o’clock struck, two, three, four—­and still the slips flew about all round him; still the untiring pen scraped its way ceaselessly from top to bottom of the page, still the white chaos of paper rose higher and higher all round his chair.  At four o’clock I heard a sudden splutter of the pen, indicative of the flourish with which he signed his name.  “Bravo!” he cried, springing to his feet with the activity of a young man, and looking me straight in the face with a smile of superb triumph.

“Done, Mr. Hartright!” he announced with a self-renovating thump of his fist on his broad breast.  “Done, to my own profound satisfaction—­to your profound astonishment, when you read what I have written.  The subject is exhausted:  the man—­Fosco—­is not.  I proceed to the arrangement of my slips—­to the revision of my slips—­to the reading of my slips—­addressed emphatically to your private ear.  Four o’clock has just struck.  Good!  Arrangement, revision, reading, from four to five.  Short snooze of restoration for myself from five to six.  Final preparations from six to seven.  Affair of agent and sealed letter from seven to eight.  At eight, en route.  Behold the programme!”

He sat down cross-legged on the floor among his papers, strung them together with a bodkin and a piece of string—­revised them, wrote all the titles and honours by which he was personally distinguished at the head of the first page, and then read the manuscript to me with loud theatrical emphasis and profuse theatrical gesticulation.  The reader will have an opportunity, ere long, of forming his own opinion of the document.  It will be sufficient to mention here that it answered my purpose.

He next wrote me the address of the person from whom he had hired the fly, and handed me Sir Percival’s letter.  It was dated from Hampshire on the 25th of July, and it announced the journey of “Lady Glyde” to London on the 26th.  Thus, on the very day (the 25th) when the doctor’s certificate declared that she had died in St. John’s Wood, she was alive, by Sir Percival’s own showing, at Blackwater—­and, on the day after, she was to take a journey!  When the proof of that journey was obtained from the flyman, the evidence would be complete.

“A quarter-past five,” said the Count, looking at his watch.  “Time for my restorative snooze.  I personally resemble Napoleon the Great, as you may have remarked, Mr. Hartright—­I also resemble that immortal man in my power of commanding sleep at will.  Excuse me one moment.  I will summon Madame Fosco, to keep you from feeling dull.”

Knowing as well as he did, that he was summoning Madame Fosco to ensure my not leaving the house while he was asleep, I made no reply, and occupied myself in tying up the papers which he had placed in my possession.

The lady came in, cool, pale, and venomous as ever.  “Amuse Mr. Hartright, my angel,” said the Count.  He placed a chair for her, kissed her hand for the second time, withdrew to a sofa, and, in three minutes, was as peacefully and happily asleep as the most virtuous man in existence.