"I shall know, Sire. And I alone can know. And he knows that I am the only one who can know. I am his only enemy. I am the only one whom he attacks. It was I whom he meant to hit, the other day, when he fired his revolver. He considered it enough to put me and me only to sleep, last night, to be free to do as he pleased. The fight lies between him and me. The outside world has nothing to say to it. No one can help me and no one can help him. There are two of us; and that is all. So far, chance has favored him. But, in the long run, it is inevitable, it is doomed that I should gain the day." "Why?" "Because I am the better man." "Suppose he kills you?" "He will not kill me. I shall draw his claws, I shall make him perfectly harmless. And you shall have the letters, Sire. They are yours. There is no power on earth than can prevent me from restoring them to you." He spoke with a violent conviction and a tone of certainty that gave to the things which he foretold the real appearance of things already accomplished. The Emperor could not help undergoing a vague, inexplicable feeling in which there was a sort of admiration combined with a good deal of that confidence which Lupin was demanding in so masterful a manner. In reality, he was hesitating only because of his scruples against employing this man and making him, so to speak, his ally. And, anxiously, not knowing what decision to take, he walked from the gallery to the windows without saying a word. At last, he asked: "And who says that the letters were stolen last night?" "The theft is dated, Sire." "What do you say?" "Look at the inner side of the pediment which concealed the hiding-place. The date is written in white chalk: 'Midnight, 24 August.' . . ." "So it is," muttered the Emperor, nonplussed. "How was it that I did not see?" And he added, betraying his curiosity, "Just as with those two 'N's' painted on the wall. . . . I can't understand. This is the Minerva Room." "This is the room in which Napoleon, the Emperor of the French slept," said Lupin. "How do you know?" "Ask Waldemar, Sire. As for myself, when I was turning over the old servants' diary, it came upon me as a flash of light. I understood that Shears and I had been on the wrong scent. APOON, the imperfect word written by the Grand-duke Hermann on his death-bed, is a contraction not of Apollon, but of Napoleon." "That's true . . . you are right," said the Emperor. "The same letters occur in both words and in the same order. The grand-duke evidently meant to write 'Napoleon.' But that figure 813? . . ."