With the doctor's approval, Waldemar called his men and sent word to the Emperor. They laid Lupin on a stretcher and set out for the palace.

"The first floor," he muttered.

They carried him up.

"At the end of the corridor," he said. "The last room on the left."

They carried him to the last room, which was the twelfth, and gave him a chair, on which he sat down, exhausted.

The Emperor arrived: Lupin did not stir, sat looking, unconscious, with no expression in his eyes.

Then, in a few minutes, he seemed to wake, looked round him, at the walls, the ceilings, the people, and said:

"A narcotic, I suppose?"

"Yes," said the doctor.

"Have they found ... the man?"

"No."

He seemed to be meditating and several times jerked his head with a thoughtful air: but they soon saw that he was asleep.

The Emperor went up to Waldemar:

"Order your car round."

"Oh? ... But then, Sire ... ?"

"Well, what? I am beginning to think that he is taking us in and that all this is merely play-acting, to gain time."

"Possibly ... yes ..." said Waldemar, agreeing.

"It's quite obvious! He is making the most of certain curious coincidences, but he knows nothing; and his story about gold coins and his narcotic are so many inventions! If we lend ourselves to his little game any longer, he'll slip out of your fingers. Your car, Waldemar."

The count gave his orders and returned. Lupin had not woke up. The Emperor, who was looking round the room, said to Waldemar:

"This is the Minerva room, is it not?"

"Yes, Sire."

"But then why is there an 'N' in two places?"

There were, in fact, two "N's," one over the chimneypiece, the other over an old dilapidated clock fitted into the wall and displaying a complicated set of works, with weights hanging lifeless at the end of their cords.

"The two 'N's' ..." said Waldemar.

The Emperor did not listen to the answer. Lupin had moved again, opening his eyes and uttering indistinct syllables. He stood up, walked across the room and fell down from sheer weakness.

Then came the struggle, the desperate struggle of his brain, his nerves, his will against that hideous, paralyzing torpor, the struggle of a dying man against death, the struggle of life against extinction. And the sight was one of infinite sadness.

"He is suffering," muttered Waldemar.

"Or at least, he is pretending to suffer," declared the Emperor, "and pretending very cleverly at that. What an actor!"

Lupin stammered:

"An injection, doctor, an injection of caffeine ... at once... ."

"May I, Sire?" asked the doctor.

"Certainly... . Until twelve o'clock, do all that he asks. He has my promise."

"How many minutes ... before twelve o'clock?" asked Lupin.

"Forty," said somebody.

"Forty? ... I shall do it... . I am sure to do it... . I've got to do it... ." He took his head in his two hands. "Oh, if I had my brain, the real brain, the brain that thinks! It would be a matter of a second!

There is only one dark spot left ... but I cannot ... my thoughts escape me... . I can't grasp it ... it's awful."

His shoulders shook. Was he crying?

They heard him repeating:

"813 ... 813... ." And, in a lower voice, "813 ... an '8' ... a '1' ... a '3' ... yes, of course... . But why? ... That's not enough... ."

The Emperor muttered:

"He impresses me. I find it difficult to believe that a man can play a part like that... ."

Half-past eleven struck ... a quarter to twelve... .

Lupin remained motionless, with his fists glued to his temples.

The Emperor waited, with his eyes fixed on a chronometer which Waldemar held in his hand.

Ten minutes more ... five minutes more ...

"Is the car there, Waldemar? ... Are your men ready?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Is that watch of yours a repeater, Waldemar?"

"Yes, Sire."

"At the last stroke of twelve, then... ."

"But ..."