Fandor stared at himself with wild eyes....

He must be in an abominable dream, a mad nightmare!... He must be!...

What was behind all this? This outrage? This Vagualame, criminal proprietor of this pavilion, was the author of it! To him he owed it that he was thus bound, masked, disguised!

That sinister menace was still ringing in his ears: "Through FantÔmas thou shalt die!"

Well, however it might come, Death came but once! He would await the event!

Fandor's spirit rose once more—indomitable.

He closed his eyes.

He lived again, as might a drowning man, his hours of joy, of struggle, of triumph, of defeat, of high endeavour: all the thick-packed hours of vivid life. Ah, how FantÔmas had haunted him from childhood onwards!

"'Tis but life's logic," he reflected: "I have fought FantÔmas, and not always has the victory been wholly his! More than once I have called check to him! It is his turn to take revenge with the irrevocable checkmate. Well, I have lost. I pay."

The heavy silence of the studio was loud with menace.

Surrounded by it, he awaited Death's coming, in whatever guise....

The studio door swung open noiselessly. Some twenty men appeared, all clothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thickly carpeted floor was soundless.

Fandor stared at these strange figures.

Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facing Fandor. He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, arms crossed, head high, considering Fandor. He spoke:

"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every means in your power! Do you swear it still?"

The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:

"We swear it!"

"Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?"

"We are prepared."

The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who bent their heads as he apostrophised them:

"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us the indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideous crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I, Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver him up to you!"

The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.

A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur breathing hate and menaces:

"FantÔmas!... FantÔmas!"

Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.

"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"

Trokoff was FantÔmas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to rid himself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his companions. Making him pass for FantÔmas, he drove them on to murder, thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving them to reap what consequences might follow from the journalist's assassination.

How Fandor longed to shout:

"I am not FantÔmas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"

But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to prove to them he was not FantÔmas? Who among them could recognise the unknown, elusive bandit, FantÔmas?

These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of reason. How could he show up Trokoff as he really was?

It would be madness to attempt it!

For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evil countenance of FantÔmas—FantÔmas who was gloating over his confusion and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping for some act of cowardice.

Never would JÉrÔme Fandor play the coward!

At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a sound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were about to utter. He awaited the event.

A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.

"FantÔmas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say in your defence?"

Fandor was dumb.

"FantÔmas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood and mask—I tear them off you!"

Trokoff rushed forward, crying:

"Do not lay hands on him!... This wretch belongs to me!"

Turning to his fellow-conspirators, Trokoff demanded:

"My hand should strike the fatal blow! I brought him here! The right is mine!"

Trokoff continued, in a quieter tone:

"The police may have been warned of our gathering here! We are spied on, tracked! You know it well!... Suppose we stay to watch the dying agony of this wretch! Suppose the police descend upon us! They will snatch from us our just revenge and will arrest us all!... Hand over this monster to me and leave the place. If the police are watching you they will see you go!... Leave FantÔmas to me, that, at my leisure, I may see him die as he deserves to die!"

Fandor shuddered: so a lingering agony, a fearful death was to be faced!... Yes, FantÔmas meant to torture him, extract from his victim some appeal for pity, for the mercy this monster in human form could never know nor exercise! Yes, FantÔmas had changed his plans: rid of the Nihilists, he could have it all his own way with Fandor!

The disciples, as with one voice, cried:

"We are thy faithful followers. What thou ordainest that we do!"...

Trokoff turned to Fandor. He shook a threatening fist in Fandor's face.

"Collect yourself.... You are to pay the price of expiation soon!"

This menace hurled at his victim, Trokoff drew his fanatical partisans together, made them quit the studio, and vanished with them....

"He will return," thought Fandor: "And then it is all up with me! Courage to face the worst!"

The door of the studio had barely closed on Trokoff and his dupes when Fandor heard a breathless murmur at his ear.

"Quick! Quick! Fandor! Trokoff, you have guessed it, is Vagualame! Is FantÔmas!... Cost what it may we must get the mastery of him!"

Fandor could not turn his head, but he felt his bonds were being loosened.... A minute or two and he was free! He took a staggering step or two: his limbs were stiff and numb.... Close to him, watching his first difficult movements with an expression of ardent sympathy, our journalist perceived—Naarboveck....

"You," said he.

"I!... Fandor, I will explain!... Hold! Here is a revolver!... Ah! the bandits!... They took me too! Me also they have condemned to death! But I managed to escape!... Look out! He returns! We will fall upon Trokoff!... We will avenge ourselves!"

A heavy step was heard on the stairs; someone was mounting hurriedly.... Trokoff was about to reappear....

Fandor grasped the revolver de Naarboveck had just handed to him. He bounded to the door, ready to leap on the entering man.

De Naarboveck was ambushed on the side opposite to Fandor.

Suddenly Fandor shouted:

"Do not kill him! If it is FantÔmas, we must take him alive!"

Before de Naarboveck had time to reply, the door was flung back against him, thus putting him out of action for the moment.

Fandor shot forward, seized Trokoff by the throat, and, rolling on the floor with him, yelled:

"To me, Naarboveck! FantÔmas, you are taken! Yield!"

Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not been able to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, in a terrible embrace; panting, livid, with eyes of hate and horror!

De Naarboveck had laid hold of Trokoff, shouting:

"You shall die! You must die!"

This frightful struggle lasted but a few moments. Trokoff managed to free himself from Fandor's grip. The stupefied journalist heard a familiar voice crying:

"Look out, Fandor! It is Naarboveck we must take! Go it! Go it!"

The studio was plunged in darkness: a door banged: Fandor staggered, driven violently back into the middle of the studio. He felt a man was rushing away.

"He escapes! He escapes!"

Fandor did not know who had remained with him, who, had fled, whether he was on his head or his heels!... It was a momentary bewilderment; for the voice he had heard when the struggle was at its height was still speaking, calm, mocking.... It was the voice of Juve, saying:

"How exasperating!... These matches are no good at all!... Ah!... this one has decided to catch!"

In the uncertain light of the match flame Fandor perceived someone leaning against the wall—it was Trokoff!—Trokoff, who calmly went up to a table, took a candlestick, and lighted a candle! Throwing himself into an arm-chair, this Trokoff asked:

"Well now? Why the devil are you got up as FantÔmas, my lad?... For a military prisoner this is not at all correct!"

Could Fandor believe his ears? his eyes?

Trokoff was Juve!

Fandor looked so bewildered that Juve-Trokoff laughed a merry laugh.

"Come now, my Fandor, try to gather your wandering wits together a bit and answer me!"

"You, Juve!... You are Juve!" gasped Fandor, exhausted in mind, and body with the emotions he had experienced.

"So it happens," replied Juve: "Well, I see I must speak first as you do not seem to be in a condition to talk!... Listen, then!...

"I know these Nihilists, who imagine I am their chief, Trokoff—that is my latest transformation!... I learned this evening that these imbeciles, believing they had got hold of FantÔmas, were summoned here to-night to pass judgment on the bandit.... I accompanied them as Trokoff, who had called them together. When we entered, I can assure you that, bound to your pillar, you made a striking figure of FantÔmas!... You took in even me—for a while! Luckily I noticed your hands, the only portions of you visible, covered as you were in that confounded hooded thing they muffled you up in.... You must know that the pattern of the veins on the hands is absolutely characteristic and individual; so much so that the anthropometric service in Vienna is entirely based on this principle!... That is how I recognized you, my little Fandor. You can imagine that my one idea then was to get rid of the Nihilists as soon as possible, and liberate you! But, by Jove, when I returned, you and Naarboveck between you attacked me so brutally that you nearly did for me! It was a narrow shave! He was throttling me! Had you fired your revolver at me you would almost certainly have killed me, and then you would have fallen a victim yourself to."...

Juve stopped. He questioned Fandor with a look. "De Naarboveck!... De Naarboveck, who is FantÔmas," replied Fandor, who now understood the situation.

Juve crossed his arms.

"It is as you say. Vagualame, Naarboveck, FantÔmas, are one and the same: and, be sure of this, we have not set eyes on the real face of FantÔmas yet, for de Naarboveck is as much made up for the part as he is when playing Vagualame!... Also."...

"Juve! Juve!" interrupted Fandor.... "We are mad to stay talking like this!... Naarboveck has just vanished. He is certain to go to his place even if, feeling he is unmasked, he has decided to disappear forever. Do not let him escape! Juve, for Heaven's sake, hurry!"

Juve did not stir.

"How very violent you are, and how simple, my little Fandor! Look now, it is quite three minutes since de Naarboveck disappeared from here, and you imagine there is still time to catch him?... It is childish!"...

"But Juve! I tell you de Naarboveck must return to his house! Let us put a watch on him and trap him!"

Juve's voice trembled as he made answer:

"We cannot arrest de Naarboveck!"...

"Why?... What do you mean?"...

"Because, though I have the right to place my hand on the collar of FantÔmas, I have no power to arrest de Naarboveck!"...

Fandor's reply to this was an uncomprehending stare.

"It's Greek to you, I see! Trust me, Fandor! At present I have no right to reveal this secret, but, take my word for it, Naarboveck is inviolable!"

Fandor understood that this was an official secret which Juve was not at liberty to divulge.

"Ye Gods!" he exclaimed.

"Bah! The game is not lost yet, Fandor, my boy! I have still a card to play against his, and I play it this very night.... Enough of that for the moment! I am dying to know how you, whom I believed peacefully reposing at Cherche-Midi, happen to be playing the part of FantÔmas in deserted studios!"

Juve's coolness was infectious. Fandor was himself again. He told Juve the story of his escape. At the close he asked abruptly:

"Now what are we going to do?"

Juve shook his head.

"Attention, my lad! Don't mix up the questions!... What am I going to do?... What are you going to do?... You, Fandor, ought to return to Cherche-Midi straight away, and ask them to put you back in your cell. That is the wise thing to do, believe me, dear lad!... To get away like that was a mistake—a very grave mistake—the falsest of false moves.... To escape is equivalent to pleading guilty.... You are innocent.... Return, then, to your prison ... I can promise you that you will not remain there long."

"And you, Juve?"

Juve rose, yawned.

"Oh!... It is a nuisance, but I must get into evening dress ... and that I do not like ... I must go by train, too—confound it all!"...

In a sumptuously decorated study an elegantly clad Juve was listening to a personage. This personage was addressing our detective in a tone at once friendly and haughty.

"No. It is not possible. It is asking too much of me! You do not take into consideration, Juve, the many complications which such an intervention on my part would give rise to if, by chance, you are mistaken.... I have the greatest confidence in you, Juve, I know your ability: I have had proof of your loyalty: I have experienced your devotion, but—you are not infallible!... The story you have told me is so strange, so—improbable, that I have to take into consideration the possibility of there having been some mistake, some blunder. I have to consider the terrible consequences to which I should expose myself in such a case!"...

Juve frowned slightly.

"With all respect, I should like to point out to Your Majesty that it is a mere question of a signature to be given."...

"A signature, Juve, which commits me, my kingdom! It might fan the flame! Worse: it might put a match to the powder magazine."

"Your Majesty might consider that by such a signature the thing would be settled."

"Juve! For the hundredth time I repeat I cannot give you this order! However far back in our annals you might go, I am convinced you could not find a precedent for this!"

"Your Majesty will not forget that with his name, a line of his writing, all difficulties would be cleared away."

"Oh, as to that!... Have you considered that if this decree be unmerited, this document will be a shameful one, and will reflect shame not only on me but on my country? Do you not know that a king has no right to put his signature, his seal to an injustice?"

"Sire, I know that a king should be Justice! Sire, I know I ask nothing Your Majesty may not grant! Sire, I have urged, entreated! But Your Majesty must excuse me when I say that I am no longer a suppliant.... Your Majesty understands me?... It is Juve who requests the signature of Your Majesty!"

The king was visibly hesitating. At last he replied:

"I understand you, Juve. You would remind me of that official visit to Paris when you saved my life and the life of my queen at the risk of your own. I told you then that I should never refuse you anything you asked of me! It is to that you allude, is it not?"

"Sire, I should never call upon your Majesty to pay a debt you did not acknowledge.... I did not then foresee that a decree from Your Majesty would prove the solution of the most formidable problem I have ever had to solve! I would far rather not recall the debt.... Your Majesty has forced me to remind you of your given word."...

The king had risen and was pacing the room.

"If I grant you this decree, Juve, will you take it to the Chancellor's Office as soon as you reach Paris?"

"Yes, Sire!"

"You will not wait, Juve, to have further proofs of what you assert?"

"No, Sire!"

"I must, then, rely solely on your word for it, your certainty, your conviction?"

"Yes, Sire!"

"Juve! Juve! If you exact this in the name of the promise I once made you, I will sign this decree for you—but—you will forfeit my friendship! You will have taken my good faith by storm! Decide then, Juve! Exact this—I grant it you!"

There was a silence.... Juve broke it.

"Surely Your Majesty does not wish to put me on the horns of such a dilemma? Lose Your Majesty's friendship, confidence, or let pass a unique opportunity?"

"Yes, Juve.... That is what I wish."

"In that case, Sire, I do not exact payment! But Your majesty is breaking to pieces all that my life means! Sire, my own honour wills it that I bring this business to a conclusion, cost what it may! With Your Majesty's support it was possible.... With only my own resources to depend on all is lost!"

It evidently cost the king something not to give Juve the satisfaction he implored.

"Juve, this is cruel! I would rather you had exacted the decree.... But all is not ended.... I will order an investigation in a fortnight's time."...

"In a fortnight's time? Your Majesty knows it will be too late."

The king continued his pacing up and down. He was considering the question.

"Juve, can you bring me face to face with this man? Can you convict him of his imposture in my presence?"

"What exactly does Your Majesty mean?"

"I mean, Juve, that whatever might be the scandal, the humiliation it might result in for me, I would grant you here and now the decree you claim if I were assured that you had not made a mistake.... You bring me suppositions, Juve, but no proofs! Arrange so that this man throws off his mask, if but for an instant, and I will allow your justice to take its course!... Juve, forget that you are speaking to a king: think of me as your friend!... Whatever the risks to be run, can you bring us face to face under such conditions that the truth will be apparent to me?"

Juve reflected. He raised his head and looked at the king.

"Your Majesty," said he slowly: "I am going to ask you to take an extraordinary step.... I am going to ask Your Majesty to perhaps risk your life. I am going to ask Your Majesty."...

Juve's emotion was such that he could scarcely speak. Mastering it, he said in a low voice:

"I am going to ask Your Majesty to accompany me in three days' time ... when."...