"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 Arsene 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.

"Come, get ready," said the Emperor to the count.

The count went up to Lupin and placed his hand on his shoulder.

The silvery chime of the repeater quivered and struck ... one, two, three, four, five ...

"Waldemar, old chap, pull the weights of the old clock."

A moment of stupefaction. It was Lupin's voice, speaking very calmly.

Waldemar, annoyed at the familiarity of the address, shrugged his shoulders.

"Do as he says, Waldemar," said the Emperor.

"Yes, do as I say, my dear count," echoed Lupin, recovering his powers of chaff. "You know the ropes so well ... all you have to do is to pull those of the clock ... in turns ... one, two ... capital!

... That's how they used to wind it up in the old days."

The pendulum, in fact, was started; and they heard its regular ticking.

"Now the hands," said Lupin. "Set them at a little before twelve ...

Don't move ... Let me ..."

He rose and walked to the face of the clock, standing two feet away, at most, with his eyes fixed, with every nerve attentive.

The twelve strokes sounded, twelve heavy, deep strokes.

A long silence. Nothing happened. Nevertheless, the Emperor waited, as though he were sure that something was going to happen. And Waldemar did not move, stood with wide-open eyes.

Lupin, who had stooped over the clock-face, now drew himself up, muttering:

"That's it ... I have it... ."

He went back to his chair and commanded:

"Waldemar, set the hands at two minutes to twelve again. Oh, no, old chap, not backwards! The way the hands go! ... Yes, I know, it will take rather long ... but it can't be helped."

All the hours struck and the half hours, up to half-past eleven.

"Listen, Waldemar," said Lupin.

And he spoke seriously, without jesting, as though himself excited and anxious:

"Listen, Waldemar. Do you see on the face of the clock a little round dot marking the first hour? That dot is loose, isn't it? Put the fore-finger of your left hand on it and press. Good. Do the same with your thumb on the dot marking the third hour. Good. With your right hand, push in the dot at the eighth hour. Good. Thank you. Go and sit down, my dear fellow."

The minute-hand shifted, moved to the twelfth dot and the clock struck again.

Lupin was silent and very white. The twelve strokes rang out in the silence.

At the twelfth stroke, there was a sound as of a spring being set free.

The clock stopped dead. The pendulum ceased swinging.

And suddenly, the bronze ornament representing a ram's head, which crowned the dial, fell forwards, uncovering a sort of little recess cut out of the stone wall.

In this recess was a chased silver casket.

Lupin took it and carried it to the Emperor:

"Would Your Imperial Majesty be so good as to open it yourself? The letters which you instructed me to look for are inside."

The Emperor raised the lid and seemed greatly astonished.

_The casket was empty._

The casket was empty.

It was an enormous, unforeseen sensation. After the success of the calculation made by Lupin, after the ingenious discovery of the secret of the clock, the Emperor, who had no doubt left as to the ultimate success, appeared utterly confounded.

Opposite him was Lupin, pallid and wan, with drawn jaws and bloodshot eyes, gnashing his teeth with rage and impotent hate.

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, then snatched up the casket, turned it over, examined it, as though he hoped to find a false bottom. At last, for greater certainty, in a fit of fury, he crushed it, with an irresistible grip.

That relieved him. He breathed more easily.

The Emperor said:

"Who has done this?"

"Still the same man, Sire, the one who is following the same road as I and pursuing the same aim: Mr. Kesselbach's murderer."

"When?"

"Last night. Ah, Sire, why did you not leave me free when I came out of prison! Had I been free, I should have come here without losing an hour.

I should have arrived before him! I should have given Isilda money before he did! I should have read Malreich, the old French servant's diary, before he did!"

"So you think that it was through the revelations in the diary ... ?"

"Why, yes, Sire! He had time to read them. And, lurking I don't know where, kept informed of all our movements by I don't know whom, he put me to sleep last night, in order to get rid of me."