"Come along, Wilson! Driver, 18, Rue Murillo!" he shouted.
And, with swollen veins and fists clenched as though for a boxing-match, he leapt into a cab.
The Rue Murillo is lined with luxurious private residences, the backs of which look out upon the Parc Monceau. No. 18 is one of the handsomest of these houses; and Baron d'Imblevalle, who occupies it with his wife and children, has furnished it in the most sumptuous style, as befits an artist and millionaire. There is a courtyard in front of the house, skirted on either side by the servants' offices. At the back, a garden mingles the branches of its trees with the trees of the park.
The two Englishmen rang the bell, crossed the courtyard and were admitted by a footman, who showed them into a small drawing-room at the other side of the house.
They sat down and took a rapid survey of the many valuable objects with which the room was filled.
"Very pretty things," whispered Wilson. "Taste and fancy.... One can safely draw the deduction that people who have had the leisure to hunt out these articles are persons of a certain age ... fifty, perhaps...."
He did not have time to finish. The door opened and M. d'Imblevalle entered, followed by his wife.
Contrary to Wilson's deductions, they were both young, fashionably dressed and very lively in speech and manner. Both were profuse in thanks:
"It is really too good of you! To put yourself out like this! We are almost glad of this trouble since it procures us the pleasure...."