“The Academy!” said the Duke, startled from his usual coolness. “But I’ve no title to become an Academician.” “How, no title?” said the millionaire solemnly; and his little eyes opened wide. “You’re a duke.” “There’s no doubt about that,” said the Duke, watching him with admiring curiosity. “I mean to marry my daughter to a worker—a worker, my dear Duke,” said the millionaire, slapping his big left hand with his bigger right. “I’ve no prejudices—not I. I wish to have for son-in-law a duke who wears the Order of the Legion of Honour, and belongs to the Academie Française, because that is personal merit. I’m no snob.” A gentle, irrepressible laugh broke from the Duke. “What are you laughing at?” said the millionaire, and a sudden lowering gloom overspread his beaming face. “Nothing—nothing,” said the Duke quietly. “Only you’re so full of surprises.” “I’ve startled you, have I? I thought I should. It’s true that I’m full of surprises. It’s my knowledge. I understand so much. I understand business, and I love art, pictures, a good bargain, bric-a-brac, fine tapestry. They’re first-class investments. Yes, certainly I do love the beautiful. And I don’t want to boast, but I understand it. I have taste, and I’ve something better than taste; I have a flair, the dealer’s flair.” “Yes, your collections, especially your collection in Paris, prove it,” said the Duke, stifling a yawn. “And yet you haven’t seen the finest thing I have—the coronet of the Princesse de Lamballe. It’s worth half a million francs.” “So I’ve heard,” said the Duke, a little wearily. “I don’t wonder that Arsène Lupin envied you it.” The Empire chair creaked as the millionaire jumped. “Don’t speak of the swine!” he roared. “Don’t mention his name before me.” “Germaine showed me his letter,” said the Duke. “It is amusing.” “His letter! The blackguard! I just missed a fit of apoplexy from it,” roared the millionaire. “I was in this very hall where we are now, chatting quietly, when all at once in comes Firmin, and hands me a letter.” He was interrupted by the opening of the door. Firmin came clumping down the room, and said in his deep voice, “A letter for you, sir.” “Thank you,” said the millionaire, taking the letter, and, as he fitted his eye-glass into his eye, he went on, “Yes, Firmin brought me a letter of which the handwriting,”—he raised the envelope he was holding to his eyes, and bellowed, “Good heavens!” “What’s the matter?” said the Duke, jumping in his chair at the sudden, startling burst of sound. “The handwriting!—the handwriting!—it’s THE SAME HANDWRITING!” gasped the millionaire. And he let himself fall heavily backwards against the back of his chair. There was a crash. The Duke had a vision of huge arms and legs waving in the air as the chair-back gave. There was another crash. The chair collapsed. The huge bulk banged to the floor.