and jerked the flabby giant to his feet with an ease which seemed to show that his muscles were of steel.
"Come," he said, laughing still. "This is nonsense! What do you mean by the same handwriting? It can't be."
"It is the same handwriting. Am I likely to make a mistake about it?" spluttered the millionaire. And he tore open the envelope with an air of frenzy.
He ran his eyes over it, and they grew larger and larger—they grew almost of an average size.
"Listen," he said "listen:"
"Dear Sir,
"My collection of pictures, which I had the pleasure of starting three years ago with some of your own, only contains, as far as Old Masters go, one Velasquez, one Rembrandt, and three paltry Rubens. You have a great many more. Since it is a shame such masterpieces should be in your hands, I propose to appropriate them; and I shall set about a respectful acquisition of them in your Paris house tomorrow morning.
