"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 tomorrow morning."

"Yours very sincerely,"

"ARSENE LUPIN."

"He's humbugging," said the Duke.

"Wait! wait!" gasped the millionaire. "There's a postscript.