“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. “Have the goodness to interpret for me,” said Lecky to the Napoleon of Anglo-Saxon theatres. “Mr. Cecil Thorold, of the Devonshire Mansion, London, the Grand Hotel, Paris, the Hôtel Continental, Rome, and the Ghezireh Palace Hotel, Cairo, presents his compliments, and wishes a box for the gala performance at the Opéra to-night.” Belmont translated, while Lecky handed the card. “Owing to the unfortunate indisposition of a Minister and his wife,” replied the young man gravely, having perused the card, “it happens that I have a stage-box on the second tier.” “You told me yesterday----” Belmont began. “I will take it,” said Lecky in a sort of French, interrupting his interpreter. “The price? And a pen.” “The price is twenty-five thousand francs.” “Gemini!” Belmont exclaimed in American. “This is Paris, and no mistake!” “Yes,” said Lecky, as he filled up the blank cheque, “Paris still succeeds in being Paris. I have noticed it before, Mr. Belmont, if you will pardon the liberty.” The young man opened a drawer and handed to Lecky a magnificent gilt card, signed by the Minister of Fine Arts, which Lecky hid within his breast. “That signature of the Minister is genuine, eh?” Belmont asked the young man. “I answer for it,” said the young man, smiling imperturbably. “The deuce you do!” Belmont murmured. So the four friends dined at Paillard’s at the rate of about a dollar and a-half a mouthful, and the mystified Belmont, who was not in the habit of being mystified, and so felt it, had the ecstasy of paying the bill. III.