Bonavent sat down with a very stolid air, and Charolais looked at him doubtfully, in two minds whether to leave him there alone or not. Before he had decided there came a thundering knock on the front door, not only loud but protracted. Charolais looked round with a scared air; and then ran out of the room and down the stairs. On the instant Bonavent was on his feet, and very far from stolid. He opened the door of the smoking-room very gently and peered in. It was empty. He slipped noiselessly across the room, a pair of clippers ready in his hand, and cut the wires of the telephone. His quick eye glanced round the room and fell on the pocket-book on the table. He snatched it up, and slipped it into the breast of his tunic. He had scarcely done it—one button of his tunic was still to fasten—when the bedroom door opened, and Lupin came out: “What do you want?” he said sharply; and his keen eyes scanned the porter with a disquieting penetration. “I’ve brought a letter to the Duke of Charmerace, to be given into his own hands,” said Bonavent, in a disguised voice. “Give it to me,” said Lupin, holding out his hand. “But the Duke?” said Bonavent, hesitating. “I am the Duke,” said Lupin. Bonavent gave him the letter, and turned to go. “Don’t go,” said Lupin quietly. “Wait, there may be an answer.” There was a faint glitter in his eyes; but Bonavent missed it. Charolais came into the room, and said, in a grumbling tone, “A run-away knock. I wish I could catch the brats; I’d warm them. They wouldn’t go fetching me away from my work again, in a hurry, I can tell you.” Lupin opened the letter, and read it. As he read it, at first he frowned; then he smiled; and then he laughed joyously. It ran: “SIR,” “M. Guerchard has told me everything. With regard to Sonia I have judged you: a man who loves a thief can be nothing but a rogue. I have two pieces of news to announce to you: the death of the Duke of Charmerace, who died three years ago, and my intention of becoming engaged to his cousin and heir, M. de Relzières, who will assume the title and the arms.” “For Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin,” “Her maid, IRMA.” “She does write in shocking bad taste,” said Lupin, shaking his head sadly. “Charolais, sit down and write a letter for me.” “Me?” said Charolais. “Yes; you. It seems to be the fashion in financial circles; and I am bound to follow it when a lady sets it. Write me a letter,” said Lupin. Charolais went to the writing-table reluctantly, sat down, set a sheet of paper on the blotter, took a pen in his hand, and sighed painfully. “Ready?” said Lupin; and he dictated: “MADEMOISELLE,” “I have a very robust constitution, and my indisposition will very soon be over. I shall have the honour of sending, this afternoon, my humble wedding present to the future Madame de Relzières.” “For Jacques de Bartut, Marquis de Relzières, Prince of Virieux, Duke of Charmerace.” “His butler, ARSÈNE.”