"Hum, these ones were written by women. There are three of them--each in a different handwriting, and, strange to say, not one of them signed, not even with a Christian name. The owner of the pocket-book must have had uncommonly prudent sweethearts. I wonder why he kept these notes in this case?" "Because he intended to make use of them at some future time." "You think he was a blackmailer, eh? That's quite possible." "That theory would at least explain the robbery. If the women in question knew that these specimens of their handwriting had fallen into our hands, they would be more easy in mind, for we don't know them, and it is not likely that we ever shall." "We are not sure of that. Stranger things than that happen in Paris. But do you think it advisable for us to take the pocket-book to the lost property office at the Prefecture of Police?" "No, I think it would be better to burn it with its contents." "Why? I feel strongly inclined to preserve it. One never knows what may happen, and it would afford me infinite satisfaction to discover one of these unknown correspondents." "Do so if you like, but I don't want to mix myself up in any such affair. I shall forget the matter, and I beg that you will never remind me of it." "Agreed, on conditions that you say nothing about it to any one at lunch. There will be a parcel of chatterers present." "You need have no fears of that. I will be as silent as a fish." "All right, then. Here we are! I must put these letters out of sight," said Puymirol, and he stowed the Russian leather-case away in his coat pocket.