Then all at once the waiter came up again with another buff envelope lying on his plated salver. And this time our anticipations were realised; here at last was the expected news. M. Zola read the telegram, then showed it to me. It was brief, but sufficient. 'Cheque postponed,' it said; and Zola knew what those words meant. 'Cheque paid' would have signified that not only had revision been granted, but that all the proceedings against Dreyfus were quashed, and that he would not even have to be re-tried by another court-martial. And in a like way 'cheque unpaid' would have meant that revision had been refused by the Court. 'Cheque postponed' implied the granting of revision and a new court-martial. The phraseology of this telegram, as of previous ones, had long since been arranged. For months many seemingly innocent 'wires' had been full of meaning. There had been no more enigmatical telegrams, as at the time of Henry's arrest and death, but telegrams drafted in accordance with M. Zola's instructions and each word of which was perfectly intelligible to him. It often happened that the newspaper correspondents 'were not in it.' Things were known to M. Zola and at times to myself hours--and even days--before there was any mention of them in print. The blundering anti-Dreyfusites have often if not invariably overlooked the fact that their adversaries number men of acumen, skill, and energy. Far from it being true that money has played any role in the affair, everything has virtually been achieved by brains and courage. In fact, from first to last, the Revisionist agitation, whilst proving that the Truth must always ultimately conquer, has likewise shown the supremacy of true intellect over every other force in the world, whether wealth, or influence, or fanaticism. But I must return to M. Zola. He now knew all he wished to know. As there had been no postponement of the Court's decision there need be none of his return. A telegram to Paris announcing his departure from London was hastily drafted and I hurried with it to the post-office, meeting on my way M. and Mme. Fasquelle, who were walking towards the Queen's Hotel. We had a right merry little dinner that evening. We were all in the best of humours. M. Zola's face was radiant. A great victory had been won; and then, too, he was going home! He recalled the more amusing incidents of his exile; it seemed to him, said he, as if for months and months he had been living in a dream. And M. Fasquelle broke in with a reminder that M. Zola must be very careful when he reached his house, and must in no wise damage the historic table for which he, Fasquelle, had given such a pile of money at the memorable auction in the Rue de Bruxelles. Ah, that table! We were in a mood to laugh about anything, and we laughed at the thought of the table; at the thought, too, of all the simple-minded folk who had imagined that they would be able to purchase 'souvenirs' at the auction so abruptly brought to an end.