“A letter for madame.”
“Oh, but the postman has passed!”
“A boy brought it.”
Mme. de Villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint.
The paper had slipped to the floor. Beautrelet picked it up and, without troubling to apologize, read:
Not a word! If you say a word, your son will never wake again.
“My son—my son!” she stammered, too weak even to go to the assistance of the threatened child.
Beautrelet reassured her:
“It is not serious—it’s a joke. Come, who could be interested?”
“Unless,” suggested Massiban, “it was Arsène Lupin.”