But the clock was now on the stroke of the hour, the carriage doors were hastily closed, and the signal for departure was given.

‘Au revoir, au revoir!’ A last handshake, and the train started.  For another half-minute we could see our dear and illustrious friend at his carriage window waving his arm to us.  And then he was gone.  The responsibility which had so long rested on Wareham and myself was ended; Emile Zola’s exit was virtually over:  shortly after five o’clock on the following morning he would once more be in Paris, ready to take his part in the final, crowning act of one of the greatest dramas that the world has ever witnessed.  Truth was still marching on, and assuredly nothing would be able to stop it.