At ten o'clock a long line of carriages and automobiles began to arrive in the gardens of the Palace. Innumerable electric lights shone out along the drive-way and from the windows. A few persons had managed to slip past the guards and had stationed themselves near the awning at the main entrance to watch the arrival of the guests. Beneath their fur cloaks, the women wore their very finest gowns and their richest jewelry.
The hall of the chancellory had been transformed into a cloakroom and there the crowd was thickest. In contrast to the brilliantly illuminated left wing of the château, the octagonal tower showed dark and silent. Hiding behind pillars, keeping close to the walls, a man was making his way slowly toward that tower.
The man was Juve.
From behind a big tree he stood and watched the sky, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
"This is a night after my own heart," he murmured, "overcast and dark. I should have been very embarrassed had the moon come out."
"Everything I need. My electric lamp and a good, strong, silk ladder."
Then, surveying the tower, he soliloquized:
"A fine monument! Solid and strong. They don't build them like that nowadays."