Reaching the ornate boulle desk that served as the concierge’s post, Elizabeth picked up an interoffice manila envelope and brought it over to the group. Getting a nod from Serge, she returned to her post at the concierge’s desk, where a guest was waiting for her.

Lucy unwrapped the little string fastener and pulled out a grainy photo, shocked to discover she recognized the man captured by the security camera.

“That’s Richard Mason!” she exclaimed.

“It sure is,” said Bill, shaking his head. “There must be some mistake.”

“Impossible,” said Serge. “The investigation has been very thorough.”

“I can’t believe it,” insisted Lucy. “He’s such a nice guy.” She paused. “Ted’s going to be devastated. Imagine. His best friend is involved in the black market.”

“Not merely involved,” said Serge. “He is the—what you call it?—brains of the operation.”

Hearing this, Lucy felt dizzy and felt as if her legs were going to give way. Bill caught her by the elbow, and she leaned unsteadily against him. Taking in the situation, Serge was quick to act.

“Perhaps you would like some refreshment? I can arrange for complimentary service in our Marquis de Lafayette Café.”

“That would be great,” said Bill. “We didn’t have any breakfast.”

“It is better to hear bad news on a full stomach,” said Serge, leading the way down a lushly carpeted hallway, past the discreetly labeled restrooms, to a sun-filled restaurant overlooking a walled garden. He had a quick word with the maître d’, and they were seated on upholstered chairs at a linen-covered table beside one of the several French windows and provided with menus.

Acting on Serge’s murmured instructions, a waiter immediately brought Lucy a glass of orange juice, which she sipped gratefully. The sugar gave her a boost, and she began to feel better.

“I guess I’ll go for the American breakfast,” said Bill, scanning the international array of offerings, which included a Japanese breakfast of miso soup, steamed rice, a soft-boiled egg and pickles, as well as a petit déjeuner pour le chien of steak tartare, Badoit water, and a genuine Milk-Bone biscuit.

“They’ll even feed your dog, for a hefty price,” he said, trying to distract Lucy, who was, in fact, rallying and was beginning to take in the luxurious surroundings: the gleaming silver and porcelain, the potted orchids, the pleasant background music.

A waiter arrived with a silver pot of coffee for each of them, and they gave their orders. Bill stuck with the American of two fried eggs with bacon and home fries, and Lucy chose the classic continental, with croissants and brioches. Soon they were tucking into the delicious food, enjoying every bite, although Lucy’s enjoyment was tempered with guilt.

“The rich are different,” said Bill, wiping his lips with the enormous linen napkin. “They eat better food.”