It was nine o’clock when they entered the magnificent precincts of the Opéra House. Like everybody else, they went very early--the performance was not to commence until nine-thirty--in order to see and be seen to the fullest possible extent. A week had elapsed since the two girls had arrived from Algiers in Paris, under the escort of Cecil Thorold, and in that time they had not been idle. Kitty Sartorius had spent tolerable sums at the best _modistes_, in the Rue de la Paix and the establishments in the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, while Eve had bought one frock (a dream, needless to say), and had also been nearly covered with jewellery by her betrothed. That afternoon, between the bet and the dinner, Cecil had made more than one mysterious disappearance. He finally came back with a diamond tiara for his dear journalist. “You ridiculous thing!” exclaimed the dear journalist, kissing him. It thus occurred that Eve, usually so severe of aspect, had more jewels than she could wear, while Kitty, accustomed to display, had practically nothing but her famous bracelet. Eve insisted on pooling the lot, and dividing equally, for the gala. Consequently, the party presented a very pretty appearance as it ascended the celebrated grand staircase of the Opéra, wreathed to-night in flowers. Lionel Belmont, with Kitty on his arm, was in high spirits, uplifted, joyous; but Cecil himself seemed to be a little nervous, and this nervousness communicated itself to Eve Fincastle--or perhaps Eve was rather overpowered by her tiara. At the head of the staircase was a notice requesting everyone to be seated at nine-twenty-five, previous to the arrival of the President and the Imperial guests of the Republic. The row of officials at the _controle_ took the expensive gilt card from Cecil, examined it, returned it, and bowed low with an intimation that he should turn to the right and climb two floors; and the party proceeded further into the interior of the great building. The immense corridors and _foyers_ and stairs were crowded with a collection of the best-known people in Paris. It was a gathering of all the renowns. The garish, gorgeous Opéra seemed to be changed that night into something new and strange. Even those shabby old harridans, the box-openers, the _ouvreuses_, wore bows of red, white and blue, and smiled effusively in expectation of tips inconceivably large. “_Tiens!_” exclaimed the box-opener who had taken charge of Cecil’s party, as she unlocked the door of the box. And well might she exclaim, for the box (No. 74--no possible error) was already occupied by a lady and two gentlemen, who were talking rather loudly in French! Cecil undoubtedly turned pale, while Lionel Belmont laughed within his moustache. “These people have made a mistake,” Cecil was saying to the _ouvreuse_, when a male official in evening dress approached him with an air of importance. “Pardon, monsieur. You are Monsieur Cecil Thorold?” “I am,” said Cecil.