He jumped up, caught the gamekeeper by the shoulder, and shook him furiously. “This letter. Where did it come from? Who brought it?” he roared. “It was in the letter-box—the letter-box of the lodge at the bottom of the park. My wife found it there,” said Firmin, and he twisted out of the millionaire’s grasp. “Just as it was three years ago,” roared the millionaire, with an air of desperation. “It’s exactly the same coup. Oh, what a catastrophe! What a catastrophe!” He made as if to tear out his hair; then, remembering its scantiness, refrained. “Now, come, it’s no use losing your head,” said the Duke, with quiet firmness. “If this letter isn’t a hoax—” “Hoax?” bellowed the millionaire. “Was it a hoax three years ago?” “Very good,” said the Duke. “But if this robbery with which you’re threatened is genuine, it’s just childish.” “How?” said the millionaire. “Look at the date of the letter—Sunday, September the third. This letter was written to-day.” “Yes. Well, what of it?” said the millionaire. “Look at the letter: ‘I shall set about a respectful acquisition of them in your Paris house to-morrow morning’—to-morrow morning.” “Yes, yes; ‘to-morrow morning’—what of it?” said the millionaire. “One of two things,” said the Duke. “Either it’s a hoax, and we needn’t bother about it; or the threat is genuine, and we have the time to stop the robbery.” “Of course we have. Whatever was I thinking of?” said the millionaire. And his anguish cleared from his face. “For once in a way our dear Lupin’s fondness for warning people will have given him a painful jar,” said the Duke. “Come on! let me get at the telephone,” cried the millionaire. “But the telephone’s no good,” said Sonia quickly. “No good! Why?” roared the millionaire, dashing heavily across the room to it. “Look at the time,” said Sonia; “the telephone doesn’t work as late as this. It’s Sunday.” The millionaire stopped dead. “It’s true. It’s appalling,” he groaned. “But that doesn’t matter. You can always telegraph,” said Germaine. “But you can’t. It’s impossible,” said Sonia. “You can’t get a message through. It’s Sunday; and the telegraph offices shut at twelve o’clock.” “Oh, what a Government!” groaned the millionaire. And he sank down gently on a chair beside the telephone, and mopped the beads of anguish from his brow. They looked at him, and they looked at one another, cudgelling their brains for yet another way of communicating with the Paris police. “Hang it all!” said the Duke. “There must be some way out of the difficulty.” “What way?” said the millionaire.