e had accomplices in the house itself?"

"Yes, one accomplice," said Germaine.

"Who was that?" asked the Duke.

"Papa!" said Germaine.

"Oh, come! what on earth do you mean?" said the Duke. "You're getting
quite incomprehensible, my dear girl."

"Well, I'll make it clear to you. One morning papa received a
letter--but wait. Sonia, get me the Lupin papers out of the bureau."

Sonia rose from the writing-table, and went to a bureau, an admirable
example of the work of the great English maker, Chippendale. It stood
on the other side of the hall between an Oriental cabinet and a
sixteenth-century Italian cabinet--for all the world as if it were
standing in a crowded curiosity shop--with the natural effect that the
three pieces, by their mere incongruity, took something each from the
beauty of the other. Sonia raised the flap of the bureau, and taking
from one of the drawers a small portfolio, turned over the papers in it
and handed a letter to the Duke.

"This is the envelope," she said. "It's addressed to M. Gournay-Martin,
Collector, at the Chateau de Charmerace, Ile-et-Vilaine."

The Duke opened the envelope and took out a letter.

"It's an odd handwriting," he said.

"Read it--carefully," said Germaine.

It was an uncommon handwriting. The letters of it were small, but
perfectly formed. It looked the handwriting of a man who knew exactly
what he wanted to say, and liked to say it with extreme precision. The
letter ran:

"DEAR SIR,"

"Please forgive my writing to you without our having
been introduced to one another; but I flatter myself
that you know me, at any rate, by name."

"There is in the drawing-room next your hall a
Gainsborough of admirable quality which affords me
infinite pleasure. Your Goyas in the same drawing-room
are also to my liking, as well as your Van Dyck. In the
further drawing-room I note the Renaissance cabinets--a
marvellous pair--the Flemish tapestry, the Fragonard,
the clock signed Boulle, and various other objects of
less importance. But above all I have set my heart on
that coronet which you bought at the sale of the
Marquise de Ferronaye, and which was formerly worn by
the unfortunate Princesse de Lamballe. I take the
greatest interest in this coronet: in the first place,
on account of the charming and tragic memories which it
calls up in the mind of a poet passionately fond of
h