M. Zola did not tell me his thoughts, yet I could guess them.  We can generally guess the thoughts of those we love.  But the hours went by and nothing came.  How long they were, those judges!  Whatever could be the cause of their delay?  Surely—­trained, practised men that they were, men who had spent their lives in seeking and proclaiming the truth—­surely no element of doubt could have penetrated their minds at the final, the supreme moment.

Ah! the waiter entered, and there on his salver lay a buff envelope, within which must surely be the ardently awaited message that would tell us of victory or defeat.  M. Zola could scarcely tear that envelope open; his hands trembled violently.  And then came an anti-climax.  The wire was from M. Fasquelle, who announced that he and his wife were inviting themselves to dinner at Norwood that evening.

It was welcome news, but not the news so impatiently expected.  And, at last, suspense become intolerable, I resolved to go out and try to purchase some afternoon newspapers.

There had been rumours to the effect that as each individual judge might preface his decision by a declaration of the reasons which prompted it, the final judgment might after all be postponed until Monday.  Both M. Zola and I had thought this improbable; still, there was a possibility of such delay, and perhaps it was on account of a postponement of the kind that the telegram we awaited had not arrived.

I scoured Upper Norwood for afternoon papers.  There was, however, nothing to the point at that hour (about five P.M.) in ‘The Evening News,’ the ‘Globe,’ the ‘Echo,’ the ‘Star,’ the ‘Sun,’ the three ‘Gazettes.’  They, like we, were ‘waiting for the verdict.’  I went as far as the lower level station in the hope of finding some newspaper that might give an inkling of the position, and I found nothing at all.  It was extremely warm, and I was somewhat excited.  Thus I was perspiring terribly by the time I returned to the hotel, to learn that no telegram had come as yet, that things were still in statu quo.

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.