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 Château 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.
