‘A fortnight to-day, monsieur. He said he would be away three weeks, so if you could call in about a week, you should see him.’ ‘By the way, a friend of mine was to call on him here last week. I am afraid he must have missed him also. You did not see my friend?’ He showed her Boirac’s photograph. ‘No, monsieur, I did not see him.’ Lefarge thanked the woman and, having walked round to two or three of the other neighbouring houses and asked the same questions without result, he re-entered the car and was driven back to Malines. From there he took the first train to Brussels. It was close on two o’clock when he entered the ornate portal of the Crédit Mazières, of which M. Boirac was a director. The building was finished with extraordinary richness, no expense having been spared in its decoration. The walls of the vast public office were entirely covered with choice marbles--panels of delicate green separated by pilasters and cornice of pure white. The roof rose with a lofty dome of glass which filled the building with a mellow and pleasant light. ‘No want of money here,’ Lefarge thought, as he approached the counter and, handing in his card, asked to see the manager. He had to wait for some minutes, then, following a clerk along a corridor decorated in the same style as the office, he was ushered into the presence of a tall, elderly gentleman with clean-shaven features and raven black hair, who was seated at a large roll-top desk. Having exchanged greetings, Lefarge began:-- ‘I wonder, monsieur, if you would be so very kind as to tell me whether the M. Armande Boirac, who is a member of your board, is the brother of M. Raoul Boirac, the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Company of Paris? I went to Malines this morning to see M. Armande, but he was from home, and I do not wish to spend time in finding out his address and communicating with him, unless he really is the man I seek.’ ‘Our director, monsieur,’ replied the manager, ‘is a brother of M. Raoul. Though I don’t know the latter personally, I have heard our M. Boirac speak of him. I can also give you M. Armande’s present address, if you require it.’ ‘I am exceedingly obliged, monsieur, and should be most grateful for the address.’ ‘It is Hôtel Rydberg, Stockholm.’ Lefarge noted it in his book and, with further thanks, left the bank. ‘Now for the Théâtre de la Monnaie,’ he thought. ‘It is just around the corner.’ He crossed the Place de Brouckère, and turned into the Place de la Monnaie. The box office of the theatre was open, and he interviewed the clerk, learning that Berlioz’s _Les Troyens_ was given on the Wednesday night in question, as stated by M. Boirac. But a search for that gentleman’s name through the list of that evening’s bookings was unproductive, though, as the clerk pointed out, this did not mean that he was not present, but only that he had not reserved a seat.