‘I went back to the Sûreté after we parted last night. I thought it better to make sure of the cart this morning, and I also looked up our records about this firm of monumental sculptors. It seems that it is not a very large concern, and all the power is vested in the hands of M. Paul Thévenet, the managing director. It is an old establishment and apparently eminently respectable, and has a perfectly clean record so far as we are concerned.’ ‘Well, that’s so much to the good.’ They disembarked at the Pont Mirabeau and, crossing to the south side and finding a tolerably decent looking café, sat down at one of the little tables on the pavement behind a screen of shrubs in pots. ‘We can see the end of the bridge from here, so we may wait comfortably until the cart appears,’ said Lefarge, when he had ordered a couple of bocks. They sat on in the pleasant sun, smoking and reading the morning papers. Nearly an hour passed before the cart came into view slowly crossing the bridge. Then they left their places at the café and, signing to the driver to follow, walked down the rue de la Convention, and turned into the rue Provence. Nearly opposite, a little way down the street, was the place of which they were in search. Its frontage ran the whole length of the second block, and consisted partly of a rather ancient looking four-story factory or warehouse and partly of a high wall, evidently surrounding a yard. At the end of the building this wall was pierced by a gateway leading into the yard, and just inside was a door in the end wall of the building, labelled ‘Bureau.’ Having instructed the driver to wait outside the gate, they pushed open the small door and asked to see M. Thévenet on private business. After a delay of a few minutes a clerk ushered them into his room. The managing director was an elderly man, small and rather wizened, with a white moustache, and a dry but courteous manner. He rose as the detectives entered, wished them good-morning, and asked what he could do for them. ‘I must apologise for not sending in my card, M. Thévenet,’ began Lefarge, presenting it, ‘but, as the matter in question is somewhat delicate, I preferred that your staff should not know my profession.’ M. Thévenet bowed. ‘This, sir,’ went on Lefarge, ‘is my colleague, Mr. Burnley of the London police, and he is anxious for some information, if you would be so kind as to let him have it.’ ‘I will be pleased to answer any questions I can. I speak English if Mr. Burnley would prefer it.’