The laughter of the Duke rang out uncontrollably. He caught one of the waving arms, and jerked the flabby giant to his feet with an ease which seemed to show that his muscles were of steel. “Come,” he said, laughing still. “This is nonsense! What do you mean by the same handwriting? It can’t be.” “It is the same handwriting. Am I likely to make a mistake about it?” spluttered the millionaire. And he tore open the envelope with an air of frenzy. He ran his eyes over it, and they grew larger and larger—they grew almost of an average size. “Listen,” he said “listen:” “DEAR SIR,” “My collection of pictures, which I had the pleasure of starting three years ago with some of your own, only contains, as far as Old Masters go, one Velasquez, one Rembrandt, and three paltry Rubens. You have a great many more. Since it is a shame such masterpieces should be in your hands, I propose to appropriate them; and I shall set about a respectful acquisition of them in your Paris house to-morrow morning.” “Yours very sincerely,” “ARSÈNE LUPIN.” “He’s humbugging,” said the Duke. “Wait! wait!” gasped the millionaire. “There’s a postscript. Listen:” “P.S.—You must understand that since you have been keeping the coronet of the Princesse de Lamballe during these three years, I shall avail myself of the same occasion to compel you to restore that piece of jewellery to me.—A. L.” “The thief! The scoundrel! I’m choking!” gasped the millionaire, clutching at his collar. To judge from the blackness of his face, and the way he staggered and dropped on to a couch, which was fortunately stronger than the chair, he was speaking the truth. “Firmin! Firmin!” shouted the Duke. “A glass of water! Quick! Your master’s ill.” He rushed to the side of the millionaire, who gasped: “Telephone! Telephone to the Prefecture of Police! Be quick!” The Duke loosened his collar with deft fingers; tore a Van Loo fan from its case hanging on the wall, and fanned him furiously. Firmin came clumping into the room with a glass of water in his hand. The drawing-room door opened, and Germaine and Sonia, alarmed by the Duke’s shout, hurried in. “Quick! Your smelling-salts!” said the Duke. Sonia ran across the hall, opened one of the drawers in the Oriental cabinet, and ran to the millionaire with a large bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. The Duke took it from her, and applied it to the millionaire’s nose. The millionaire sneezed thrice with terrific violence. The Duke snatched the glass from Firmin and dashed the water into his host’s purple face. The millionaire gasped and spluttered. Germaine stood staring helplessly at her gasping sire. “Whatever’s the matter?” she said. “It’s this letter,” said the Duke. “A letter from Lupin.” “I told you so—I said that Lupin was in the neighbourhood,” cried Germaine triumphantly. “Firmin—where’s Firmin?” said the millionaire, dragging himself upright. He seemed to have recovered a great deal of his voice. “Oh, there you are!”