t, 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.

Madame Fosco took a book from the table, sat down, a