"Yes, a letter. A registered letter."

Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the
baron never received any letters, and the one now presented to him
immediately aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and
distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious
correspondent that dared to disturb the tranquility of his
retreat?

"You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron."

He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had
disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking
nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the
parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope. It contained a
sheet of paper, bearing this heading: Prison de la Sante, Paris.
He looked at the signature: Arsene Lupin. Then he read:

"Monsieur le Baron:

"There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe
de Champaigne, of exquisite finish, which pleases me beyond
measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as your
smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the
Louis XIII cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire
gueridon signed `Jacob,' and the Renaissance chest. In the salon
to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.

"For the present, I will content myself with those articles that
can be conveniently removed. I will therefore ask you to pack