The daily paper, The Capital, was about to go to press. The editors had handed over the last slips of copy with the latest news.

"Well, Fandor," asked the Secretary, "nothing more for me?"

"No, nothing."

"You won't spring a 'latest' on me?"

"Not unless the President of the Republic should be assassinated."

"Right enough. But don't joke. Lord, there's something else to be done just now."

The "setter up" appeared in the editor's rooms:

"I want sharp type for 'one,' and eight lines for 'two.'"

Discreetly, as a man accustomed to the business, Fandor withdrew on hearing the request of the "setter up," avoiding the searching glance of the sub-editor, who forthwith to meet the demands of the paging, called at random one of the reporters and passed on the order to him.

"Some lines of special type; eight lines. Take up the Cretan question on the Havas telegrams. Be quick!"

Fandor picked up his hat and stick and left the office. His berth as police-reporter meant a constantly active and unsettled existence. He was never his own master, never knew ten minutes beforehand what he was going to do, whether he might go home, start on a journey, interview a minister or risk his life by an investigation in the world of thugs and cut-throats.

"Deuce take it!" he cried as he passed the office door and saw what the time was. "I simply must go to the courts, and it's already very late...." He ran forward a few paces, then stopped short. "And that porter murdered at Belleville!... If I don't cover that affair I shall have nothing interesting to turn in...."

He retraced his steps, looking for a cab and swearing at the narrowness of the Rue Montmartre, where the inadequate pavements forced the foot passengers to overflow on to the roadway, which was choked with costermongers' carts, heavy motor-buses, and all that swarm of vehicles which gives a Paris street an air of bustle unequalled in any other capital in the world. As he was about to pass the corner of the Rue BergÈre, a porter laden down with sample boxes, strung on a hook, ran into him, almost knocking him down.

"Look where you're going!" cried the journalist.

"Look out yourself," replied the man insolently.

Fandor, with an angry shrug of his shoulders, was about to pursue his way, when the man stopped him.

"Sir, can you direct me to the Rue du Croissant?"

"Follow the Rue Montmartre and take the second turning to the right."

"Thank you, sir; could you give me a light?"

Fandor could not repress a smile. He held out his cigarette. "Here; is that all you want to-day?"

"Well, you might offer me a drink."

Fandor was about to answer sharply when something in the man's face seemed vaguely familiar. He was about sixty. His clothes were threadbare and green with age, his shoes down at the heels, his moustache and shaggy beard a dirty yellow.

"Why the devil should I stand you a drink?"

"A good impulse, M. Fandor."

In a moment the man's features seemed to change. He appeared quite a different person and Fandor recognised who was speaking to him. Accustomed by long habit to conceal his impressions, the journalist spoke nonchalantly:

"All right; let's go to the 'Grand Charlemagne.'"

They started off together, reached the Faubourg Montmartre and entered a small wine-shop. Having taken their seats and ordered drinks, Fandor turned to the porter.

"What's up?" he asked.

"It takes you a long time to recognise your friends."

Fandor scrutinised his companion.

"You are wonderfully made up, Juve."

On hearing his name mentioned, the man gave a start. "Don't utter my name! They know me here as old Paul."

"But why the disguise? Who are you after? Is it anything to do with FantÔmas?"

Juve shrugged his shoulders. "Let's leave FantÔmas out of it," he said. "At least for the moment. No, my lad, it's a very commonplace affair to-day, and I wouldn't have bumped into you except that I have an hour to while away and wanted your company."

"This disguise for a commonplace affair?" cried Fandor. "Come, Juve, don't keep me in the dark."

Juve laughed at his friend's eagerness.

"You'll always be the same. When it's a matter of detective work, there's no keeping you out of it. Well, here's the information you're after. Read that."

He passed Fandor a greasy, ill-written letter. Fandor took it in at a glance.

"This refers to Loupart, alias the Square?"

"Yes."

"And you call it a commonplace affair? But, look here, can you trust information given by a loose woman?"

"My dear Fandor, the police largely depend upon such tips, given through revenge by women of that class."

"Well, I'm going with you."

"No, I won't have you mixed up in this business; it's too dangerous."

"All the more reason for my being in it! What is really known about this Loupart?"

"Very little, unfortunately," rejoined Juve. "And it's the mystery surrounding him which makes us uneasy. Although he has been involved in some of the worst crimes, he has always managed to escape arrest. He is supposed to be one of an organised gang. In any case, he's a resolute scoundrel who wouldn't hesitate to draw his gun in case of need."

Fandor nodded.

"His arrest will make bully copy."

"And for the pleasure of writing a sensational story you want to put your life in peril again!" Juve smiled sympathetically as he spoke. He had known the young journalist, when, scarcely grown up, he had been involved in the weird affairs of "FantÔmas."

Fandor was an assumed name. Juve recalled the young Charles Rambert, victim of the mysterious FantÔmas, the most redoubtable ruffian of modern times, whom Juve declared to be Gurn and still alive, although Gurn had supposedly died on the scaffold. He recalled the sensational trial and the terrible revelations that had appalled society. Gurn he had then affirmed to be the lover of the Englishwoman, Lady Beltham. Gurn it was who had killed her husband, and Gurn was no other than FantÔmas.

He recalled the tragical morning when Gurn, in the very shadow of the scaffold, had found means to send in his stead an innocent victim, Valgrand, the actor.

"When will you begin to draw in your net?" inquired Fandor.

Juve motioned to his companion to be silent and listen.

"Fandor, you hear what that man's singing; the one drinking at the bar?"

"Yes, 'The Blue Danube.'"

"Well, that gives me the answer. We shall soon be on Loupart's tracks. By the way, are you armed?"

"If you won't run me in for carrying concealed weapons I'll confess that Baby Browning is in my pocket."

"Good. Now, then, listen to my directions. Loupart was seen at the markets this morning by two of my watchers, and you may be sure he hasn't been lost sight of since. Reports I have received indicate that he will presumably go to the Chateaudun cross-roads and from there to the Place Pigalle, in the direction of Doctor Chaleck's house. We shall nab him at the cross-roads. Needless to say we are not going to keep together. As soon as our man comes in sight you will pass on ahead, walking at his pace on the same pavement and without turning round."

"And if Loupart doesn't appear?"

"Why then—" began Juve. "The deuce! There's another customer whistling 'The Blue Danube.' It's time to be off."

"Are those your agents whistling?" asked Fandor, as they left the shop.

"No."

"What! Isn't it a signal?"

"It is, and you'll be able to find your trail by the passers-by who whistle that air."

While talking, the journalist and the detective arrived at the Chateaudun cross-roads. Juve cast an eye over the ground.

"It's six o'clock. Be off and prowl around Notre Dame de Lorette. Loupart will probably come out of that wine-shop you see to the right. You can easily recognise him by his height and a scar on his left cheek."

"Look here, Juve, why should these people whistle 'The Blue Danube' if they are not detectives?"

Juve smiled. "It's quite simple. If you whistle a popular tune in a crowd, some one is bound to take it up. Well, the two men I put to watching Loupart this morning were whistling this same tune, and now we are meeting persons who caught the air."

Fandor crossed the road and proceeded toward Notre Dame de Lorette to the post the detective had allotted to him. The man hunt was about to begin.