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“Yes, I remembered it, because it struck me as funny...”

“But speak, will you? Speak!”

“It said, ‘Monsieur de Beaumont, Michel.’”

Lupin took his servant by the shoulders and shook him:

“It said ‘de’ Beaumont? Are you sure? And ‘Michel’ after ‘Beaumont’?”

“Quite certain.”

“Ah!” muttered Lupin, with a choking throat. “It was a letter from Gilbert!”

He stood motionless, a little pale, with drawn features. There was no doubt about it: the letter was from Gilbert. It was the form of address which, by Lupin’s orders, Gilbert had used for years in corresponding with him. Gilbert had at last—after long waiting and by dint of endless artifices—found a means of getting a letter posted from his prison and had hastily written to him. And now the letter was intercepted! What did it say? What instructions had the unhappy prisoner given? What help was he praying for? What stratagem did he suggest?

Lupin looked round the room, which, contrary to the drawing-room, contained important papers. But none of the locks had been forced; and he was compelled to admit that the woman had no other object than to get hold of Gilbert’s letter.