Steinweg's death and the disappearance of the documents which the old man was to make over to him did not trouble him greatly. The documents he could have done without in case of need; and, with the few words which Steinweg had told him, he was able, by dint of guess-work and his native genius, to reconstruct what the Emperor's letters contained and to draw up the plan of battle that would lead to victory. But he thought of Holmlock Shears, who was over there now, in the very centre of the battlefield, and who was seeking and who would find the letters, thus demolishing the edifice so patiently built up. And he thought of "the other one," the implacable enemy, lurking round the prison, hidden in the prison, perhaps, who guessed his most secret plans even before they were hatched in the mystery of his thought. * * * * * The 17th of August! . . . The 18th of August! . . . The 19th! . . . Two more days. . . . Two centuries rather! Oh, the interminable minutes! . . . Lupin, usually so calm, so entirely master of himself, so ingenious at providing matter for his own amusement, was feverish, exultant and depressed by turns, powerless against the enemy, mistrusting everything and everybody, morose. * * * * * The 20th of August! . . . . * * * * * He would have wished to act and he could not. Whatever he did, it was impossible for him to hasten the hour of the catastrophe. This catastrophe would take place or would not take place; but Lupin would not know for certain until the last hour of the last day was spent to the last minute. Then--and then alone--he would know of the definite failure of his scheme. "The inevitable failure," he kept on repeating to himself. "Success depends upon circumstances far too subtle and can be obtained only by methods far too psychological. . . . There is no doubt that I am deceiving myself as to the value and the range of my weapons. . . . And yet . . ." Hope returned to him. He weighed his chances. They suddenly seemed to him real and formidable. The fact was going to happen as he had foreseen it happening and for the very reasons which he had expected. It was inevitable. . . . Yes, inevitable. Unless, indeed, Shears discovered the hiding-place. . . . And again he thought of Shears; and again an immense sense of discouragement overwhelmed him. * * * * * The last day. . . . He woke late, after a night of bad dreams. He saw nobody that day, neither the examining magistrate nor his counsel. The afternoon dragged along slowly and dismally, and the evening came, the murky evening of the cells. . . . He was in a fever. His heart beat in his chest like the clapper of a bell. And the minutes passed, irretrievably. . . . At nine o'clock, nothing. At ten o'clock, nothing.