?”
“Perfectly, Monsieur le Marquis,” I replied with a bland smile.
It was a wild guess, but I don’t think that I underestimated my new client’s rank, for he did not wince.
“You know Mlle. Mars?” he queried.
“The actress?” I replied. “Perfectly.”
“She is playing in Le Rêve at the Theatre Royal just now.”