"Is that watch of yours a repeater, Waldemar?"
"Yes, Sire."
"At the last stroke of twelve, then. . . ."
"But . . ."
"At the last stroke of twelve, Waldemar."
There was really something tragic about the scene, that sort of grandeur and solemnity which the hours assume at the approach of a possible miracle, when it seems as though the voice of fate itself were about to find utterance.
The Emperor did not conceal his anguish. This fantastic adventurer who was called Arsène Lupin and whose amazing life he knew, this man troubled him . . . and, although he was resolved to make an end of all this dubious story, he could not help waiting . . . and hoping.
Two minutes more . . . one minute more . . .
Then they counted by seconds.
Lupin seemed asleep.