"Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!"

"That's not surprising," cried the visitor, who seemed of a gay disposition, for she always laughed at the close of every sentence. "My goodness! It would be queer if you did not recognise me, considering you have never seen me before!... I am Aunt Palmyra, let me tell you!"

The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memory in vain.

"Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed.

"Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt—a customer of yours, she is! She must have mentioned me often—I adore the little pet!"

Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention, but, out of politeness, he murmured:

"Of course! Why, of course!"

"Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! I must go and give her a hug and a kiss!"

Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra.

"On the ground floor—end of the passage!... But you're never thinking of waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise if you do!"

"Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who it is!... Just look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showing him the vegetables in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-song voice:

"Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of the best! It will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us in the country!"

"My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!"

Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there was no response.

"Well, what a sleep she's having!"

"Likely enough," replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bed till four o'clock!"

All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He tried to peep through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietly drew a gimlet from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. Aunt Palmyra watched him smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow.

"Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at your customers this way, when it suits you!"

With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole he had just made. He uttered an exclamation:

"Good heavens!"

"What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her room empty?"

"Empty? No! But."...

Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverish haste, drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, and rushed into the room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled:

"Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?"

Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep to an onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye: her face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in the air, were terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, the innkeeper and Aunt Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained in this vertical position by means of string tied round her wrists and fastened to the canopy over the bed.

"She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! What a thing to happen!"

Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for her charming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery. She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. This attitude only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loud lamentations uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into an arm-chair, then sank in a heap on the sofa, then returned to the table! She was making a regular nuisance of herself. The innkeeper, scared and bewildered, did not know how to act: he was staring fixedly at the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave no sign of life. Involuntarily the man had touched the dead girl's shoulder: the body was quite cold.

The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distracted bewilderment by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of his obvious duty: of course he must call in the police, and also avoid scandal. Also he must stop this old woman's outrageous goings-on.

"Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Stay where you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return ... and, above all, you must not touch a single thing before the arrival of the police."

"The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poor Nichoune, however could this have happened?"

Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman, with remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disordered furniture, and seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in her bodice.

Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned, accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louis endeavoured to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wish to do anything.

"I tell you," he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my while looking at this corpse ... for the superintendent will be here shortly, and he will take charge of the legal procedure."

At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompanied by his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogation of the innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it was impossible to do any serious work. This insupportable old woman could not make head or tail of the questions, and answered at random.

"Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you have to say presently."

"But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra.

"Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperated inspector.

"Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so," replied the old woman, looking seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, you have a very rude tongue in your head!"

To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added:

"Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far as the corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing."

* * * * *

Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish to see them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through the town without stopping. When she reached the railway station she looked at the clock.

"By the saints! I have barely time," she ejaculated.

The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticket punched—it was a return ticket—and stepped on to the platform at the precise moment a porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice:

"Passengers for Paris take your seats!"

Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "For ladies only."

* * * * *

The train rolled out of the station.

An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place at Chateau-Thierry.

"Excuse me, sir," said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fast asleep—a stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair—"Excuse me, Monsieur, but you are in a 'For ladies only!'"

The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gesture of a short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pair of spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector.

"I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!"

The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a small bundle of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!... An hour later, the train from Chalons arrived at Paris, ten minutes behind time. Directly he stood on the platform the traveller looked at his watch.

"Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!"

He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders:

"Rue Saint Dominique—Ministry of War!... and quick!"

* * * * *

Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve, judging it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted the Under-Secretary of State's office. Instead of mounting to the Second Bureau, he sent in his name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although their acquaintance was but slight, the two men were in sympathy: each realised that the other was courageous and devoted to duty; both were enamoured of an active life and open air.

Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if not facts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to the attitude which the military authorities meant to take up. Commandant Dumoulin, however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, and Juve was about to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered.

Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled.

"Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur ... but, since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocq affair."...

Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation.

"I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now," continued the colonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocq had a mistress; unfortunately—I am sorry for the wound to your self-esteem—the correctness of your version stops there! Brocq's mistress was not a society woman, as you thought: on the contrary, she was a girl of the lower orders ... a music-hall singer, called Nichoune ... of Chalons!"

"You have proof of it?"

The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters to Juve.

"Here is the correspondence—letters written by Brocq to the girl! One of my collaborators seized them at girl's place."...

Juve scrutinised the letters.

"It's curious," he said, half to himself.... "An annoying coincidence ... but the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!"

"No other name appears," observed the colonel: "Consequently, taking into consideration the place where these letters have been found ... we must conclude."...

"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.

"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.

"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:

"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking possession of these letters, had a talk with the person who had received them. Did he manage to extract any information?"

Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.

"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question to talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"

"Dead?" echoed Juve.

"That is as I say."

The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken aback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic voice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.

"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but before we separate allow me to give you a word of advice.

"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with matters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that is what we are here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary police work, that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure, continue your hunt for Fantomas, that will give you all the occupation you require!... Yes," continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching his fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so many flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs to us—and occupy yourself with Fantomas!"



XI

THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTOMAS

Leaning on his window-sill, Jerome Fandor was apparently keeping a strict watch on the comings and goings of the passers-by, who, having finished their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, a quiet evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from a neighbouring clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere, darkened by fog: it was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurable relaxation ofter the activities of the day. Jerome Fandor, however, was not enjoying the charm of the hour. Although his attitude was apparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly he was in a state of fury, a condition of feverish enervation.

"To be so near success," he thought; "to be on the point of bringing in a magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool! No! Not if I can help it! Why it would be enough to make me strangle myself with my handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, of sinister memory, did in the past!"

He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet never taking his eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, a stream of pedestrians passed up and down the street.

"Was I mistaken, I wonder!" he went on. "Still, I cannot help fancying that youth—he was fifteen at the most—that sickly young blackguard of the Paris pavements who followed me into the tube, then took the same train as I did, who was behind me as I crossed the Place de la Concorde, who was continually and persistently on my tracks—I cannot think he was there by chance!... Well, it is no use worrying myself into a fever over it!"

Fandor found it almost impossible to recover his tranquillity of mind. Again and again, in the course of the day, he had come across the same individuals during his peregrinations, which took him from one end of Paris to the other: was it accident, coincidence, fatality, or was a very strict watch being kept over his movements? Thus Fandor had asked himself whether the Second Bureau had been warned of the part he had played with regard to Vinson? Was he not being watched and shadowed in the hope of running the treacherous corporal to earth? If the Second Bureau had decided to arrest Fandor, he certainly would not escape. "I shall be jailed within twenty-four hours," thought our journalist. "This branch of the detective service is so marvellously organised, that should the heads of it look upon me as Vinson's accomplice they will arrest me before I have time to parry the blow. In that case, the band of traitors I pursue, and am on the point of unearthing, will gain enough time to take their bearings, make all their arrangements, and disappear, without counting that this miserable Vinson, who relies on my help, will be caught at once."

Suddenly Fandor left his post of observation, shut his window, and went to the telephone.

"I must put Juve in possession of all the facts up to now, then, if I am caught, Juve will see to it that I am set free—he will put his heart into it, I know."

Unfortunately, it was not Juve who was at the other end of the line. He had gone out; his old servant took Fandor's message.

"Tell Monsieur Juve directly he comes in that I cannot go out, but that I absolutely must see him. Tell him the matter is most urgent."

* * * * *

It was ten o'clock at night. Corporal Vinson was dressing in haste.

"Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't want to miss my train."

Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a time when Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of a French soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were the very opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform with lightning rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporal examined himself in the glass: the reflection was so satisfactory that he broke into smiles—undoubtedly his uniform suited him.

There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began to tremble.

"Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure something would happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!"

Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoever was at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soul in Fandor's flat.

Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone who does not mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the door is deliberate.

"Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager."...

Again the bell rang violently.

Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal's face.

"By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!"

The young soldier rapidly drew off his shoes and tiptoed to the vestibule. Through the keyhole he looked to see who was ringing for the fourth time, and more violently than ever.

No sooner had Vinson looked than he swore softly.

"Good Heavens! What I feared! It's an agent from the Second Bureau!... I recognise him!... I am sold—there's not a doubt of it!"

Ghastly from terror, Vinson watched the visitor put his hand in his pocket, then choose a key from his bunch.

"Ah! This individual has a master-key! And I—I have an idea!"

Vinson leaped backwards, just as the agent was putting his key in the lock, and rushed towards Fandor's study. He locked the door at the precise moment the agent entered the flat.

"Halt!" cried he: Vinson's movements had been heard.

The corporal's answer was to double-lock the door. "What you are doing there is childish!" cried the agent. "I have master-keys! Give yourself up!" Taking a fresh key, he unlocked the door Vinson had just closed. The corporal was not in the room. The agent rushed to another door which led from the study to the dining-room. He opened that door, entered the dining-room; it was empty also: Vinson had fled to the room adjoining.

"You cannot keep at it!" cried the agent. "You see the doors cannot offer a moment's resistance! I shall corner you!"

But Vinson, retreating from room to room, aimed at drawing on his pursuer to the last room of the flat. Directly the agent entered the dining-room, Vinson, quick as lightning, leapt into the corridor, crossed the vestibule at a bound, opened the door leading to the staircase, slamming it behind him.

On the landing he hesitated a second.

"Must he go down the stairs?"

The agent would follow in his track, the pursuit would develop, for, seeing a soldier in uniform racing along, the passers-by would join in the running: it would be fatal—Vinson would be caught.

"I'll double back," thought he, "back and up!"

Hurriedly he mounted the next flight of stairs, gaining the third story. No sooner had he reached the landing which dominated Fandor's flat than the agent, in his turn, reached the staircase and ran to the balustrade to try and catch sight of Vinson on his way down to the street. He did not doubt that this was the soldier's way of escape. The agent could not see a soul.

"Got off, by Jove!" He was furious.

He was about to descend, when someone, belonging to the house probably, began to mount the first flight of stairs in leisurely fashion, someone who could have no suspicion of the pursuit going on in the house. Very likely the agent neither intended nor desired to be recognised for what he was: it was quite probable that he did not wish to be seen, for, on hearing this someone coming up towards him, he stopped short in his descent.... It was his turn to hesitate a moment. Then it suddenly occurred to him that this new-comer might be a resident on one of the lower floors and so would not come higher. With this, the agent retraced his steps, crossed the landing on to which Fandor's flat opened, and began to mount the next flight leading to the third floor.

This did not suit Vinson: he was on tenterhooks.

"If he keeps coming up," thought the corporal, "much use it will be for me to retreat upwards! He will nip me on the sixth floor! It's a dead cert!"

Then he had a brilliant idea. He began to walk on the landing with heavy steps, imitating someone coming downstairs. Forthwith, the agent, who was coming up, stopped short. He had no wish to be seen by the person descending either! The only thing left for him to do was to take refuge in the journalist's flat! Easy enough with his master-key! He reopened the door, closing it just in time to escape being seen by the resident coming upstairs.

Vinson, who had not lost a single movement of the agent's, gave a sigh of satisfaction. He had perfectly understood the why and wherefore of his pursuer's hesitations; he seemed now in high good-humour; had he not caught sight of the new arrival! He was immensely amused!

The person who had just come upstairs was now ringing Fandor's bell. Not getting any answer, he selected a key on his bunch, and it was his turn to let himself in to the journalist's flat.

As he was closing the door, Corporal Vinson, from the landing above, gave him an ironical salute.

"I much regret that I am unable to introduce you to each other! But, by way of return, I thank you for the service you have unwittingly done me."

The way was open: Vinson rapidly descended, gained the street, hailed a cab.

"To the Eastern Station!"

"I have missed the express," he muttered; "but I shall catch the first train for those on leave."

* * * * *

Whilst Corporal Vinson was congratulating himself on the turn of events, the agent remained in Fandor's flat, feeling as if he were the victim of an abominable nightmare. No sooner had he hurriedly let himself into the flat in order to escape the resident coming upstairs, than he heard the bell ring: he felt desperate: "Who the devil was it!" Assuredly not the unknown who had fled so mysteriously—"Who then?"

When the bell rang a second time, the man cried: "What's to be done?" Well, the best thing was to wait in the journalist's study: it was more than probable that, not obtaining any response, the visitor would go away!... This was not at all what happened.

With the same assurance which he himself had had a few minutes before, the agent of the Second Bureau heard the new arrival slip his key into the lock, open the door, close it as confidently as though he were entering his own home; and now, yes, he was coming towards the study!

There was no light burning in Fandor's study: some gleams from the gas-lamps in the street dimly illumined the room. The agent, who was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, could not clearly distinguish the features of the person who now stood in the doorway.

It was certainly not the journalist. The intruder was a man of quite forty; he wore a soft hat turned down at the edges, thus partially concealing the upper half of his face, which was sunk in the raised collar of an overcoat.

The intruder bowed slightly to the agent, then taking a few steps into the room, went to the window, looked about outside. He seemed to be someone on intimate terms with the master of the flat, and might be going to await his return.

"He must be a friend of Jerome Fandor's," thought the agent. "He must think the journalist will be here shortly, perhaps that he is actually in the flat somewhere, and that I too am waiting for him." Evidently the best thing to do was to stay where he was, and not to make any remark which might attract attention.

Some minutes passed thus. Presently, the two men, tired with standing, seated themselves.

"The old boy will get sick of waiting," thought the agent. "He will go away, and I shall take my departure when he has cleared out."

But the new-comer, making himself very much at home, now relieved himself of his greatcoat, removed his hat, and, having caught sight of a lamp on the mantelpiece, took a box of matches from his pocket, and proceeded to light it. At the moment when the match flared up, the man, turning his back on the agent, could not see him: but the agent could see the man distinctly. There could be no question that the man lighting the lamp was someone the agent had not expected to meet, for the emissary from the Second Board did the very reverse of what the new-comer had done: he turned up the collar of his greatcoat!

The two men were now face to face in the lighted room.... There was a silence which lasted some minutes: the agent broke it.

"You await Monsieur Fandor?" asked the agent.

"Yes, Monsieur, and you also, no doubt?"

"Quite so ... and I have more than an idea that we shall have to wait a long time for him.... I saw him a short while ago, he had a piece of pressing business on hand, and I do not think he will be back before."... The agent was quite obviously trying to get the new-comer to retire.

"Bah!" retorted the latter: "I am in no hurry." Whilst speaking the unknown visitor stared strangely at the emissary of the Second Bureau: he was thinking.

"Where have I seen that long beard—that remarkably heavy moustache?... And then this bundle he has put down!... If I am not jolly well mistaken, I know this individual!"

"Well, now," he said pleasantly, "since chance has thrown us into each other's company, allow me to introduce myself, Monsieur! I am Brigadier Juve of the detective force, from Police Headquarters."

"In that case, we might almost count ourselves colleagues, Monsieur! I am the agent Vagualame, attached to the vigilance department of the Secret Service!"

With that, Vagualame held out his hand to his colleague, Juve! It was done with an unmistakable air of constraint.

It really seemed as if Juve had been awaiting this very action; for, at the precise moment Vagualame held out his hand, the detective extended his, and prolonged the hand-clasp as if he never meant to let go—a regular hand-grip!

Juve was thinking hard.

"Vagualame! Here is this Vagualame at Fandor's!... It's significant!... and then?... No, there's no doubt about it! This beard is false! That moustache is artificial!... This individual is made up!"

Perceiving that he was face to face with a disguised man, Juve was about to hurl himself on this masquerader, when that individual, forestalling the detective's movement, seized the initiative with lightning rapidity. He tore his hand from Juve's tenacious grip, bounded to the mantelpiece, threw down the lamp with a jerk of his elbow, thrust Juve violently aside, and rushed to the door.

Like lightning Juve tore off in pursuit.

The masquerader had the advantage by some yards. Banging door after door in Juve's face, he rushed towards the entrance hall, gained the staircase, racing down it by leaps and bounds, four steps at a time!... Juve at his heels, risked breaking his neck in hot pursuit....

Vagualame reached the porch of the house door: Juve was close on his quarry....

"I shall get him!" thought Juve: "In the street the people will lend me a helping hand!"

Vagualame fled through the doorway: in passing, he seized the massive door and pulled it to with a resounding bang....

Juve, borne forward by the impetus of his dashing pursuit, staggered backwards and rolled to the ground....

Instantly Juve sprang to the porter's lodge and demanded the string! In the twinkling of an eye and Juve was out in the street! He was furious, he was breathless.... The whole length of the pavements not a soul was in sight! Vagualame had vanished!

* * * * *

Taking advantage of the fact that Fandor's concierge knew him well, and was aware of his standing as an officer of the detective force, Juve, after having explained in a few words to the honest creature the cause of the commotion mounted to Fandor's flat once more.

"What the deuce is the meaning of all this?" he was asking himself. "Two hours ago, Fandor telephones me that he must see me on a matter of the utmost urgency ... he telephones me that he cannot go out, that he is waiting for me.... And now, not only is he not here, but I stumble on an agent from the Second Bureau.... I encounter a Vagualame disguised, who runs as if all the devils of hell were after him ... who makes off with extraordinary agility, whose presence of mind in burking pursuit is marvellous!... Who is this fellow?... What was he up to in Fandor's flat?... Where is Fandor?"

Our detective had just re-entered the journalist's study. There, on the floor, lay the bundle which had excited his curiosity when Vagualame was present.

"The enemy," thought he, "has retired, but has abandoned his baggage!"

Juve relighted the lamp, and undid the black serge covering of the bundle.

"Ah! I might have guessed as much, it is an accordion, Vagualame's accordion!"

Mechanically turning and returning the instrument of music, Juve slipped his hands into the leather holders, wishing to relax the bellows, which were at full stretch.... To his surprise the bellows resisted.

"Why, there must be something inside the accordion!" he exclaimed.

Juve drew from his pocket a dagger knife and slit open the bellows with one sharp cut.... Something black fell out—a piece of stuff, Juve picked it up, spread it out, and considered it.... He grew pale as he looked, staggered like a drunken man, and sank on a chair, overcome. What he held in his hand was a hooded cloak, long and black, such as Italian bandits wear—a species of mask.

Sunk in his chair, his eyes staring at this sinister garment, Juve seemed to see rising before him a form at once mysterious and clearly defined—the form of an unknown man enveloped in this cloak as in a sheath, his face hidden by the hooded mask, disguised, by just such a cloak as he had exposed to view when he slashed open the bellows of this accordion!

This form, mysterious, nameless, tragic, thus evoked, Juve had rarely seen; but each time that figure in hooded black had appeared, it was in circumstances so serious, under conditions so tragic, that it was graven on his memory—graven beyond mistake—graven ineffaceably!

Had not Juve been haunted by this form, this figure so mysteriously indicated, haunted by this invisible face hidden by its hooded cloak of black—haunted for years! Never had he been able to get close to it!

Never had he been able to seize it in his hands, outstretched to grasp it!

Whenever this sinister garment had met his eyes, it had been the sign of some frightful deception! He did not know the countenance it masked so darkly, but that same cloak he knew!... So well did he know it, that never could he confuse it with another hooded cloak of black—never! Its shape was peculiar; its cut singular—unmistakable! It was the impenetrable mask of one of those counterfeit personalities assumed at the pleasure of that enigmatic, sinister, formidable bandit, whom Juve had pursued for ten years, without cessation, without mercy; there had been no truce to this hunting.

Now he turned, and returned, this cloak of dark significance with trembling hands, as if he would tear its secret from its sinister folds. This hooded cloak which his knife had revealed, which he had torn from its hiding place in the accordion of Vagualame, was none other than the cloak of Fantomas.

Suddenly there was brought home to Juve the comprehension of all this adventure signified—a distracting, a maddening adventure!

"Fantomas! Fantomas!" Juve murmured. "Great Heavens! I saw Fantomas before me!... Vagualame! He is Fantomas!... Curse it! He has slipped through my hands, thrice fool that I am! Never again will he appear as this beggarly accordion player—never will he dare to show himself in that make-up!... What new form will he take?... Fantomas! Fantomas! Once again you have escaped me!"

* * * * *

Our detective remained in Fandor's flat all night. He awaited the journalist's return.

Fandor did not come.



XII

A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR

It was a November Sunday evening. A crowd of leave-expired soldiers were entraining at the Eastern Station. They would be dropped at their respective garrisons along the line of some 400 kilometres separating the capital from the frontier.

They had dined, supped, feasted with friends and relatives: now they were voicing regretful farewells by medley of songs and ear-splitting serenades. They scrambled into the third-class compartments, fifteen, sixteen at a time, filling the seats and overflowing on to the floor. Little by little the deafening din of the "wild beasts," as they were jokingly called, diminished; their enthusiasm died down as the night advanced, while the train rushed full steam ahead for the frontier of France.

They fell asleep, knowing that kind comrades would awaken them when the train drew up at their various garrisons. At Reims, the compartments disgorged the dragoons pell-mell; at Chalons, so many gunners and infantry had got out that the train was half emptied. At Sainte-Menehould, a large contingent of cuirassiers and infantry had cleared out. Towards four in the morning the express was nearing Verdun.

As the train steamed out of Sainte-Menehould, a corporal of the line, who had been forced to sit up as stiff as a poker for several hours, stretched himself at length on the compartment seat with a sigh of relief. But the jerks and jolts of the carriage, the hard seat, made sleep impossible: the epaulettes of his uniform were an added source of discomfort. The corporal sat up, rubbed the musty glass of the window, and watched for the coming day. On the far horizon, beyond a shadowy stretch of country, a pallid dawn was breaking. Trees were swaying in a gusty wind. At intervals, when the clatter of the onrushing train lessened, the heavy pattering of rain on the roof became audible.

"Confound it!" growled the corporal. "Detestable weather! Hateful country!"

Whilst attempting some muscular exercises to unstiffen his aching limbs, he muttered:

"And only to think of that wretch Vinson enjoying the benefit of my first-class permit!... Started off to-night under my name, and is now rolling along in a comfortable sleeping-car towards the sunny South with a nice bit of money in his purse!"

The corporal in the inhospitable third-class of the Verdun train made mental pictures of Vinson's progress south. He talked to himself aloud.

"Good journey to you, you jolly dog!... In six weeks' time, if you have a thought to spare for me, you will send your news as we arranged!"

The corporal began breathing warm breaths on his numbed fingers.

"By Jove! The company is not prodigal of foot-warmers, that's certain! It's an ice-house in here!"

He continued to soliloquise:

"It's a deuce of a risky business I have let myself in for!... To take Vinson's place, and set off for Verdun, where his regiment is doing garrison duty, the regiment to which he has just been attached!... It would run as smooth as oil if I had done my military service, but, owing to circumstances, I have never been called up!... A pretty sort of fool I may make of myself!"...

After a reflective silence, he went on:

"Bah! I shall pull through all right! Have I not crammed my head with theory the last eight days, and pumped Vinson for all he was worth about the rules and regulations, and the ways of camp life!... All the same ... to make my debut in an Eastern garrison, in the 'Iron Division,' straight off the reel takes some nerve!... What cheek!... It's the limit!... But, my dear little Fandor, don't forget you are at Verdun not to play the complete soldier but to gather exact information about a band of traitors, and to unmask them at the first opportunity—a work of national importance, little Fandor, and don't you forget it!"

Thus our adventurous Vinson-Fandor lay shivering in the night train on the point of drawing up at Verdun.

Having saved the wretched Vinson from suicide, Fandor had made him promise to leave France and await developments, whilst Fandor, posing as Vinson, studied at close quarters the spies who had drawn the miserable corporal into their net. Fandor could personate Vinson with every chance of success, because the 257th of the line had never set eyes on the corporal.

After a week of perplexity, Fandor had come to a decision the previous night. Wishing to let his "dear master" know of his audacious project, he had telephoned to Juve on the Sunday evening to ask him to come to the flat. Then Vagualame had appeared on the scene. Fandor knew him to be an agent of the Second Bureau. Evidently Vagualame was after Vinson. If Fandor had let himself be caught in the corporal's uniform, which he had just put on, his spy plans would have been ruined, and the corporal, to whom he had promised his protection, would have been caught.

Fandor fled. The situation would have to be made clear when opportunity offered.

"Certainly," said Fandor to himself, with a smile: "things are pretty well mixed up at present! That meeting between Vagualame and Juve at the flat must have been a queer one! Two birds of a feather, though differing in glory, who would not make head or tail of so unexpected a conference!"

To clear up the imbroglio, Fandor had meant to send Juve a wire on his arrival at Verdun; on second thoughts he had decided against it. Probably the spies, or the Second Bureau, or both, were keeping a sharp watch on Vinson: it would be wiser to refrain from any communication which might reveal the fact that the corporal Vinson, who joined the 257th of the line at Verdun, was none other than Jerome Fandor, journalist.

Though stiff with cold and fatigue, Fandor's brain was clear and active.

It is all right! Juve would be surprised, anxious, would make enquiries at the Company's offices, would learn that on the Sunday evening Fandor had occupied the place reserved for him in the sleeping-car, would be reassured, would not worry about Fandor's abrupt departure and silence—Fandor was holiday making!

"Yes, it is all right!" reiterated Fandor. "What I have to do is to throw myself wholeheartedly into my part, and play it as jovially as possible!"

The train whistled, slowed down, entered the station of Verdun.

Fandor let the crowd of soldiers precede him, as well as one or two civilians whom the night express had brought to this important frontier fortress. Having readjusted his coat, the fringes of his epaulettes, and put on his cap correctly, this corporal of the 257th line, stepped on to the platform, reached the exit, passed out on to a vast flat space, and found himself floundering in a sea of mud.

The men who had arrived with him had hurried off: Fandor was alone on the outskirts of the silent town.

What to do? Which way to go?

Under the flame of a gas-jet struggling against the onslaughts of the wind, Fandor caught sight of the honest face of a constable enveloped in a thick hooded coat. He eyed Fandor.

"Excuse me," said Corporal Vinson-Fandor, rolling his r's, in imitation of a rustic fresh from the country, "but could you tell me where I shall find the 257th of the line?"

"What do you want with the 257th of the line?" queried the constable.

"It is like this, Monsieur: I was in the 214th, garrisoned at Chalons. I have had eight days' leave, and they inform me I am attached to the 257th."

The constable nodded.

"And now you want to get to your new regiment?"

"Precisely."

"Well, the 257th is in three places: at bastion 14; at the Saint Benoit barracks; and at Fort Vieux—which are you bound for, Corporal?"

"I don't know—I've no preference," murmured Corporal Vinson-Fandor.

The two men stood staring at each other in the rain.

Despite the chill and melancholy dawn, with its darkly reddening skies, Fandor felt he was on the very verge of bursting into wild laughter.

"Let us see your route instructions," quoth the constable.

Corporal Vinson-Fandor showed his paper.

"That's it!" cried the constable triumphantly. "You are down to report yourself at the Saint Benoit barracks. You're in luck, my lad! It's only fifty yards or so from here!... Go down the road, and you will see the barrack wall on the left. The entrance is in the middle."

Fandor saluted the friendly constable, hurried off, and reached the Saint Benoit gate in a few minutes.

"The 257th?" he asked the sentry.

"Here!... You will find the sergeant in the guard-room."

Fandor entered a smoke-filled room; several soldiers were stretched at full length on a bench, slumbering: a snoring non-commissioned officer was lying on three straw bottomed chairs close to a stove.

At Fandor's entrance he was wide awake in a moment: he swore: it was the sergeant.

"What do you want?" he demanded roughly.

Adopting a military manner, Fandor announced:

"Corporal Vinson, just arrived from Chalons, exchanged from the 214th, sergeant!"

"Ah! Quite so. Wait! I will show you your company."

Stretching himself, the sergeant marched to the end of the room, turned up a gas-jet, opened a book, looked through the pages slowly. His finger stopped at a name.

"Orderly!"

A man presented himself.

"Conduct Corporal Vinson to A block, second floor."

Turning to Fandor, the sergeant informed him:

"You are attached to the third of the second."

While plodding through the mud of the courtyard, Fandor said to himself:

"The third of the second means, I suppose, that I have the honour of belonging to the third company of the second battalion."

Fandor gazed with lively curiosity at the immense building in which he was to pass his days and nights for he did not know how long a time. As he scrutinised this enormous pile, standing harsh and stark in its uncompromising and ordered strength, as he took stock of the vast courtyards and the stony lengths of imprisoning walls, he got an idea of that formidable organisation called a regiment, which itself is but an infinitesimal part of that great whole we call an army. Appreciating as he now did the importance, the immutability, the regularity of the movements of the military machine, with its wheels within wheels, Fandor asked himself if it were possible to carry through the programme he had drawn up for himself. Could he, at one and the same time, trick the French Army and save it?... He had taken his precautions: he had read and reread Vinson's manual, now his manual. Mentally he had put himself in the skin of a corporal: he was letter perfect, and now he must cover himself with the mantle of Vinson—for the greater glory of France!

He could not help laughing when he read the list of his facial characteristics: chin, round; nose, medium; face, oval; eyes, grey. Vague enough this to be safe! Fandor's hair was dark chestnut: Vinson's was brown. Vinson and Fandor were sufficiently alike as to height and figure: besides, soldiers' uniforms were not an exact fit.

"Here you are, Corporal!" announced the orderly. He pointed to a vast room at the end of a corridor. The bugle had just sounded the reveille and the barrack-room was humming like a hive of awakened bees. The orderly had vanished. Fandor stood at the threshold, hesitating: his self-confidence had gone down with a run. It was a momentary lapse. Pulling himself together he walked into the room.

When giving him his instructions, Vinson had warned Fandor, that when it came to settling down in barracks he would find nothing to hand.

"Among other little items, your bed will be missing. As corporal you have a right to round on them. Row them hot and good—start reprisals straight away. The men will pretend not to understand, but insist—don't take no for an answer; take whatever you want right and left—in the end you will get properly settled in."

Fandor carried out these instructions. Before he had been ten minutes in the room, men were rushing in all directions, fussing, jostling one another, coming, going, demanding of all the echoes in that huge white-washed barn of a barrack-room dormitory:

"Where is the palliasse of Corporal Vinson!"

"Find me the bolster of Corporal Vinson!"



XIII

JUVE'S STRATAGEM

Whilst Jerome Fandor was commencing his apprenticeship as a soldier at the Saint Benoit barracks, Verdun, a sordid individual was following an elegant pedestrian who, descending the rue Solferino, went in the direction of the Seine. It was about seven in the evening.

"Pstt!"

This sound issued from the ragged individual, but the passer-by did not turn his head.

"Monsieur!" insisted the sordid one.

As the elegant pedestrian did not seem to know he was being followed, the sordid individual stepped to his side, and murmured in his white beard distinctly enough to be heard:

"Lieutenant! Do listen!... Look here, Monsieur de Loubersac ... Henri!"

The young man turned: he gave the importunate speaker a withering stare: he was furious.

The speaker was Vagualame.

"I shall fine you five hundred francs! How dare you accost me like this? Are you mad?" De Loubersac's voice shook with rage.

Lieutenant de Loubersac had just quitted the Second Bureau after an unusually hard day's work. Fatigued by the over-heated offices, he was enjoying the fresh air and exercise in spite of the chilling mist overhanging Paris. When his thoughts were not connected on his work, he would dwell tenderly on every little detail of his meetings with pretty Mademoiselle de Naarboveck. Had she not given him permission to call her Wilhelmine, and did he not cherish the hope of soon making her his wife?

But this Vagualame was insupportable! That he should dare to accost him without observing the customary precautions—hail him by his style and title in a most public thoroughfare—-should so imprudently compromise himself and an attache of the Second Bureau! Well, he knew how to attack informers and such gentry in their most vulnerable spot—their purse; hence the fine of five hundred francs he had imposed on Vagualame!

The old fellow shuffled along beside the enraged lieutenant, whining, complaining of the precarious state of his finances, but de Loubersac was adamant. Perceiving this, Vagualame desisted.

"I want to talk to you," said he.

"To-morrow!" suggested de Loubersac.

"No, at once. It is urgent."

De Loubersac could hardly hear what Vagualame said. Twice he cried, in an irritated voice:

"What is the matter with you? I cannot understand what you say. I can hardly hear you."

"I have a severe cold on the chest, lieutenant."

Certainly Vagualame's voice was remarkably hoarse.

"If the Government does not give me something regular to live on, I shall die in hospital."

De Loubersac looked about him anxiously. If his colonel should catch sight of him conferring with an agent so near the headquarters of the Second Bureau he would incur a sharp reprimand. The interview must take place; therefore they must conceal themselves. Vagualame, as though reading the lieutenant's thought, pointed to the steep flight of steps leading to the banks of the Seine.

"Let us go down by the river! We shall be undisturbed there!"

De Loubersac acquiesced. So the smart young officer and the old beggar in his ragged coat, with the accordion hanging over his shoulder, who might have been mistaken for Quasimodo himself, descended the steps in company. Vagualame's eyes gleamed with joy. They were piercing eyes, full of life and intelligence, not the fierce furtive eyes of Vagualame, for this Vagualame was Juve!

The day following the famous evening he had passed in Fandor's flat, Juve, as we know, had discovered that Vagualame, agent of the Second Bureau, was cleverly disguised, and was none other than Fantomas! Juve appropriated the accordion left by the fleeing bandit: Juve also decided to personate Vagualame and spy on the various persons who had relations with this sinister being. As far as Juve was concerned, Vagualame-Fantomas was done for, therefore it was highly improbable that the criminal, daring to the last degree though he was, would show himself in his Vagualame guise for some time to come. Therefore Juve must act at once. His first move must be to meet and talk with the Second Bureau officer most in touch with Vagualame, and make him talk without arousing his suspicions. Juve also meant to mix with Vagualame's associates, trusting to luck and his own perspicacity to get on to various trails, trails that would lead him to the solution of grave problems.

Juve had felt anxious as he accosted de Loubersac: no doubt the lieutenant and his secret agent had some set form of greeting, some agreed on method of imparting information. By incurring the fine, Juve realised that he had made a wrong start—perhaps omitted a password. Still, he had obtained the essential thing—a private talk with this particular official of the Second Bureau.

The talk began with an abrupt question from de Loubersac:

"And the V. affair?"

"The V. affair?... Peuh!"

"What the deuce does he refer to?" Juve was asking himself.

Unsuspecting, de Loubersac came to his aid.

"Our corporal must have returned to Verdun to-day?"

"Ah!" thought Juve, "our corporal is Vinson!" The further he proceeded in his present investigations the clearer grew the connection between the Brocq affair and those of Bobinette, Wilhelmine, de Loubersac: surely they were all interpreters of the tragic drama conceived by Vagualame-Fantomas!

"His leave expired this morning," continued de Loubersac.

"He left yesterday evening. I have proof of it," asserted Juve-Vagualame.

"Anything new?"

"Not so far."

"Are you going to Verdun?"

"Possibly."

"How about the document?"

"Hum!" murmured Juve-Vagualame. Here was another conundrum he must go warily.

"You are constantly looking for it, of course? You know it is the most urgent of all!"...

Juve nodded agreement.

"Place it in my hands, and I shall give you fifty thousand francs in exchange for it—you know that!"

"Less the fine," put in Juve-Vagualame with a comical grimace.

De Loubersac smiled.

"We will speak of that again." There was a pause.

"A good deal has happened since the death of Captain Brocq's mistress."

Juve-Vagualame remarked.

"Is Captain Brocq's mistress dead, too?... Poor girl!"

De Loubersac stared hard at the accordion player.

"Oh come now, Vagualame! Where are your wits—wool-gathering?"

"Wits wool-gathering, lieutenant!" echoed Juve-Vagualame.

"There is no lieutenant, I tell you!" cried de Loubersac, with a stamp of his foot. "It is Monsieur Henri—just Henri, if you like. How many more times am I to tell you this?"

Juve-Vagualame's reply was an equivocal gesture.

"You do not know about the Chalons affair—the assassination of the singer, Nichoune?"

"No—that is to say."...

"Well, then?" De Loubersac was staring at Vagualame with puzzled eyes.

"Well, then—as to that—no!... I had better hold my tongue."

"Speak out!" commanded de Loubersac.

"No," growled Juve-Vagualame.

"I order you to do so."

"Well, then," conceded Juve-Vagualame, "since you must know what I think, I consider Nichoune was in no sense the mistress of Captain Brocq."

"They found letters from Captain Brocq on her." De Loubersac's laugh had a sneer in it.

"Bah!" said the old accordion player, punctuating his remark with some piercing sounds from his ancient instrument of discordant music. "It was a got-up business!"

"What is that you say?" objected de Loubersac. After a moment's reflection he added:

"But of course, you must know more about it than anyone, Vagualame, because you saw her just before the end. Didn't you have a talk with Nichoune on the Friday, the eve of her death?"

Juve-Vagualame was about to speak. De Loubersac added:

"The innkeeper saw you!"

"Did he now? What is this?" thought Juve. This statement opened up a fresh view of things.

De Loubersac did not give him time for reflection.

"Who, then, do you think killed Nichoune?"

Juve would not for the world voice his suspicions just then. With a side-glance at the lieutenant, he remarked:

"Faith, what I am inclined to think is, that the guilty person is that Aunt Palmyra."

"Aunt Palmyra!" repeated de Loubersac. "Decidedly my poor Vagualame, you are stupid as an owl to-day! Well, there is no harm in telling you this—Aunt Palmyra was one of my colleagues!"

"I suspected as much," thought Juve, "but I wanted him to confirm it."

De Loubersac was again the questioner.

"Vagualame! You spoke just now of Brocq's mistress: if, as you seem to think, Nichoune had no such relation with the captain, where are we to look for his mistress?"

"Hah!... Look in another direction ... among his friends ... in the great world ... the diplomatic set, for preference ... Think of those in the de Naarboveck circle."...

"Look out, Vagualame!" exclaimed de Loubersac. "Weigh your words well!"

"Do not be afraid, lieu ... pardon—Monsieur Henri!"

"Perhaps you think it is Bobinette?" queried de Loubersac.

"No."

"Who then?"

Juve shot his answer at the lieutenant, like a stone from a catapult.

"Wilhelmine de Naarboveck!"

A shout of indignant protest burst from de Loubersac. He could not contain his fury: he kicked the supposed Vagualame with such force that he sent him rolling in the greasy mud of the Seine bank.

"Beast!" growled Juve, as he picked himself up. "If I were not Vagualame, I should know how to answer him," he muttered. "As it is!"...

Juve rose, stumbling and staggering like a badly shaken old man, and leaned against the hand railing of the steps.

Meanwhile de Loubersac was walking up and down, talking aloud, in a state of extreme agitation.

"Disgusting creatures!... Low-minded wretches!... Degrading occupation!... They respect nothing, and no one!... Insinuating such abominations!... Wilhelmine de Naarboveck the mistress of Brocq!... How vile!... Loathsome creatures!"

It was now obvious to the alert Juve, who drank in every word, each gesture of de Loubersac's that the enraged lieutenant adored Wilhelmine ... no doubt on that score!

When de Loubersac had calmed down somewhat, Juve cried softly:

"Oh, Monsieur Henri!"...

Roused from his reflections, de Loubersac shouted:

"Hold your tongue, you sicken me!"

"But," insisted Juve-Vagualame, "I have only done my duty. If I spoke as I did, it was because my conscience."...

"Have you got consciences—your sort?" cried de Loubersac, casting a glance of withering contempt at the supposed old man.

There was a silence. Then de Loubersac walked up to the old accordion player and asked anxiously:

"Can you give me proofs of the truth of what you have just asserted?"

"Perhaps," was the evasive answer.

"You will have to give me proofs," insisted de Loubersac.

"Proofs?... I have none," replied the mysterious old fellow. "But I have intuitions; better still, my confidence is grounded on a strong probability."

This statement came to de Loubersac with the force of a stunning blow: it came from one whom he considered his best agent: he knew Vagualame always weighed his words: his information was generally correct.

"We cannot continue this conversation here," he said. "To-morrow we must meet as usual—and remember—do not attempt to accost me without using the password."

"Now, how the deuce am I to know what this famous word is?" Juve asked himself. Then he had an inspiration.

"We must not use it again," he announced. "I have reason to think our customary password is known ... I will explain another time ... it is a regular story—a long one."

"All right," agreed de Loubersac. "What should it be?... Suppose I say monoplane?"

"I will answer dirigible," said Juve-Vagualame.

"Agreed."

De Loubersac rapidly mounted the steps leading to the quay, glad to close a detestable interview.

Juve-Vagualame remained below. He struck his forehead.

"Monsieur Henri!" he called.

"What?"

"The meeting place to-morrow?"

De Loubersac had just signalled to a taxi: he leaned over the parapet and called to Juve-Vagualame, who had got no farther than the middle of the steps:

"Why at half past three, in the garden, as usual!"

* * * * *

"Oh, ho!" said the old accordion player. "He will be furious! I shall play him false—bound to—for how can I keep the appointment—confound it! What garden? Whereabouts in it?" Then, as he regained the quay, Juve laughed in his false white beard.

"What do I care? I snap my fingers at that rendezvous. I have extracted from him what I wanted to know—it matters not a jot if I never set eyes on him again! And ... now ... it is we two, Bobinette!"



XIV

BEFORE A TOMB

"This is a surprise!"

Mademoiselle de Naarboveck stopped. She smiled up at Henri de Loubersac.

"Do you know, I saw in this glass that you were following us," she said, pointing to a mirror placed at an angle in a confectioner's shop at the corner of rue Biot.

These artless remarks put the handsome lieutenant out of countenance: he blushed hotly, but he pressed the little hand held out to him so simply, and with such a look of frank pleasure. He stammered some excuse for not having recognised her. He bowed pleasantly to Wilhelmine's companion, Mademoiselle Berthe.

Wilhelmine turned to her.

"This meeting was not prearranged: it is one of pure chance." The tone was defensive without a touch of the apologetic.

Mademoiselle Berthe smiled, and declared that she had not for a moment supposed that the meeting had been prearranged.

De Loubersac gazed considerably at the two girls. Wilhelmine was looking particularly pretty. Beneath her fur toque shone masses of her pale gold hair, framing a charming little face. A long velvet coat with ermine stole suggested the youthful contours of her slender figure. Mademoiselle Berthe wore rough blue cloth, and a large hat trimmed with wings, which set off her piquant face with its irregular features and ruddy locks.

Wilhelmine and Henri de Loubersac strolled on together in the direction of the Hippodrome. Mutual protestations of love were, exchanged. Presently Wilhelmine asked:

"But what brought you in this direction?"

"Oh, I was going ... to pay a visit ... it is a piece of very good luck my coming across you like this."

De Loubersac seemed to have something on his mind. Despite his protestations he did not look as if he were enjoying this chance meeting.

"Where were you bound for, Wilhelmine?" he asked.

She looked up at her lover with sad eyes. Pointing in the direction of the cemetery of Montemartre, she replied in a low tone:

"I am going to visit the dear dead."

"Would you allow me to accompany you?" begged de Loubersac.

Wilhelmine shook her head.

"I must ask you to allow me to go there alone. It is my custom to pray there without witnesses."

De Loubersac turned towards Mademoiselle Berthe with a questioning look—a gesture of interrogation.

Wilhelmine replied to it:

"As a rule I go to the cemetery alone. You see me with my companion to-day because my father wished it. Since the sad affair which has thrown a shadow over our life, he is in a constant state of anxiety about my safety: he does not wish me to go about unaccompanied. I shall be waited for at the cemetery."

Wilhelmine's candid eyes gazed at de Loubersac, who was gnawing his moustache with a preoccupied air.

"What is the matter, Henri?" she asked.

De Loubersac came closer to Wilhelmine, grew red as fire, and without daring to look her in the face, burst out:

"Listen, Wilhelmine! I would rather tell you everything.... Oh, you are going to think badly of me.... The truth is—our meeting is not accidental ... it is of set purpose on my part.... For the last two days I have been worried—preoccupied—jealous.... I am afraid of not being loved by you as I love you ... afraid that there is ... or was ... something between us—dividing us—someone."...

Wilhelmine looked at her lover with the eyes of an astonished child.

"I do not understand you," she murmured.

Mastering his emotion, de Loubersac decided to make a clean breast of it.

"I will be frank, Wilhelmine.... Your last words have increased my torture.... Have you not spoken of your dear dead, and must I learn that you are perhaps going to pray ... at the tomb of Captain Brocq?"

More and more astonished, Wilhelmine replied:

"And suppose I were going to do so? Should I be doing wrong to pray for the repose of the soul of the unfortunate Captain Brocq, who was one of my best friends?"

"Ah!" cried Henri de Loubersac: "Is it love you feel for him, then?" He looked so despairing that Wilhelmine, offended, hurt though she was by her lover's suspicions, pitied his anguish and reassured him:

"If you had been following me for some time past, you would have seen that I have been in the habit of going to this cemetery—have gone there regularly long before Captain Brocq's death—consequently."...

Wilhelmine, with a look of sorrowful disappointment, closed her lips: she was resolutely mute.

Henri de Loubersac brightened up, thanked her with a frankness so spontaneous, so sincere, that it would have touched the hardest woman's heart, and Wilhelmine's was a supremely tender and sensitive one. Yet, when he again asked for whom she was going to pray, for whom was the delicious bouquet of violets she was carrying, half hidden in her muff, she murmured:

"That is my secret.... If I told you the name of the person at whose tomb I am going to pray, it would have no significance for you."

"Wilhelmine! Let me accompany you!" implored de Loubersac.... "I love you so much—you must forgive my blundering!"

The lovers discussed the question: finally, Wilhelmine's hesitations were overcome: de Loubersac carried the day triumphantly.

Mademoiselle Berthe had fallen behind: she had kept a discreet distance between the lovers and herself, but had watched them with the eyes of a lynx. Now Wilhelmine waited for her to come up with them; then she requested her companion to stay in the quiet avenue Rachel while she and Lieutenant de Loubersac went into the cemetery.

* * * * *

No sooner had they disappeared than Bobinette set off as fast as she could go in the direction of the boulevard de Clichy. Yes, there was the sordid figure of Old Vagualame, bent under the weight of years and of his ancient accordion: he seemed to be stooping more than usual.

Had he also followed them? He had. Thus Juve-Vagualame was continuing his quest with the hope of getting further light on the series of mysteries he was seeking to solve. He must learn more of Bobinette's relations with Fantomas, whom she apparently knew only under the guise of Vagualame. Juve had made himself up so carefully that he felt confident even the bandit's intimates would not suspect they had to do with a police officer. Its quality was soon proved: Bobinette came towards him with not a sign of uneasiness.

"There you are, then!" she cried.

In spite of her familiar address, Juve noticed the touch of respect in Bobinette's voice—Vagualame played the part of master to this red-haired girl.

"What a long time it is since one had the pleasure of seeing you, my dear Monsieur Vagualame!" There was a touch of malicious irony in Bobinette's tone.

Juve-Vagualame nodded. He would have liked to know what Wilhelmine and Henri were doing in the cemetery, but Bobinette was his query for the moment. Her next remark was startling.

"It looks as though you were afraid to show yourself since your last crime."

Juve repressed any sign of the satisfaction this declaration gave him.

"My last crime?"

"Don't play the blockhead," she went on. "Have you forgotten that you told me how you had assassinated Captain Brocq?"

"That is ancient history," muttered Juve, "... and I am not afraid of anyone.... Besides ... did I tell you that now?" he hinted, with the hope of obtaining further details. But Bobinette seemed to think she had had enough of the subject. She laughed.

"What a way of walking you have!" she exclaimed.

Juve was purposely exaggerating Vagualame's attitude: it enabled him to conceal his face better.

"I stoop so much because my age weighs me down.... When you grow old."...

Bobinette burst into peals of laughter.

"You don't think, do you, Vagualame, that I take you for an old man? Ha, ha! I know you are disguised; made up admirably, I dare say, but you are a young man.... I am quite, quite sure of it!"

Juve was saying to himself:

"This grows better and better!"

Juve's conviction was that this old Vagualame, secret agent of the Second Bureau, murderer of Captain Brocq, the Vagualame he had encountered at Fandor's flat, could only be a young man in the flower of his age—could be none other than Fantomas.

Juve was about to put more questions to Bobinette, but two figures came into view, and they were nearing the avenue Rachel.

"Make off with you!" cried Bobinette. "There they are coming back!"

Juve did not wish de Loubersac to catch a glimpse of him: he would be surprised, suspicious, and would question him about the missed rendezvous. Juve had not gained sufficient information, however.

"I must see you again, Bobinette." His tone was pressing, insistent.

"When?"

"This evening."

"Impossible."

"To-morrow, then."

Bobinette shook her head.

"You know very well that to-morrow I shall be gone."

"Where?"

"Where?"

The red-haired beauty cried impatiently:

"It's you ask me that?... Why ... I go to the frontier."

"Correct," said Juve. He would have welcomed further details. "Well, then, when can we meet?" pressed this determined accordion player.

"How about next Wednesday?" suggested Bobinette.

"That will do. We will go to the theatre—a moving picture show!"

"Always to places in the dark, eh!" observed Bobinette maliciously.

Wilhelmine and Henri were coming nearer.

Juve-Vagualame turned as he was making off.

"Nine o'clock, before the moving picture place, rue des Poissonniers." With that, Juve-Vagualame disappeared into a smoky wine shop.

De Loubersac, very pale, and Wilhelmine, whose eyes were red, rejoined Bobinette, whose face became expressionless.

They went slowly off together.

* * * * *

When the coast was clear, Juve-Vagualame left the wine shop and proceeded towards the cemetery. Amid the cypresses and tombs of the necropolis, looming sad and shadowy in the fading light, he made his way slowly along the principal path, questing for traces of the lovers' footsteps in the sand. He was fortunate enough to come on them at once; the soil being moist, the lovers' footmarks could be clearly distinguished in the sand of the alleys. Guided by them, Juve turned into a little pathway on the right, passing the mausoleums, and pausing before a new-made grave, that of Captain Brocq, a humble tomb. A few fresh violets were scattered around it, from Wilhelmine's bunch, no doubt. The lovers had but tarried there. Juve continued to follow their footmarks, by many twists and turns, almost to the end of the cemetery. As he advanced he felt more and more certain that he had come this way some years ago, when his detective work had led him into a mysterious network of robberies and murders, the moving spirit of them all being Fantomas—the enigmatic Fantomas.

Juve was going over in memory those past days of mysterious doings and strange adventures, when he found himself facing a vault richly decorated with unusually beautiful sculpture. A bronze plaque was affixed to this tomb, and on it, engraved in letters of gold, was a name Juve had had occasion to utter many a time and oft:

Lady Beltham

Lady Beltham!

Lady Beltham?

A name Juve associated with strange and terrible events.[3] Lady Beltham had been a sensational creature.

[Footnote 3: See The Exploits of Juve, vol. ii of the Fantomas Series.]

After adventures, one more extraordinary than another, Juve had succeeded in identifying this English great lady as the mistress of a formidable criminal, relentlessly hunted down, for ever escaping—the elusive Fantomas!

Juve had lost track of both, when the discovery of an extraordinary crime had led to the identification of the victim, a woman: she was declared to be—Lady Beltham. The corpse had been buried in this very cemetery; distant relatives in England had guaranteed all expenses connected with the burial and erection of this costly tomb.

The public had believed this to be the end of Lady Beltham. Juve presently discovered that Lady Beltham was not dead: another woman had been buried in her place. He preserved absolute silence convinced that sooner or later this criminal great lady—for, in conjunction with Fantomas, she had committed abominable crimes—would reappear, and he could then arrest her. Time had passed, but for all his efforts Juve could not discover the hiding-place of this strangely guilty woman.

When he saw a large bunch of violets lying before the door of Lady Beltham's vault, he divined them to be the offering of Wilhelmine.

Juve now asked himself if he had not come across this Wilhelmine in the past, this girl with pale gold hair, and clear deep eyes; if he had not, in the long ago, met under painful circumstances a little child who was now this pretty girl, beloved of Henri de Loubersac. Juve did not dwell on these vague, floating impressions. He turned his attention to more definite points.

There were people who believed in the death of Lady Beltham; they were in the majority: among these was Wilhelmine de Naarboveck. Why did she come to pray at Lady Beltham's tomb and bring offerings of fragrant flowers?

A mere handful of people knew Lady Beltham was not dead; knew that another woman had been interred in her stead. Lady Beltham herself knew it; her accomplice and lover—Fantomas—must know it. Besides, these two there was Jerome Fandor who knew of the substitution, and there was Juve himself. What others could there be?

Twilight was deepening into darkness. The cemetery guardians were clearing it of visitors. Juve became once more the old accordion player.

As he made his way home on foot, he asked himself:

"What are they looking for?"

The military authorities, represented by the Second Bureau, want to recover a stolen document.... The civil authority, represented by Police Headquarters, wish to discover a murderer guilty of two crimes: the murder of Brocq—the murder of Nichoune.

The murderer of Brocq is assuredly Vagualame: as to the murderer of Nichoune: I do not yet know under what guise he committed his crime, but of one thing I am certain—the author of this double crime is none other than—Fantomas!



XV

THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP

Although for the past four days Fandor had shown himself the most punctual, the most correct, the most brilliant of French corporals, although he had replaced the unfortunate Vinson with striking ability, it was never without a feeling of bewildered terror that he awoke each morning in the vast barrack-room at Saint-Benoit, Verdun.

No sooner was he dressed than he found himself in the thick of a life made up of fears, of ever-recurring alarms, a nightmare life, the strain of which was concealed by an alert confident manner, a gallant bearing. Never having done his military service, since legally he did not exist—it was the cruelest mystery in our journalist's life—Fandor had played his corporal's role by intuition, combined with a trained power of observation, Vinson's manual, and Vinson's verbal instructions. Vinson, for his own sake most of all, had utilised every minute, and had put the eager Fandor through several turns of the military mill.

Nevertheless, whenever he gave an order to the men of his squad, he asked himself with terror, whether he had not inadvertently committed some gross blunder, whether some inferior might not call out ironically:

"I say, Corporal Vinson, where the devil have you come from to be carrying on like that?"

"Suppose I were found out," he thought, "I wonder if they would shoot me forthwith, to teach me not to run such mad risks in search of information for police reports?"

On this particular morning, Fandor awoke with a stronger feeling of uneasiness than ever. The previous evening, the adjutant for the week had drawn him apart at roll-call, and had handed him a slip of paper.

"You have a day's leave! You have joined only four days, yet you have managed to obtain your evening! Smart work! Congratulations! By jove, you must have some powerful backing!"

Fandor had smiled, saluted, marched off to bed—but not to sleep.

"A day's leave! The devil's in it! Who signed for me? What is the next move to be?" he thought.

This very morning, at ten o'clock delivery, the post sergeant had handed him a card. It bore the Paris postmark: on it was drawn the route from Verdun to the frontier. That was all.

He remembered what Vinson had said to him in the flat:

"What is so terrifying about this spying business is that one never knows whom one is obeying, whose orders one ought to follow, who is your friend, who is your chief: one fine day you learn that you have had leave granted you: you then receive, in some way or another, directions to go to some place or another.... You go there ... you meet people you do not know, who ask you questions, sometimes seemingly trivial, sometimes obviously of the gravest importance.... It is up to you to find out whether you are face to face with your spy chiefs, or if, on the contrary, you have not fallen into a trap set by the police to catch spies.... You cannot go to a rendezvous with a quiet mind: how do you know that you will not be returned between two gendarmes!... It is impossible to ask for information: equally impossible to ask for help, should you be in imminent danger.... Spies do not know one another: they are disowned by whoever employs them: they are humble wheels hidden in an immense mechanism.... It matters little if they are broken to pieces, they can so easily be replaced!"

Fandor's recollection of these statements did not tend to make him cheerful. He summed up the situation, and came to a decision.

"I have been given leave I did not ask for: somebody must have asked it for me. This 'someone' is the chief spy, already in touch with Vinson, or the chief spy at Verdun, who has been warned of Vinson's arrival: the post card I received from an unknown individual has nothing on it but the indications of a route already known to me, that from Verdun to the frontier. I shall follow that route as a pedestrian, and I look forward to meeting some interesting persons on the way."

Surrounded by the noisy disorder of the barrack room, amidst men rising hastily that they might not be reported missing at the morning muster, which would shortly take place in the courtyard, Fandor-Vinson dressed quickly. He put on his sword-belt, ascertained that his servant had sufficiently polished the brass buttons on his tunic, his sabre, and other trappings. The adjutant for the week entered.

"You are off at once, Vinson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! I will arrange for the fatigues—very pleased to! Ah, you are new here, are you not? Well, I will give you a bit of good advice. Be in the barracks on the stroke of the hour. Remember, men on leave must not play tricks with punctuality."

"Right, sir!"

The adjutant turned sharp about and went off.

"He is jolly amiable, that's sure!" was Fandor's comment.... "I wonder, if by chance."...

Since Fandor had so rashly mixed himself up in this spy business, he was inclined to see everywhere traitors and accomplices; but he reminded himself that he must beware of preconceived ideas.

* * * * *

It was on the stroke of seven when Fandor showed his permit to the sergeant at the gate of the barracks.

"Here's one who's going to amuse himself," grumbled the sergeant. "Pass, Corporal!"

Fandor smiled joyously: but the smile did not express his real feelings.

Instead of making directly for the road to the frontier, he strolled about the town, went by roundabout ways, returned on his steps, assuring himself that he was not being shadowed.

The day was fine; a slight violet haze lingered in the hollows; the air, fresh but not chill, was deliciously pure. Fandor walked along the high road at a smart pace. He turned over in his mind certain warnings given him by Vinson.

"When an individual knows he is going to a rendezvous he makes a point of talking to every person he meets whom he thinks likely to be the individual he is to have dealings with."

But Fandor did not see a soul to speak to. The highway was deserted, and the fields lay empty and desolate as far as an eye could reach. Not a toiling peasant was to be seen.

He had been walking for over an hour, quite determined to carry this adventure through to the end, when, from the top of a hill he caught sight of a motor-car drawn up on one of the lower slopes of the road.

"They may, or may not, be the individuals I am out to meet," he thought: "but I am glad enough to meet some human beings.... I shall stroll near their car, which seems out of action: it will help pass the time."

He went up to the motor-car. There were two people in it; a man clad in an immensely valuable fur coat, and a young priest, so muffled up in rugs and wraps and cloaks that only his two eyes could be seen.

Just as he got up to them, he heard the priest say in a tart voice to the man in the fur coat, now standing in the road:

"Whatever is the matter? What has gone wrong with your car now?"

The priest's smart companion exclaimed in a tone of comic despair:

"It is not the right front tire this time: it is the back tire, the left one, that is punctured!"

"Ought I to get out?"

"By no means! Do not stir! I am going to put the lifting-jack under the car, and shall replace the damaged tire in no time."

Fandor was only a few yards off.

The man in the fur coat, evidently his own chauffeur, half turned towards the soldier, adding:

"Unfortunately, my jack does not work very well, I doubt if I can succeed unaided in getting it under the wheel-base."

"Can I give you a lift?" asked Fandor.

The chauffeur turned with a smile.

"That is very kind of you, Corporal.... I will not refuse your help."

From a box he extracted a lifting-jack which, to Fandor's expert eye, did not seem to function so badly as all that. The chauffeur slipped it under the car. Fandor lent an experienced hand, and lifted the wheel, whose tire had just given up the ghost.

"There, Monsieur! These punctures are the cause of endless delays," remarked Fandor, for the sake of saying something. The priest shrugged, and said in a disagreeable tone:

"Our tires have come to grief twice already this morning!"

The chauffeur was busied with his car fiddling with the machinery. He shot a question at Fandor:

"Are we far from Verdun?"

"Five or six kilometres."

"No more?"

"About that, Monsieur."

The chauffeur stood upright.

"It is Verdun, then, we can see over there?"

"What do you mean?" queried Fandor.

"That belfry in the mist."

"That is not a belfry: it is a chimney, the bakehouse chimney."

"Of the new bakehouse, then?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"I had an idea it was not finished."...

"It is not finished, but it soon will be—in a matter of six months."...

"Ah! Good!... Now tell me is there no railway along the route we are following?"

"No. They intend laying down a line for strategic purposes, but they have not started on it yet."

The chauffeur smiled approval, while continuing to tinker at his machine.

"Ah, these projects!" he remarked. "They are long in coming to anything—these French administrative projects!"

"Well!... Yes."

There was a pregnant silence.

Fandor thought: "This grows interesting: it is quite on the cards that this tourist may be."...

"Ouf!" exclaimed the chauffeur, suddenly jumping up. "A stiff job this, Corporal! Will you be good enough to lend me a hand again?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, not just at once!... Let me rest a few moments! Doubled up as I have been, my back feels positively broken."

The stranger took a few steps along the road. He pointed to the horizon.

"One has a pretty view here!... You know this part of the country, Corporal?"

"So, so!... Fairly well."

"Ah! Then you can give me some information!... What is that other big chimney down there?... Do you see it?... Between those trees! Those two trees—there!"

"It is the chimney of the bell foundry."

"Ah, yes, I have heard that foundry mentioned, it is true.... It seems to be quite near!"

Fandor shook his head.

"It seems to be—but, by the road, it is a good eleven kilometres away."

"As much as that? As the crow flies it is close to."

"Yes. It seems so."

The chauffeur insisted:

"But, how far do you think it is, Corporal, from here to it, in a straight line?... They ought to teach you to measure distances in your regiment!"

Fandor was no longer in doubt: this man was the spy he was out to meet! Fandor once again recalled Vinson's words: "When one has to do with a fresh spy chief, it is a certain thing that he will make you pass a little kind of examination ... will put you through a regular cross-examination to ascertain your capacities—what you are made of!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson replied instantly:

"As the crow flies, I calculate it is not more than four kilometres. The road winds a great deal."

"Good! Good!" cried the chauffeur. "I should have said so, also."

It seemed to Fandor that the man in the costly fur coat hesitated, was on the point of asking a question, thought better of it, turned away, went back to his car. He called out:

"Look here, Corporal! Since you are so kind, help me with this lever!"

That was soon done. The inquisition recommenced.

"Have you been long with the Verdun garrison?"

"Oh, no! Only a few days!"

"You are not bored?"

"Why should I be?"

"I mean—you do not find the discipline severe?"

Fandor tried to find out what the man in the fur coat was driving at.

"Oh, I have not much to complain of: I can get leave pretty easily."

"And that is always pleasant," remarked the man in the fur coat. "Young soldiers in garrison towns have a deuced poor time of it—is that not so?... And they do not know how to amuse themselves when they have leave.... But, no doubt you have friends here, Corporal?"

"I do not know a soul in Verdun."

"Ah, well, since you have been so obliging, it would give me pleasure to introduce you to some people, if you would care for it?... You would find them amusing."

"You have friends in Verdun, sir?" asked Fandor in his turn.

"I know a few people: so does the abbe who accompanies me. I have it!... an idea ... Corporal, come at six o'clock this evening ... no, seven o'clock, and very punctually, and ask for me at the printing office of the Noret Brothers. They are real good fellows! You will find some youngsters of your own age there. You will find you have much in common. I am sure they will prove useful acquaintances."

The man in the fur coat accented the word "useful."

This told Fandor that there was business on hand at the printing works—and he was to be involved in it.

"You are really too kind, sir!... I do not wish to."...

"Not at all! Not at all! It is nothing! And you have been so obliging!... Come to the Noret's at seven without fear of being considered an intruder!"

The man in the fur coat accentuated the word "fear" significantly. He set his motor going and jumped into the car.

"Again, many thanks, Corporal! I do not offer to take you back to Verdun, as my car has only two seats! Till this evening, then!"

The car moved off, rapidly putting on speed.

"There goes the chief spy!" thought Fandor. "Never set eyes on the fellow before, nor heard his voice, either! Now, whom shall I meet to-night at this cursed rendezvous, and what is the business? Some traitorous deviltry, of course!"

* * * * *

It was striking seven when Fandor presented himself at the Noret printing works.

He rang: he was admitted, and shown into a waiting-room. There was a touch of the convent parlour about it. The man who had opened to him asked:

"What name shall I give to the gentlemen, Monsieur?"

"Tell them it is Corporal Vinson."

Fandor's heart was beating like a sledge hammer as the minutes dragged by: it was an eternity of waiting! A flock of suspicions crowded his mind: might he not have fallen into a trap?

At last a tall, thin, red-bearded young man walked into the room: he greeted Fandor-Vinson with:

"Good evening, Corporal. Our mutual friends have informed us that we might expect you. They have not arrived yet; but there is no need to wait for a regular introduction—what do you think?"

"You are too kind, Monsieur. A simple corporal like myself is very fortunate to find friends in a garrison town."

"To pass the time till our friends arrive, what do you say to visiting the workshops?... You will find it interesting ... and useful."

"That word 'useful' again!" thought Fandor. "Decidedly there is business afoot to-night!"

His guide expanded.

"In Paris they despise provincial industries! They pretend to believe that no good work is done—can be done—in country districts.... It is a mistaken notion! Examine our machines!"

The red-bearded young man ushered Fandor into the workshops. They were extensive, spacious.

"Here is the machine which prints off The Beacon of Verdun!" he explained. "You can see for yourself that it is the latest model! Do you know anything about the working of these machines?"

Fandor could hardly restrain his laughter.

"What would this guide of mine think if he knew that for a good many years I have had to cross the machine-room of La Capitale every evening, and consequently have been able to see and admire printing machines of a very different quality of perfection to this one he has praised so emphatically?"

Fandor-Vinson played up.

"It seems to me a marvellous machine! I should like to see it working!"

The red-bearded young man smiled.

"Come here some afternoon, and I will show you the machine in full work!... Come soon!"

He led Fandor to another part of the printing-room.

"Do you know anything about linotypes?"

Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew these machines were out-of-date.

"What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query.

The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking object concealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet for storing odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff covered something metallic.

"See, Corporal, this will please you!" said the red-bearded young man. He uncovered the object.

"You know what it is, do you, Corporal?"

"Not in the least!"

"A machine for making bank-notes!"

"Really! You manufacture bank-notes, do you?" remarked Fandor. His tone was non-committal.

"You shall see for yourself, Corporal! Of course they are only made for the fun of the thing—still, they might happen to prove useful—one never knows!"

Again the marked accent on "useful."

Again Fandor-Vinson played up.

"I should like to have a squint at those holy-joke notes!"

"I was going to suggest it!"

Turning a handle, the red-bearded young man put the machine in motion.

"Place yourself there, Corporal! Put your hands to it! You shall see what will happen!"

Fandor did as directed.

"Hold out your hands!"

Fandor-Vinson held out his hands.

A new fifty-franc note fell into them.

"What do you say to that? Is it not a good—a perfect imitation?" The red-bearded young man's tone was triumphant.

Fandor-Vinson examined it.

"That it certainly is," he acquiesced.

"Here are more!... Look!... Take them!"

Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinson of the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun.

Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over this performance.

"Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said the red-bearded young man, smiling.

"You might even try to pass them off, if the joke appeals to you!"

Fandor's replies were monosyllables: he was watching the machine.

"What a childish trick!" he said to himself: "Why, these notes dropped into my hands are real!... This machine does not print anything!... My new friend has slipped these notes under the rollers as payment for future treachery, expected betrayals—it is a way of paying me!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson found the necessary words to show he fully understood the quality of the payment—its real value. Supposing that no more would be required of him, he tried to get free of this spy, and leave the premises, but his red-bearded paymaster had other views.

"Now, Corporal," said he, "shall we empty a bottle together in honour of our meeting?"

Fandor was far from wishing to clink glasses with the spy: still, needs must when the devil drives you into a tight corner of your own choosing! The offer was accepted with feigned pleasure. Corporal Fandor-Vinson kept a smiling face, whilst, glass in hand, he talked trivialities with his host.

At last Corporal Fandor-Vinson rose:

"My leave has not expired, it is true, Monsieur," he said, "but I have some rounds to make. Pray excuse me!"

The thin, red-bearded young man did not seek to detain him. The interview was at an end: the business done for that evening.

"You will return, will you not, Corporal?" asked his host. "We are at your disposal, I and my brother, whenever you have need of us—our friends also. They will regret having arrived too late to meet you!... And, Corporal ... we know some officers—if you want leave now and again—you must let us know—will you not?"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson said the expected things, and hastened away, glad to be quit of this red-bearded young spy of a printer. He hurried off towards the centre of the town, covering his tracks as Juve had taught him how to do. He had time to spare before returning to barracks. He entered a small cafe and ordered a drink.

"Behold me one of the precious spy circle of Verdun," thought he. "I must make the most of my privileges."

His glass remained untouched while he sat thinking long and deeply.



XVI

AT THE ELYSEE BALL

The ball was in full swing. There was a crush in the brilliantly lighted reception-rooms of the Elysee. Prominent members of Parliament, diplomats, officers naval and military, representatives of the higher circles of commerce, and finance, rubbed shoulders with the undistinguished, at the official reception given in honour of Japan's new ambassador, Prince Ito. The prince was stationed in the centre of the inmost drawing-room, gorgeously arrayed in his national costume, a delicate smile on his lips as he watched the President's guests with bright shrewd eyes, while music from an invisible Hungarian band floated on the air.

In this particular room two men were in earnest conversation: Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac.

"Well, Lieutenant, I have been too pressed for time to-day to see you ... but, Heaven knows, I have not forgotten for a moment the matter I entrusted to you.... They are causing me the greatest anxiety."...

"I can well understand that, Colonel."...

"Anything new?"

"No, Colonel.... That is to say—I ought to say 'No' to you."...

"What the devil do you mean?" The colonel stared at his junior a moment; then, taking him by the arm, said in a confidential tone: