D'Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o'clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure.

Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity.
He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs and knocked softly in a manner agreed upon between him and his lackey.

Planchet*, whom he had sent home two hours before from the Hotel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him.
*The reader may ask, "How came Planchet here ?" when he was left "stiff as a rush" in London.

In the intervening time Buckingham perhaps sent him to Paris, as he did the horses.
"Has anyone brought a letter for me ?" asked d'Artagnan, eagerly.
"No one has BROUGHT a letter, monsieur," replied Planchet; "but one has come of itself." "What do you mean, blockhead ?" "I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom." "And where is that letter ?" "I left it where I found it, monsieur.

It is not natural for letters to enter people's houses in this manner.