One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at the prison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual, oyster-shell in hand. He always chose a time for this when he knew that the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger of being recognized through the grating. He was, therefore, not a little startled at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by a sound of something bumping against the iron bars. On looking up, he saw that a string was dangling before the window with something attached to the end of it. He drew it in, and, as he did so, he fancied that he heard a distant sound of voices and clapped hands, as if from some window above. He proceeded to examine his prize, and found that it was a little round pincushion of sand, such as women use to polish their needles with, and that, apparently, it was used as a make-weight to ensure the steady descent of a neat little letter that was tied beside it, in company with a small lead pencil. The letter was directed to "_The prisoner who finds this._" Monsieur the Viscount opened it at once. This was the letter-- "_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2_. "_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been imprisoned? Be good enough to answer_." Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to risk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil hurriedly wrote this reply:-- "_In secret, June 12, 1794_. "_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B., supposed to have perished in the massacres of September_, 1792. _Keep my secret. I have been imprisoned a year and nine months. Who are_ you? _how long have_ you _been here_?" The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. It came, and with it some sheets of blank paper. "_Monsieur_,--_We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, and thank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St. Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been here but two days. Accept our sympathy for your misfortunes_."