There were strange happenings elsewhere on the day Henri de Loubersac and Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had parted in grief and anger.

It was on the stroke of noon when Corporal Vinson heard a key turn in the lock of his cell. Two military jailors confronted him.

"Butler?"

The traitor answered to that name.

Juve, for reasons of his own, had not revealed the prisoner's true quality. Vinson had therefore been entered in the jail book as Butler.

One of the jailors, an old veteran, whose uniform was a mixture of the civil and the military, took the word.

"Butler, you are to be transferred to a building belonging to the Council of War: there you will occupy cell 27.... Our prison here is for the condemned only, so you cannot remain. You belong to the accused section."

All that mattered to Butler-Vinson for the moment was—he had to reach his new quarters by crossing the rue Cherche-Midi between two jailors.... He would be exposed to the curious glances of the public! He shuddered at the thought!... And there was worse to come! This was but the commencement of his purgatory.... As he had not known how to die at the right moment, he must arm himself with courage to expiate his cowardice!... He must leave the shelter of his cell!... With an intense effort of will he stretched out his arms, was handcuffed without a murmur, and, marching between his two jailors, he quitted the prison.

The bright light of noonday made him blink. On reaching the pavement he recoiled with a convulsive movement: the jailors pulled him forward.

It was the crowded hour, when men leave offices and shops for a midday meal. But the public of these parts, accustomed to such comings and goings of prisoners and their jailors, paid no attention to this pitiful trio.

The prisoner seemed so overcome with emotion that, after uttering a long sigh like a death rattle, he sank, a dead weight, into the arms of his jailors.

They were forced to support him. They carried him to the courtyard of the Council of War. Some, whose curiosity was aroused by the unusual pallor of the prisoner, wished to follow, but the jailors closed the great doors of the courtyard.

Before leading him to his cell, they dumped their inanimate prisoner on a chair in the porter's lodge.... The porter brought vinegar. They rubbed Butler-Vinson's temples with it. A jailor slapped his hands. In vain! The prisoner showed no signs of life!

"You had better take him to his cell," advised the porter. "Perhaps he will come to his senses if laid on his palliasse? In any case, run for the medical officer."

The jailors, who could make nothing of their prisoner's mysterious condition, transported him to cell 27. They laid him on his palliasse.

"Lieutenant Servin?"

"Commandant?"

"Will you help me to reduce these papers to order? It is half-past eleven: I want to go to breakfast!"

The lieutenant brought a pile of documents to his superior's table and rapidly classified them.

His superior, Commandant Dumoulin, had been chief assistant at the Second Bureau. He had passed long years at his post there. Previous to that, he had acted as Government Commissioner on the Councils of War in the various garrisons where he had been stationed.... Some six months ago Dumoulin had sent in his request to the Minister of War for a change of billet. His record being an excellent one, the Minister had appointed him Government Chief-commissioner attached to the Principal Council of War, sitting in Paris.

Dumoulin had recently taken up his new duties, and was counting on getting peacefully into the run of things, when, the evening before, he had been warned at his own home by a private note from the Minister, that a deserter, accused of treason, had been arrested, and that Corporal Vinson was the man in question.

At the sight of this name Commandant Dumoulin thrilled with excitement. As former Under-Secretary at the Second Bureau he had the affair at his finger ends, and well knew how tangled, how obscure it was, how bristling with dangers, how rich in complications.... The Vinson affair, it was the Captain Brocq affair, the singer Nichoune affair ... the story of a plan of mobilisation stolen, of a gun piece lifted from the Arsenal!... He was in for a big affair—a sensational case!...

The commandant passed a wakeful night and arrived early at his office. He must get to work! Fortunately, among his deputies he had found a competent and zealous helper in Lieutenant Servin. He turned to him now.

"Our next proceeding will be to establish the identity of Corporal Vinson. We must examine him on that point without delay.... Send for him immediately, Lieutenant!... According to the prison register, he occupies cell 26."

"Excuse me, Commandant; Vinson, who was registered this morning at the Cherche-Midi prison, must actually be in the Council buildings, where he occupied cell 27."

The commandant adjusted his eye-glasses, looked closely at a yellow paper, and corrected in his turn:

"That is an error: in cell 27 is an individual named Butler."

"Yes, Commandant: Butler—he is Vinson!"

"I do not understand," objected Dumoulin. "You must have made a mistake. Corporal Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare station: he was brought here and was registered for cell 26; besides, I was immediately informed of this arrest by a private telegram."

"Commandant," persisted the lieutenant: "Corporal Vinson, who hid himself under the name of Butler, was arrested early this morning at the Calais station, when he landed from England. The arrest was effected by Inspector Juve, who took his prisoner to Cherche-Midi about six o'clock; and this Vinson occupied cell 27."

"Come, now, Lieutenant, you have lost your head!" grumbled the commandant: "Since Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare station, it is evident that he was not arrested last night at Calais! Vinson and Butler—that makes two."

"I beg your pardon, Commandant: that makes only one!"

The commandant looked severely at his subordinate.

"That is enough, Lieutenant!... Send for Corporal Vinson who occupied cell 26."

"Right, Commandant!"

Some minutes later there was a knock at the door: two warders with a prisoner stood on the threshold.

The commandant assured himself with a glance that the non-commissioned officer, acting as reporter, was at his post, and that Lieutenant Servin was seated at the desk next his own.

"Enter!" he commanded.

Dumoulin solemnly opened the voluminous bundle of papers set before him, looked through the documents, affecting not to see the prisoner stationed before him.... Ready at length to begin the interrogation, the commandant raised his head, straightened himself, and ordered:

"Approach!"

The prisoner, a warder on each side of him, took a step forward.

"You are truly Corporal Vinson?"

"No, Commandant!"

Dumoulin was silent a moment, choking with anger, his hand trembling slightly—did the fellow mean to mock him?... He frowned. He did not like the manner of this fellow, with his bright, piercing eyes, his scornful looks. He repeated:

"Are you Corporal Vinson?"

"No, Commandant."

Dumoulin was boiling with rage: he was about to explode. Lieutenant Servin approached: in a low voice he said:

"Commandant! Someone wishes you to see him immediately."

Servin handed his superior a card. On it the commandant read:

Inspector Juve,
Detective Force,
Police Headquarters.

"What does he want?"

"He is the detective who arrested Vinson."

"Well," exclaimed the exasperated Dumoulin, "he arrives at the right moment! Let him come in!"

Juve entered and saluted Dumoulin with an amiable smile. He did not take any notice of the prisoner, who was standing with his back to the light.

"It is I, Commandant, who arrested Corporal Vinson; consequently, I have come to place myself at your disposal."

"You have done the right thing!" cried Dumoulin. "Now, will you get this prisoner to own up? Make him tell us whether or no he is Corporal Vinson!"

Dumoulin pointed an irate finger at the prisoner.

Our detective stood rooted to the ground!... The prisoner moved quickly towards him.

"Fandor!"

"Juve!"

"What does this mean, Fandor?"

"It means, Juve, that I am arrested in the place of Corporal Vinson!"

"Nothing of the sort!... I arrive from London. I arrested Vinson yesterday evening at Calais!"

Fandor laughed: he could have roared with laughter.

"My dear Juve," said he, "I should have to talk to you for two mortal hours before you would understand a word of this business!"

Fandor turned to the thunderstruck Dumoulin, and said in a voice of the most exquisite politeness:

"Commandant, I must state once for all that I am not Corporal Vinson!... I am a journalist, whom you perhaps know by name: JÉrÔme Fandor, on the staff of La Capitale.... If you see me in this uniform, this disguise, that relates to a series of events, details of which I will give you with pleasure, as soon as I have reduced my own ideas to order.... As things stand, I am fortunate in meeting my friend Juve, who, if you desire it, will confirm the truth of my statement."

Dumoulin, more and more nonplussed, started in turn at the detective, at the journalist, at his reporter.... With face red as a boiled lobster, he turned to Lieutenant Servin....

When this farcical scene began, Servin had gone into his own office, and had given his secretary an order. The secretary had just returned. The lieutenant, having recorded the answer brought him, had just that moment returned to the commandant's office.

Lieutenant Servin looked upset.

"Commandant!" he gasped out.

He turned to our detective.

"Monsieur Juve!"

He continued staring first at one man, then at the other.

"An incredible thing has happened!... I have just heard of it!... I had given the order to have Corporal Vinson brought here immediately—the real Corporal Vinson—he whom Monsieur Juve arrested under the name of Butler: well, Commandant, it appears that on entering his cell they found him—dead!"

"What is that you say?" asked Dumoulin and Juve together.

"I say that he is dead," repeated the lieutenant.

"But how?" questioned Juve.

The lieutenant made a sign to the sergeant in charge.

"Go for the medical officer."

Some minutes passed in a silence that hummed with questions.

A young assistant surgeon appeared.

"Kindly explain what is wrong, Monsieur!" commanded Dumoulin.

The surgeon spoke.

"My commandant sent for me, about an hour ago. I was to attend to a prisoner who had fainted. This man, when crossing the rue du Cherche-Midi, had suddenly lost consciousness. His warders could not revive him. They carried him to his cell. They laid him on his palliasse. When I arrived the man was dead."

"Dead of what?" demanded Dumoulin.

"A bullet in his heart," replied the surgeon.... "I ascertained this when undressing him. The bullet will be found at the post-mortem: it has probably lodged in the vertebral column."

Dumoulin rose: paced the floor: he was greatly agitated.

"Oh, come, come!" he cried. "People are not killed like that in the open street!... It is unheard of! Unbelievable!... A bullet presupposes a revolver—a weapon of percussion of some description—a detonation!... There is a noise, a sound!"

Dumoulin went up to the young surgeon. There was a note of suspicious contempt in his question:

"Are you quite sure of what you say?"

"I am quite sure, Commandant."

During this discussion Juve had approached Fandor. When the surgeon made his statement, Juve murmured in Fandor's ear:

"Vinson shot through the heart by a bullet!... Like Captain Brocq!... Killed undoubtedly by a noiseless weapon ... when crossing the street!... Here, again, is—FantÔmas!"

Things calmed down somewhat. Fandor addressed Dumoulin:

"Excuse me, Commandant, for having troubled you. I should be most grateful if you would set me at liberty. One tragedy follows hard on another! It is phenomenal!... I shall have to."...

Commandant Dumoulin burst out:

"By Heaven!" he shouted, thumping the table with his fist: "You are the limit!... The take-the-cake limit!... You flout me! You practise on my credulity!... Now you would steal a march on me! Try it on—will you?... Ah! You are not Corporal Vinson!... No?... You are a journalist!... You have got to prove that!... Even if you do prove it, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle by your fooling, by making a laughing-stock of the entire army in your own preposterous person—by assuming that uniform!...

"Guards!" shouted Dumoulin. "Take this man back to his cell! Be sharp about it!... Double his guard!"

Fandor was not allowed time to protest: he was marched off at the double.

Juve tried to get in a word of explanation.

"I assure you, Commandant, it is certainly JÉrÔme Fandor you are deal——"

"You!" yelled the commandant. "Get out! Foot it!... Leave me in peace, can't you!... Out with you, or I'll know the reason why!... Begone!"...

Dumoulin was apoplectic with rage.