“But not much of it,” said Lucy, with a glance at the very thin ladies seated at the next table. Their teased and tangerine-colored hair was the most substantial part of their stick-figure bodies.

A waiter appeared at the table and inquired if their breakfasts had been satisfactory, and Bill asked for the check, just in case he’d misunderstood Serge’s invitation. He hadn’t, and the request was dismissed with a smile.

“We do hope you’ll come again,” said the maître d’ as they departed, the plush carpet giving them the feeling that they were walking on clouds.

“That was lovely,” said Lucy as they emerged onto the busy boulevard Haussmann, where hurrying Parisians on their way to work were dodging the cleaners spraying the sidewalk with water and the gardeners tending the potted plants outside the grand hotels. “I can see how Richard was tempted. The good life can be addicting.”

“Let’s amble on down and take a look at the Palais Garnier,” suggested Bill. “I could use some gentle exercise, if you feel up to it.”

“I am fully recovered, and I could use a little distraction,” said Lucy, taking his arm and strolling along, enjoying the passing parade. “She looks like a secretary, don’t you think?” said Lucy, with a nod at a simply dressed girl absorbed in checking her cell phone.

“Top executive,” said Bill, checking out a tall man in a beautifully tailored striped suit, carrying a very thin, very expensive briefcase.

“Janitor?” guessed Lucy, referring to a disheveled fellow whose plaid shirttails were flapping.

“No, too young. I bet he’s a techie,” said Bill.

Lucy chuckled, then stopped abruptly and grabbed Bill’s arm. “Speak of the devil, that’s Richard.”

“You’re right,” said Bill, spotting the journalist striding along on the opposite side of the boulevard, wearing a messenger bag and involved in a cell phone conversation. “Do you think he’s headed for the Cavendish?”

“Let’s find out,” said Lucy, turning around and heading in the opposite direction.

“What if he spots us?” cautioned Bill.

“What if he does? He doesn’t know that we know about his illegal activities.”

“I feel crummy about this,” said Bill. “He’s headed for a trap, and he was nice to us. Remember that seafood dinner?”

“Which we now know he paid for with ill-gotten gains,” said Lucy. “Even in Paris I don’t think journalists make a lot of money.”

As Richard neared the Cavendish Hotel, he suddenly dashed across the street, taking advantage of a break in the traffic. Lucy and Bill had nowhere to go and couldn’t avoid an encounter, even if they’d wanted to, which Lucy certainly did not.

“Richard!” she exclaimed. “You’re out and about bright and early.”

“Lucy, Bill! I could say the same to you. I thought vacationers like yourselves would want to sleep in.”

“Not in Paris,” said Lucy. “There’s too much to see.”