"No, no."

The patient spoke these last words so confidently that the surgeon could not help smiling.

"Do you know," he observed, "that in your place I should be much less confident. What are you going to do? Where do you think of going when you leave here? Come, now, you are still very weak; you had much better spend the night here. You could go to-morrow morning after the round at eleven. It would be much more rational."

The young woman shook her head and replied curtly:

"I want to go now, sir, at once."

"Very good. They will give you your ticket."

The doctor gone, the young woman quickly jumped out of bed and began to dress herself.

"You don't suppose I'm going to stay here a minute longer than I have to," she grumbled with a laugh to her neighbour, who was watching her preparations with an envious eye.

"Some one waiting for you?"

"Sure there is. Loupart won't be pleased that I'm not back yet."

"Are you going from here to his place?"

"You bet I am."

This she said in a tone that showed plainly she found the thing quite natural. The other was not of her mind.

"Oh, well, I should be scared only at the thought of seeing that man. You were jolly lucky not to have been killed by him. And when he has got hold of you——"

But Josephine laughed merrily.

"My dear," she said, "you don't know what you're saying. Depend on it, if Loupart didn't kill me it's because he didn't want to. He's a splendid shot. I suppose he had his reasons for not wanting me to stay here; I don't know his affairs, and besides, I came here without consulting him."

A vigorous "hush" from the nurse on duty stopped the conversation.

Josephine meanwhile completed her toilet. A nurse had brought her back the clothes she wore when she entered the hospital. She slipped on a poor muslin skirt, laced her bodice, buttoned her boots and set her curls straight; she was ready.

"I'm off," she cried gaily to the porter as she held out her pass to him. "Thank the Lord, I'm going, and I have no fancy to come back to your hotel!"

Once in the street, Josephine walked quickly. She cast a glance at the clock at a cabstand, and found she was behind time.

She went along the Rue Ambroise Pare, then turned on to the outer boulevards.

The dinner-hour being at hand, the populous streets of the Chapelle quarter were at their lowest ebb of animation. The bookshops had long since released their employees, the cafes were giving up their customers. Fandor, having recognised Josephine, followed her closely as she passed the outer boulevards, then by Boulevard Barbes.

"Beyond a doubt she is bound for the Goutte d'Or," he muttered.

Some minutes later, sure enough, she reached her home.

"Very good! The bird is back in the nest: My job is now to watch the visitors who come to call on her."

Opposite Josephine's door there was a wine-shop. This Fandor entered.

"Writing materials, please," he ordered. "I must drop a line to Juve," he thought. "We must begin to set the trap."

He was busy drawing up a detailed plan of the neighbourhood when, on raising his head, he gave a violent start, and, throwing a coin on the table, rushed out of the shop.

"She is well disguised, but there's no mistaking her!"

Without losing sight of the woman he was watching, Fandor reached the Metropolitan Station.

"Good Lord! What does this mean?" he muttered. "Where is she off to? She's taking a first-class ticket. Can she have an appointment with Chaleck?" He also took a ticket behind the young woman and reached the platform.

"I'm going where she goes," he thought. "But where the devil are we bound for?"

Loupart's mistress was the embodiment of a charming Parisian.

Her gown was tailor-made, of navy blue, plain but perfectly cut; she wore little shoes with high heels, and no one would have recognised in the well-dressed woman, who got out of the Metropolitan at the Lyons Station, the burnisher, who, a little while ago, had left Lariboisiere.

Josephine had scarcely taken a few steps on the great Square which divides Boulevard Diderot from the Lyons Station, when a young man, quietly dressed, came toward her. He ogled her, then in a voice of marked cordiality, said:

"Can I say a few words to you?"

"But, sir——"

"Two words, mademoiselle, I beg of you."

"Speak," she said at last, after seeming to hesitate, halting on the edge of the pavement.

"Oh, not here; surely you will accept a glass?"

The young woman made up her mind:

"Very well, if you like."

The couple directed their steps toward a neighbouring "brasserie," and neither the young man nor Josephine dreamed of noticing that a passer-by entered the place in their wake.

Fandor did not take a seat at one of the little tables outside, but made for the interior, cleverly finding means to watch the two in a glass.

"Is this the person Josephine was to meet?" he wondered. "Can he be a messenger of Loupart's? Yet she did not seem to know him. Hullo!"

Just as the waiter was bringing two glasses of wine to the table where Josephine and her partner had seated themselves, the young woman suddenly arose, and, without taking leave, made for the door.

Fandor managed to pass close to the deserted man. He heard the waiter jokingly say:

"Not very kind, the little lady, eh?"

"I should think not! Didn't take her long to give me the slip."

Then in a tone of regret the young man added: "Pity, she was a nice little thing."

"That's all right," thought Fandor. "Now I know that Josephine accepted the drink because she thought he was sent by Loupart or one of the gang. Once enlightened as to his real object, she left him abruptly."

Tracking the young woman, Fandor now felt sure he was going to witness an interesting meeting. Josephine, however, seemed in no hurry. She inspected the illustrated papers in the kiosks, and presently reached the box where platform tickets are distributed; having taken one, she sat down near the foot of the staircase which leads to the refreshment rooms. Behind her Fandor also took a ticket, and, going up the stairs, leaned against the balustrade.

"I am waiting for some one," he said to the waiter who appeared. "You may bring me a cup of coffee."

Scarcely five minutes had passed, when Fandor saw a shabby looking man approach Josephine and begin an earnest conversation.

The man drew from his pocket a greasy note-book. From it he took a paper which he handed to the young woman, who promptly put it away in her handbag.

Fandor was puzzled.

"Where was she going? Why did this person hand her a ticket?"

The man pointed to a train where passengers were already taking their seats.

"The Marseilles train! So Loupart has left Paris!"

Then he called a messenger.

"Go and get me a first-class ticket to Marseilles. Here is money. Is there a telegraph office near at hand?"

"On the arrival platform, sir."

"Right. I will give you a message to take; go and hurry back."

Fandor took out his note-book and scrawled a message:

"Juve, Prefecture of Police, Room 44.

"Have met Josephine and followed her. She is off first class, by Marseilles train. Don't know her destination. Will wire you as soon as there's anything fresh.

"Fandor."



XIII

ROBBERY; AMERICAN FASHION

"Tickets, please."

The guard took the one offered by Fandor.

"Excuse me, sir, there's a mistake here," he said.

"This train doesn't go to Marseilles?"

"The train, yes, but not the last carriage in which you are, for it is bound for Pontarlier, and will be slipped at Lyons from this express."

Fandor was nonplussed. The essential was to follow Josephine, ensconced in the compartment next to his.

"Well, I'll get into another carriage when we are off; it's so easy with the corridors."

"You can't do that, sir," insisted the guard. "While all the carriages for Marseilles in the front of the train communicate, this one is separated from them by a baggage car."

"Then I'll change later, during the night. I have till Dijon, haven't I?"

"You have."

The guard went away. Fandor suddenly asked himself:

"Has Josephine made a mistake, too? Or has she a definite purpose in being in a carriage which is to be slipped from the Southern Express at Dijon to go on toward the Swiss frontier?"

The guard was looking at tickets in Josephine's compartment. Fandor went near to listen; he heard the tail of a conversation between the fair traveller, her companion and the guard. The latter declared as he withdrew:

"Exactly so, you shall not be disturbed."

When Josephine had boarded the train, Fandor had not ventured to watch her too closely, nor the companion she had met on the platform at the last moment. He now decided to take advantage of the corridor to take a look at the man.

He was quite stout, rather common in appearance, although with a prosperous air. A man of middle age, whose jolly face was framed in a beard, giving him the look of an old mariner. Moreover, he was one-eyed.

Josephine was playful, full of smiles and amiability, but also somewhat absent-minded.

The pair had decidedly the appearance of being lovers.

Although it was quite early, passengers were arranging to pass the night as comfortably as possible. The lamps had been shaded with their little blue curtains, and the portieres, facing the corridors, had been drawn.

Fandor returned to his compartment. Two corners of it were already occupied—the two furthest away from the corridor. One was in possession of a man about forty, with a waxed moustache, having the air of an officer in mufti, the other was taken by a young collegian with a waxen complexion.

The journalist determined to keep awake, but scarcely had he settled himself when drowsiness crept over him. Rocked by the regular motion of the train he sank into a slumber troubled by nightmares. Then suddenly he sprang up. He had the clear impression of some one brushing by him and opening the door to the corridor.

"Who is there?" he murmured in a voice thick with sleep and drowned by the rush of the train. No one answered him. He staggered out into the corridor. At the far end of the carriage a passenger, with a long black beard, was standing smoking a cigar, and apparently studying the murky country. Not a sound came from Josephine's apartment. With a shrug of his shoulders and cursing his fears, Fandor returned to his own seat.

Why should he fancy, because he was following Josephine, that all the passengers in the train were cut-throats and accomplices of Loupart's mistress? Yet, five minutes after these sage reflections, Fandor started again; he had distinctly seen, passing along the corridor, two fellows with villainous faces and suspicious demeanour. One of them cast into Fandor's compartment such a murderous glance that it made the journalist's heart palpitate.

Fandor glanced at his companions. The officer was sleeping soundly, but the young fellow, although keeping perfectly still, opened his eyes from time to time and cast uneasy glances about him, then pretended to sleep as soon as he caught Fandor watching him.

The train slackened speed; they were entering Laroche Station; there was a stop to change engines. The officer suddenly awoke and got out. The compartment holding Josephine and her companion was thrown open, and, strange to say, his neighbour, the collegian, had moved into it, sitting just opposite the stout gentleman.

Fandor, with a view to keeping awake, abandoned his comfortable seat and settled himself in one of the hammocks in the corridor. He chose the one just opposite Josephine's door. But so great was his weariness that he quickly fell into a deep sleep. Suddenly a violent shock sent him rolling to the cross-seat in Josephine's compartment. As he picked himself up in a dazed condition, a cry of terror broke from his lips. Three inches from his head was the muzzle of a revolver held by a big ruffian wearing a mask, who cried:

"Hands up, all!"

Fandor and his companions were too amazed to immediately obey, and the command came again, more forcible.

"Hands up, and don't stir or I'll blow out your brains."

And now a gnome-like individual appeared, also masked.

The first one turned to Josephine: "You, woman, out of here!"

Without betraying by her expression whether or no she was his accomplice, Josephine hurriedly left her place and, slipping between the gnome and the colossus, went and cowered down at the end of the carriage.

"Go on!" suddenly commanded the big ruffian, who seemed to be the leader. "Go on! rifle 'em!"

The gnome, with wonderful adroitness, ransacked the coat and waistcoat pockets of the traveller. The stout man, shaking with alarm, made no resistance. After relieving him of his watch and pocketbook, they forced him to undo his shirt. Around his waist he wore a broad leather belt.

"Go it, Beaumome, relieve him of his burden, the fat jackass!"

From the body of the traveller, the stolen belt passed to the big masked robber, who weighed the prize complacently. The belt contained pockets stuffed with gold and bank notes. The two robbers then moved away toward the further end of the carriage.

Fandor, furious at being tricked like the simplest of greenhorns, determined to seize the occasion to give the alarm.

The emergency bell was immediately above the pale-faced collegian. With a bound the journalist sprang for it, but fell back with a loud cry as he felt a sharp pain in his hand. The collegian had leaped up and cruelly bitten his finger. So great was the pain that Fandor swooned for a few seconds, and that gave his assailant time to cross the compartment and reach the corridor. At this moment the express slackened its speed and slowly came to a standstill.

"Is it too high to jump?"

Fandor knew the voice: it was Josephine's.

"No," answered some one. "Let yourself go. I'll catch you."

The sound of heavy shoes on the footboard told him that the robbers were making off. Josephine went with them, so she was their accomplice. The journalist sprang into the corridor to rush in pursuit. But he recoiled. A shot rang out, the glass fell broken before him, and a bullet flattened above his head in the woodwork.

It now seemed to him that the train was gradually gathering way again. Fandor put his head through the broken glass and searched the darkness outside.

"Ah!" he cried in amazement. There was no longer a train on the track, or rather, the main body of the train was vanishing in the distance, while the carriage in which he was and the rear baggage car had pulled up. Apparently the robbers had broken the couplings.

At the moment, the stout man, having quite recovered, drew near Fandor and observed the situation.

"Why, we're backing! We're backing!" he bellowed with alarm.

"Naturally, we're going down a slope," calmly replied Fandor. The other groaned and wrung his hands.

"It's appalling! The Simplon express is only twelve minutes behind us!"

Fandor now realized the frightful danger. Without delay he made for the carriage door, ready to jump and risk breaking his bones rather than face the terrible crash which seemed inevitable. But before he could make up his mind to the leap, a grinding noise became audible. The guard in the baggage car had applied the Westinghouse brakes and in a few minutes they came to a stop.

Fandor and the stout gentleman sprang frantically out of the carriage, and two brakemen jumped from the baggage car, crying: "Get away! Save yourselves!"

Clambering over the ties, they jumped a hedge, floundered in a hole full of water, scratching their hands and tearing their clothes; they rolled down a grassy slope, stuck in a ploughed field, then dropped to the ground, motionless, as a fearful din burst like thunder on the hush of the night. The Simplon express, racing at full speed, had crashed into the two carriages left on the rails and smashed them to bits, while the engine and forward carriages of the train were telescoped.



XIV

FLIGHT THROUGH THE NIGHT

Scarcely had Loupart received Josephine in his arms, as she jumped from the carriage, than he strenuously urged his companions to make haste.

"Now, then, boys, off we go, and quickly, too! Josephine, pick up your skirts and get a move on!"

It was a dark night, without moon, favourable to the robber's plans. For a good fifteen minutes the ill-omened crew continued their retreat by forced march. From time to time Loupart questioned the "Beard":

"This the way?"

The other nodded assent: "Keep on, we'll get there."

At length they descried the white ribbon of a road winding up the side of the low hill and vanishing in the distance into a small wood.

"There's the track," declared the Beard.

"To Dijon?"

"No, to Verrez."

"That's a good thing; now, stop and listen to me."

Loupart sat down on the grass and addressed them.

"It's been a good stroke, friends, but unfortunately it's not finished yet. They took precautions we couldn't foresee. We have only part of the fat. We share up to-morrow evening."

He was answered by growls of disappointment.

"I said to-morrow evening," he repeated. "Those who aren't satisfied with that can stay away. There'll be all the more for the others. Now, we must separate. Josephine, you, the Beard and I will get back together. There's work for us in Paris. The others scatter and take care not to get pinched; be back in the nest by ten."

Loupart motioned to the Beard and Josephine to follow him.

"Show us the way, Beard."

"Where to?"

"The telegraph office."

"What's up?"

"Why, you idiot," replied Loupart, "we've been robbed! The wine-dealer's notes are only halves! The swine insured himself for nothing."

The Beard broke out into recriminations.

"To have a hundred and fifty notes in your pocket, and they good for nothing! There was no such thing as Providence! It was sickening."

"Come, don't get angry, two halves will make a whole."

"You know where to lay hands on the rest?"

"Yes, old man."

"That's our job to-morrow evening? That's why you're chasing to the telegraph office?"

Loupart clenched his fists.

"That and something else; there's bigger game afoot."

"What?"

"Juve."

"Oh, the devil!" murmured the Beard, divided between pleasure and fear. "You've got the beggar?"

"I have."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

The little group moved forward in silence. At length Josephine began to tire.

"Say, have we much further to go?"

"No," replied the Beard. "Verrez village is behind that hill. The main road runs by the row of poplars."

"All right. Go and wait there with Josephine. I'll catch you up in a quarter of an hour," ordered Loupart. "I've a wire to send off."

His acolytes gone, Loupart resumed his way. As a measure of precaution, he took off his jacket, turned it inside out and put it on again. The jacket was a trick one: the lining was a different colour and the pockets differently placed.

On reaching Verrez, Loupart turned round. From the top of the little hill he could see, in the distance, the reddening flames.

"That's going all right," thought the wretch; "the Simplon express has run into the cars. There must be a fine mix-up there."

Reaching the post-office at last, he seized a blank and wrote on it hastily:

"Juve, Inspector of Safety, 142 Rue Bonaparte, Paris. All is well; found gang complete, including Loupart. Robbery committed but failed. Cannot give details. Be at Bercy Stores alone, but armed, to-morrow at eleven at night, near the Kessler House cellars.

"Fandor."

The clerk held out her hand to take the message. The bandit was extremely polite.

"Be so good as to pay special attention to this message. Read it over, madam. You grasp the importance of it? You see it must be kept absolutely secret. I rely on you."

Ten minutes' quick walking brought Loupart once more to Josephine and the Beard.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Anything new?"

"Nothing."

"Josephine, go down the hill and the first motor that passes, set to and howl; call 'help' and 'murder'; got to stop it. Be off! Look sharp!"

Some minutes passed. The two men watched Josephine go down the road and hide in one of the ditches.

"Your barker is ready, Beard?"

"Six plugs, Loupart."

"Good! You go to the right, I to the left."

Loupart had scarcely given these orders, when, on the horizon, a bright gleam became visible, growing larger every minute, while the noise of a motor broke the silence of the open country.

Loupart laughed.

"Look, Beard. Acetylene lamps, eh? That car will do our job splendidly."

An automobile was fast nearing them. As it passed by Josephine, she rushed into the road, uttering piercing cries.

"Help! Murder! Have pity! Stop!"

With a hasty movement the chauffeur, taken aback by the sight of a woman rising unexpectedly on the lonely road, made a dash at his brakes. Meanwhile from the inside of the car a traveller leaned out.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

As the car was about to stop, Loupart and the Beard rushed out.

"You take the passenger!" cried the former; "I'll attend to the chauffeur."

The two brigands sprang on the footboards.

"No tricks, or I'll shoot! Josephine, truss these fowls for me!" cried Loupart.

Josephine took a roll of cord from her lover's pocket and tied the two victims firmly while Loupart gagged them.

"Now, Beard, take them into the field and give them a rap on the head to keep them quiet."

Then he got into the car and skilfully turned it round. When Josephine and the Beard were on board, he got under way at full speed with a grim smile.

"And, now, Juve, it's between us two!"



XV

THE SIMPLON EXPRESS DISASTER

While Loupart and his mates were making off across country the disaster occurred. At a curve in the track the Simplon Express coming at full speed charged the cars and crushed them, then, lifted by the shock, the engine reared backwards on its wheels and fell heavily, dragging down in its fall a baggage car and the first two carriages coupled behind it. Then rose in the night cries of terror and the frantic rush of the passengers who fled from the luxurious train.

Fandor picked himself up and went forward. From the tender of the engine a cloud of steam escaped with hoarse whistlings.

The driver held out his two broken arms.

"Give me a hand, for God's sake! Open the tap! There, that hoisted bar. Lift it up. Quick, the boiler is going to burst."

Fandor was still engaged in carrying out this manoeuvre when succour began to arrive.

The stoker, less seriously hurt than the driver, had managed to drag himself clear of the wreckage, which was beginning to catch fire. The head guard, and those passengers whose seats had been at the rear of the train, hurried up and the combined effort at rescue began. They searched for the injured and put out the incipient blazes.

Instinctively those who had fled from the train followed in a frantic stampede the road at the foot of the embankment, reached Verrez village out of breath and gave the alarm.

The countryside was soon in an uproar. Lights flashed, torches and lamps of vehicles harnessed in haste: a quarter of an hour after the disaster half the neighbourhood was afoot from all quarters.

"A bit of luck, sir," remarked the conductor, still pallid with horror, to Fandor, "that the collision happened at the curve where our speed was slackened. Ten minutes sooner and all the carriages would have been telescoped."

"Yes, it was luck," replied the journalist, as he wiped his face, covered with soot and coal dust. "The two carriages telescoped were almost empty."

From a neighbouring way-station the railway officials had telephoned news of the accident. The section of line was kept clear by telegraph. Word came that a relief train was being made up, and would arrive in an hour.

Fandor had quickly regained his coolness, and was one of the first to lend a hand in the rescue, turning over the wreckage and setting free the injured.

As he passed along the track, he was attracted by the appeals of a stout man, who hurried toward him, wailing:

"Sir! Sir! What a terrible calamity!"

Fandor recognised his fellow-passenger, Josephine's lover.

"Yes, and we had a lucky escape. But what has become of your wife?"

In using the word "wife" Fandor was under no illusion; he merely wanted to interview the other.

"My wife? Ah, sir, that's the terrible part of it. She's not my wife—she's a little friend, and now it's all bound to come out. My lawful wife will hear everything. As for the girl, I don't know what has become of her."

"She knew that you were carrying money?"

"Yes, sir. I am an agent for wines at Bercy, and I was going to pay over dividends to stock-holders, one hundred and fifty thousand francs. I recognised one of my men among the robbers, a cooper. He knew that every month I travel, carrying large sums of money. I am quite sure this robbery was planned beforehand."

"And who are you, sir?"

"M. Martialle, of Kessler & Barries. Fortunately the money is not lost."

"Not lost! You know where to find the robbers?"

"That I do not, but they have only the halves of the notes. These are worth nothing to them unless they can lay their hands on the corresponding halves. It's a way of cheap insurance."

"And where are the other halves of the notes?"

"Oh, in a safe place, in the office of the firm at Bercy."

Fandor abruptly left M. Martialle and approached an official.

"When will the line be cleared?"

"In an hour's time, sire."

"There'll be no train for Paris till then?"

"No, sir."

Fandor moved off along the track.

"That's all right, I can make it. I'll have time to send a wire to The Capital."

The journalist sat down on the grass, took out his writing-pad and began his article. But he had overrated his strength. He was worn out, body and soul. He had not been writing ten minutes when he dropped into a doze, the pencil slipped from his fingers and he was fast asleep.

* * * * *

When Fandor opened his eyes, the twilight was beginning to come down. It was between five and six o'clock.

"What a fool I've been! I've made a mess of the whole business now," he cried as he ran frantically to the nearest station.

"How soon the first train to Paris?"

"In two minutes, sir: it is signalled."

"When does it arrive?"

"At ten o'clock."

Fandor threw up his hands.

"I shall be too late. I haven't time to wire Juve and warn him. Oh! what an idiot I was to sleep like that!"



XVI

A DRAMA AT THE BERCY WAREHOUSE

Juve passed the whole day at the Cite Frochot. Despite the precautions taken to keep the failure two days back a secret, the papers had got wind of the drama: The Capital itself had spoken of it, though without naming his fellow-worker. The staff of that paper was unaware that Fandor was the other man who had so marvellously escaped from the sewer. Blood-curdling tales were told about Doctor Chaleck, Juve, Loupart, the house of the crime, the affair at the hospital; but to anyone familiar with the actual happenings, the newspaper accounts were very far from giving the truth.

And Juve, far from contradicting these misstatements, took a delight in spreading them broadcast.

It is sometimes useful to set astray the powerful voice of the Press so as to give a false security to the real culprits.

However, when masons, electricians and zinc-workers were seen to take possession of Doctor Chaleck's house and begin to turn it upside down, a crowd quickly assembled to witness the performance.

It was with great difficulty that Juve, who did not want too many witnesses round the place, organised arrangements of a vigorous character.

Installed in the drawing-room on the ground floor, he first had a long interview with the owner of the house, M. Nathan, the well-known diamond broker of the Rue de Provence. The poor man was in despair to think his property had been the scene of the extraordinary events which were on everybody's tongue. All he knew of Doctor Chaleck was that that gentleman had been his tenant just four years, and had always paid his rent regularly.

"You didn't suspect," asked Juve in conclusion, "the ingenious contrivance of that electric lift in which the doctor placed a study identically similar to the real one?"

"Certainly not, sir," replied the worthy man. "Eighteen months ago my tenant asked permission to repair the house at his own expense; as you may suppose, I granted his request at once. It must have been at that time that the queer contrivance was built. Have I your permission to go down to the cellars and ascertain their condition?"

"Not before to-morrow, sir, when I shall have finished my inspection," replied Juve, as he saw M. Nathan out.

The inspector was assisted in his investigation by detectives Michel and Dupation. They interviewed the old couple in charge of the Cite and various neighbours of Doctor Chaleck, but without lighting upon a clue. Nobody had seen or heard anything whatever.

Toward noon he and Michel, who did not wish to leave the house, decided to have a modest repast brought to them. M. Dupation, a fidgety official, took this chance of getting away.

"Well, gentlemen," he declared, "you are much more up to this business than I, and besides my wife expects me to luncheon. You don't need any further help from me?"

Juve reassured the worthy superintendent and gave him permission to go. He was only too glad to find himself alone with his lieutenant. The workmen who were repairing the caved-in basement of the little house were already gone, and there was no chance of their being back before two o'clock. Thus Juve found himself alone with Michel.

"What I can't understand, sir," said Michel, "is the telephone call we got toward morning from here asking for help at the office in the Rue Rochefoucauld. Either the victim herself 'phoned, and in that case she did not die, as we think, in the early part of the night, or it was not she, and then——"

Juve smiled.

"You are right in putting the problem that way, but to my mind it is easy to solve. The call was not given by the murdered woman for, remember, when we raised the body at half-past six it was already cold. Now the call was not given till six, when the woman had been dead some little time. That I am sure of, and you will see the report of the medical expert will uphold me."

"Then it was a third person who gave it?"

"Yes, and one who sought to have the crime discovered as soon as possible, and who reckoned on the officers coming from the Central Station, but did not expect Fandor or me to come back."

"Then according to you, sir, the murderer knew of your presence behind the curtain in the study while the crime was being committed."

"I can't tell about the murderer, but Doctor Chaleck certainly knew we were there. That man must have watched us all night, known the exact instant we left the house, and immediately afterwards got some one to telephone or must have done so himself."

Michel, becoming more and more convinced by Juve's reasoning, went on:

"At any rate, the existence of two studies, in all respects similar, goes to show a carefully premeditated plan, but there is something I can't account for. When you came back to the study where we found the dead woman, you found traces of mud by the window brought in by your shoes. You must therefore have been watching through the night the room where the crime was committed."

Juve was about to put in a word, but Michel, launched on his train of argument, continued:

"Allow me, sir; you are going, no doubt, to tell me that they might during your short absence have carried the body of the victim into the study in question, but I would point out to you, that on the loosened hair of the poor creature blood had caked, that some was on the carpet and had even gone through it to the flooring beneath. Now if they carried in the body just a little while before we discovered it, that would not have been the case."

Michel was delighted with his own argument. Juve smiled indulgently.

"My poor Michel," he cried, "you would be quite right if I put forward such an explanation. It is certain that the room in which we found the body was that in which the crime took place. It is therefore that in which we were not! As for the marks of mud near the window, they are ours, but transferred from the room in which we were into the room in which we were not! Which again proves that our presence was known to the culprits.

"Furthermore, the candle with which Doctor Chaleck melted the wax to seal his letters was scarcely used, it only burned in fact a few minutes. Now we found another candle in the same state. So you see that the precautions were well taken and everything possible done to lead us astray.

"We see the puppets moving—Loupart, Chaleck, Josephine, others maybe, but we do not see the strings."

"The strings which move them perhaps may be no other than—Fantomas," ventured Michel.

Juve frowned and suddenly fell silent. Then abruptly changing the conversation, he asked his lieutenant:

"You told me, did you not, that you could no longer appear in the character of the Sapper?"

"Quite true, Inspector, I was spotted just the day before the crime by Loupart, and so was my colleague, Nonet."

"Talking of that," answered Juve, "Nonet mentioned vaguely something about an affair at the docks, supposed to have been planned by the Beard and an individual known as the Cooper. Are you fully informed?"

"Unfortunately no, Inspector. I know no more about the matter than you do."

"And what is Nonet about now?"

"He has left for Chartres."

Juve shrugged his shoulders. He was annoyed. Perhaps if Leon, nicknamed Nonet, had not been transferred he would by now have obtained pertinent clues to the dock's affair.

After having enjoined Michel to devise a new disguise which allowed him to mix once more with the Band of Cyphers and going back to "The Good Comrades," Juve went down to the basement to supervise the workmen, who were now back; while Michel busied himself with the inventory of the papers found in Doctor Chaleck's study.

* * * * *

On leaving the house toward half-past seven in the evening Juve went slowly down to the Rue des Martyrs, pondering over the occurrences which for several days had succeeded each other with such startling rapidity.

As he reached the boulevards the bawling of newsboys attracted his attention. An ominous headline was displayed in the papers the crowd was struggling for.

"ANOTHER RAILROAD ACCIDENT. THE SIMPLON EXPRESS TELESCOPES THE MARSEILLES LIMITED. MANY VICTIMS."

Juve anxiously bought a paper and scanned the list of the injured, fearful that Fandor would be found among the number. But as he read the details and learned that those in the detached carriage had escaped, he felt somewhat relieved. Hailing a taxi he drove off rapidly to the Prefecture in search of more precise information.

"A message for you, M. Juve."

The detective, hurrying home, was passing the porter's lodge. He pulled up short.

"For me?"

"Yes—it's certainly your name on the telegram."

Juve took the blue envelope with distrust and uneasiness. He had given his home address to no one. He glanced over the message, and gave a sigh of relief.

"The dear fellow," he muttered as he went upstairs. "He's had a narrow escape; however, all's well than ends well."

After a hurried toilet and a bite of dinner, Juve set off again, jumped into a train for the Boulevard St. Germain and got down at the Jardin des Plantes. Then, sauntering casually along, he made for Bercy by the docks, which were covered as far as the eye could see with rows and rows of barrels.

* * * * *

About two hours later, Juve, who had been wandering about the vast labyrinth of wine-docks, began to grow impatient.

It was already fifty minutes past the appointed hour, and the detective began to feel uneasy. Why was Fandor so late? Something must surely have happened to him! And then what a queer idea to choose such a meeting place!

Suddenly, Juve started. He recalled his talk that afternoon with Michel; the reference made to the affair of the docks in which the Beard and the Cooper were implicated. What if he had been drawn into a trap!

The detective's reflections were suddenly cut short by unusual and alarming sounds.

He fancied he heard the shrill blast of a whistle, followed by the rush of footsteps and a collision of empty barrels.

Juve held his breath and crouched down under the shed in which he stood; he thought he saw the outline of a shadow passing slowly in the distance. Juve was stealthily following in its tracks when he caught a significant click.

"Two can play at that," he growled between his teeth, as he cocked his revolver. The shadow disappeared, but the footsteps went on.

Disguising his voice he called out: "Who goes there?"

A sharp summons answered him, "Halt!"

Juve was about to call upon his mysterious neighbour to do likewise, when a report rang out, at once followed by another. Juve saw where the shots came from. His assailant was scarcely fifteen paces from him, but luckily the shots had gone wide.

"Use up your cartridges, my friend," muttered Juve; "when your get to number six, it will be my turn."

The sixth shot rang out. This was the signal for Juve to spring forward. Leaping over the barrels, he made for the shadow which he espied at intervals. All at once he gave a cry of triumph. He was face to face with a man.

His cry, however, changed into amazement.

"You, Fandor?"

"Juve!"

"You've begun shooting at me, now, have you?"

For answer, the journalist held out his revolver, which was fully loaded.

"But what are you doing here, Juve?" he asked.

"You wired to me to come."

"That I never did."

Juve drew the telegram from his pocket and held it out to Fandor, but as the two men drew close together, they were startled by a lightning flash, and a report. A bullet whistled past their ears. Instinctively they lay flat between two barrels, holding their breaths.

Juve whispered instructions: "When I give the signal, fire at anything you see or toward the direction of the next report."

The two men slowly and noiselessly raised their heads.

"Ah," cried Juve.

And he fired at the rapidly fleeing figure.

"Did you see?" whispered Fandor, clutching Juve's arm. "It's Chaleck."

Juve was about to leap up and start in pursuit when a series of dull thuds, the overturning of barrels, stifled oaths and cracking planks smote his ear. These noises were followed by the measured footfall of a body of men drawing near, words of command and shrill whistles.

"What's all that now?" questioned Fandor.

"The best thing that could happen for us," replied Juve. "The police are coming. These quays are a refuge for all kinds of tramps and crooks who from time to time are rounded up. We are probably going to see a 'drive.'"

Juve had scarcely finished speaking when several shots rang out; these were followed by a general uproar and then a great blue flame suddenly rose, died away and flared up again. A thick smoke permeated the atmosphere.

"Fire," exclaimed Fandor.

"The kegs of alcohol are alight," added Juve.

The two had now to think of their own safety. Evidently bandits had been tracking them for more than an hour, guided by Doctor Chaleck.

But they soon found that their retreat was cut off by a ring of flames.

"Let us head for the Seine," suggested Fandor, who had discovered a break in the ring of fire at that point. A fresh explosion now took place. From a burst cask a spurt of liquid fire shot up, closing the circle. It had become impossible to pass through in any direction.

They heard the cries of the rabble, the whistles of the officers. In the distance the horns of the fire engines moaned dolefully. The heat was growing unbearable, and the ring enclosing Fandor and Juve narrowed more and more. Suddenly Juve pointed to an enormous empty puncheon that had just rolled beside them.

"Have you ever looped the loop?" he asked. "Hurry up now; in you go; we'll let it roll down the slope of the quay into the river."

In a few moments the cask was rolling at top speed. Juve and Fandor guessed by the crackling of the outer planks and by a sudden rise in the temperature that they were passing through the fire. All at once the great vat reached the level of the river. It plunged into the waves with a dull thud.



XVII

ON THE SLABS OF THE MORGUE

As he turned at the far side of the Pont St. Louis, Doctor Ardel, the celebrated medical jurist, caught sight of M. Fuselier, the magistrate, chatting with Inspector Juve in front of the Morgue.

"I am behind-hand, gentlemen. So sorry to have made you wait."

M. Fuselier and Juve crossed the tiny court and entered the semi-circular lecture-room, where daily lessons in medical jurisprudence are given to the students and the head men of the detective police force.

Doctor Ardel, piloting his guests, did the honours.

"The place is not exactly gay; in fact, it has an ill reputation; but anyhow, gentlemen, it is at your disposition. M. Fuselier, you will be able to investigate in peace: M. Juve, you will be at liberty to put any questions you choose to your client."

The doctor spoke in a loud voice, emphasising each word with a jolly laugh, good natured, devoid of malice, yet making an unpleasant impression on his two visitors less at home than he in the gruesome abode they had just entered.

"You will excuse me," he went on, "if I leave you for a couple of minutes to put on an overall and my rubber gloves?"

The doctor gone, the two instinctively felt a vague need to talk to counteract the doleful atmosphere the Morgue seemed to exhale, where so many unclaimed corpses, so much human flotsam, had come to sleep under the inquiring eyes of the crowd, before being given to the common ditch, being no more than an entry in a register and a date: "Body found so and so, buried so and so."

"Tell me, my dear Juve," asked M. Fuselier. "This morning directly I got your message I at once acceded to your wish and asked Ardel to have us both here this afternoon, but I hardly understand your object. What have you come here for?"

Juve, with both hands in his pockets, was walking up and down before the dissecting table. At the Magistrate's question he stopped short, and, turning to M. Fuselier, replied:

"Why have I come here? I scarcely know myself. It's everything or nothing. The key to the puzzle. I tell you, M. Fuselier, things are becoming increasingly tragic and baffling."

"How's that?"

"The part played by Josephine is less and less clear. She is Loupart's mistress; she informs against him, is fired at by him, then, according to Fandor, becomes in some manner his accomplice in a robbery so daring that you must search the annals of American criminality to find its like."

"You refer to the train affair?"

"Yes. Now, leaving Josephine on one side, we are confronted with two enigmas. Doctor Chaleck, a man of the world, a scholar, crops up as leader of a band of criminals. What we know for certain about him is that he fired at Josephine, that he was concerned in the affair of the docks—no more. There remains Loupart; and about him being the real culprit we know nothing. There is no proof that he killed the woman. In order to prove that we should have to know who that woman is and why she was killed, and also how. The how and why of the crime alone might chance to give us the answer."

"What trail are you following?"

"That of the dead woman. The body we are about to examine will determine me in which quarter to direct my search."

M. Fuselier, looking at the detective with a penetrating eye, asked:

"You surely haven't the notion of suspecting Fantomas?"

"You are right, M. Fuselier," he replied. "Behind Loupart, behind Chaleck, everywhere and always it is Fantomas I am looking for."

Whatever information the detective was about to impart to the magistrate was cut short by the return of Doctor Ardel. That gentleman, in donning the uniform of the expert, had resumed an appearance of professional gravity.

"We are going to work now, gentlemen," he announced. "I need not remind you, of course, that the body you are about to see, that of the woman found in the Cite Frochot, has already undergone certain changes due to decomposition, which have modified its aspect."

So saying, Dr. Ardel pressed a button and gave an attendant the necessary order. "Be so good as to bring the body from room No. 6."

Some minutes later a folding door in the wall opened and two men pushed a truck into the middle of the hall upon which lay the corpse of the unknown.

"I now give over the dead woman to you to identify," declared Doctor Ardel. "My examination has been carried out and my part as expert is over—I am ready to hand in my report."

Fuselier and Juve bent long over the slab upon which the body had been placed.

"Alas!" cried Juve, "how recognise anything in this countenance destroyed by pitch? What discover in these crushed limbs, this human form, which is now a shapeless mass?" And, turning to Dr. Ardel, he questioned:

"Professor, what did you learn from your autopsy?"

"Nothing, or very little," replied the doctor. "Death was not due to one blow more than another. A general effusion of blood took place everywhere at once."

"Everywhere at once? What do you mean by that?" questioned Juve.

"Gentlemen, that is the exact truth. In dissecting this body I was surprised to find all the blood vessels burst, the heart, the veins, the arteries, even the lung cells. More than this, the very bones are broken, splintered into a vast number of little pieces. Lastly, both on the limbs and over the whole body I find a general ecchymosis, reaching from the top of the neck to the lower extremities."

"But," objected Juve, who feared the professor might linger over technical details too complex for him, "what general notion does this suggest to you as to the cause of death?"

"A strange idea, M. Juve, and one it is not easy for me to define. You might say that the body of this woman had passed under the grinders of a roller! The body is 'rolled,' that is just the word, crushed all over, and there is no point where the pressure might be conjectured to have been greatest."

M. Fuselier looked at Juve.

"What can we deduce from that?" he asked.

"Professor Ardel demonstrates scientifically the same doubts to which a rough inspection led me. How did the murderer go to work? It becomes more and more of a mystery."

"It is so much so," declared Professor Ardel, "that even by postulating the worst complications I really cannot conceive of any machine capable of thus crushing a human being."

"I do not believe," declared the magistrate, "that we have any more to see here. It is plain, Juve, that this corpse cannot furnish any clues to you and me for the inquest."

"The corpse, no," cried Juve, "but there is something else."

Then, turning to the professor, he asked:

"Could you have brought to us the clothes this woman wore?"

"Quite easily."

From a bag that an attendant handed him Juve drew out the garments of the dead woman. The shoes were by a good maker, the silk stockings with open-work embroidery, the chemise and the drawers were of fine linen and the corset was well cut.

"Nothing," he cried, "not a mark on this linen nor even the name of the shop where it was bought."

He examined her petticoat, her bodice, a sort of elegant blouse, trimmed with lace, and the velvet collar which had several spots of blood upon it. He then drew a small penknife from his pocket and, kneeling on the floor, proceeded to probe the seams. Suddenly he uttered a muffled exclamation:

"Ah! What's this?" From the lining of the bodice he drew out a thin roll of paper, crumpled, stained with blood, torn unfortunately.

"Goodness of God in whom I trust—I do not wish to die with this remorse—I do not wish to risk his killing me to destroy this secret—I write this confession, I will tell him it is deposited in a safe place—yes, I was the cause of the death of that hapless actor! Yes, Valgrand paid for the crime which Gurn committed.... Yes, I sent Valgrand to the scaffold by making him pass for Gurn—Gurn who killed Lord Beltham, Gurn, who I sometimes think must be Fantomas!"

Juve read these lines in an agitated voice, and as he came to the signature he turned pale and was obliged to stop.

"What is the matter?"

"It is signed—'Lady Beltham.'"

In order that Doctor Ardel, understanding nothing of Juve's agitation, might grasp that import of the paper just discovered he would have had to call to mind the appalling tragedy which three years before had stirred the whole world with its bloody vicissitude and mystery, one not solved to that hour.

"Lady Beltham!"

At that name Juve called up the whole blood-curdling past! He saw in fancy the English lady[A] whose husband was murdered by the Canadian Gurn, who perhaps was her lover.

And Juve, following his train of thought, pondered that he had accused this same lady of having, to save her lover, the very day the guillotine was erected on the boulevard, found means to send in his stead the innocent actor, Valgrand.

And here in connection with this affair of the Cite Frochot he found Lady Beltham involved in the puzzle of which he was so keenly seeking the key.

Juve again read the momentous paper he had just unearthed.

"By Jove, it was plain," ran his thought, "the lady, criminal though she might be, was first and foremost Fantomas' passionate inamorata. And this paper he held in his hands was the tail end of her confession—the remains of a document in which in a fit of moral distress she had avowed her remorse and made known the truth."

And taking line by line the cryptic statement, Juve asked himself further:

"What do these phrases signify? How extract the whole truth from these few words? 'I do not want him to kill me in order to destroy that secret'! When Lady Beltham wrote that she was angry with Gurn. Then again what did this other doubtful expression mean?—'Gurn who I sometimes fancy may be Fantomas.' She did not know then the precise identity of her lover! Oh, the wretch! To what depths had she sunk?"

Then as he put this query to himself, Juve shook from head to foot. Like a thunderclap he thought he grasped the truth he had followed so eagerly. What had become of Lady Beltham? Must he not come to the conclusion that this woman whose face had been crushed out of all recognition by the murderer was none other than the lady? How else explain the discovery in her bodice of the betraying document? Who but she could have had it in her possession? Who else could have so sedulously concealed it?

Juve read over another clause: "I will tell him it is deposited in a safe place."

Feverishly Juve took up the garments trailing on the ground, carefully explored the fabric, made a minute search.

"It is impossible," he thought, "that I should not find another document. The beginning of this confession—I must have it!"

All at once he stopped short in his search. "Curse it all!" And he pointed out to M. Fuselier, disguised in the lining of a loose pocket in the petticoat—a fresh hiding place, but torn and alas! empty.

This woman had split up her confession into several portions. And if she was killed it was certainly to strip her of these compromising papers. Well, the murderer had attained his object.

"Look, Fuselier, this empty 'cache' is the proof of what I put forward, and chance alone allowed the page concealed in the collar of this bodice to fall into my hands."

Long did the detective still grope and ponder, heedless of the questions the professor and the magistrate kept asking him. He rose at last, and with a distracted gesture took the arm of M. Fuselier, and dragged him before the stone slab on which the corpse, but recently unknown, smiled a ghastly smile.

"M. Fuselier, the dead woman has spoken. She is Lady Beltham. This is the body of Lady Beltham!"

The magistrate recoiled in horror. He murmured:

"But who then can Doctor Chaleck be? Who can Loupart be?"

Juve replied without hesitation.

"Ask Fantomas the names of his accomplices!"

And leaving him and Doctor Ardel without any farewell Juve rushed from the Morgue, his features so distorted that as they passed him people drew aside, amazed and murmuring:

"A madman or a murderer!"



XVIII

FANTOMAS' VICTIM

"You understand my object, Fandor? Hitherto I have worked unaided. I wanted to unearth Fantomas and bring him to Headquarters, saying to my superiors, 'For three years you have maintained this man was dead; well, here he is! I have put the darbies on the most terrible ruffian of modern times.' Well, I must forego my little triumph. We must now work in the open. Public opinion must come to our aid."

"Then you want me to write my article?"

"Yes, and tell all the details; wind up by putting the question squarely. 'Is not Fantomas still alive?' Then sum up in the affirmative. Now, be off. I want to read your article this evening in the Capital."

Fandor had just left his detective friend when old Jean, the only servant that Juve tolerated in his private quarters, entered the room.

"Don't forget the person who is waiting in the parlour, sir."

"Ah, yes, to be sure. A person who comes to see me at home, when nobody knows my address should be interesting. Show him in, Jean."

Juve placed his revolver in reach of his hand as Jean announced: "Maitre Gerin, notary."

Juve rose, motioned his visitor to a chair and inquired the object of his visit.

Maitre Gerin bowed respectfully to Juve.

"I must apologise," he said, "for coming to disturb you at home, sir, but it concerns a matter of such importance and it involves names so terrible that I could not utter them within the walls of the Surete. What brings me here is a crime which must be laid to Fantomas or his heirs in crime."

Juve was strangely moved.

"Speak, sir, I am all attention."

"M. Juve, I believe that one of my clients, a woman, has been killed. I have had for some time a certain sympathy, and, I don't disguise it, an immense curiosity concerning her because she was actually involved in the mysterious affairs of Fantomas."

"The name of the woman, counsel, her name, I beg of you?"

"The name of the woman who, I fear, has been murdered is—Lady Beltham!"

Juve gave a sigh of relief. It was the name he wished to hear.

Maitre Gerin continued: "I have been Lady Beltham's lawyer for a long period of time, but since the Fantomas case came to an end in the sentencing to death of Gurn and the subsequent scandal attached to the name of Lady Beltham, I have ceased to have any further tidings of that unhappy woman.

"Indirectly, through the medium of the papers which at times gave out some echo of her, I knew that she had been travelling, then, that she was back in Paris, and had gone to live at Neuilly, Boulevard Inkermann. But I did not see her again. It is true her family matters were settled, her husband's estate entirely wound up. In short, she had no reason to appeal to me professionally."

"To be sure."

"Well, some days ago, I was greatly surprised by her visiting my office. Naturally I refrained from asking her any awkward questions."

Juve interrupted: "In Heaven's name, sir, how long ago is it since Lady Beltham called on you?"

"Nineteen days, sir."

A sigh of relief escaped Juve. He had feared all his theories regarding the body at the Morgue the day before were going to collapse. "Go on, sir," he cried.

"Lady Beltham, on being shown into my private office, appeared to me much the same physically as I had known her previously, but she was no longer the great lady, cold, haughty, a trifle disdainful. She seemed crushed under a terrible load, a prey to awful mental torture. She made appeal to my discretion, both professionally and as a man of honour.

"She then spoke as follows: 'I am going to write a letter which, if it fell into the hands of a third person, would bring about a great calamity. This letter I shall intrust to you together with my Will which will instruct you what to do with it at my death. I will send you a visiting card with a line in my own handwriting every fortnight. If ever this card fails to come, conclude that I am dead, that they have murdered me, and carry that letter where I tell you—Avenge me!'"

"Well, what then?" cried Juve, anxiously.

"That is all, M. Juve. I have not seen Lady Beltham again, nor had any news of her. When I called at her residence I was told she was away. I have come to ask you whether you think she has been murdered."

Juve was pacing his room with great strides.

"Maitre," he said at last, "your story confirms all I have suspected. Yes, Lady Beltham is dead. She has been murdered. That letter contained her confession and revealed not only her own crimes, but those of her accomplices, of her master—of—Fantomas. Fantomas killed her to free himself of a witness to his evil life."

"Fantomas! But Fantomas is dead."

"So they say."

"Have you proofs of his existence?"

"I am looking for them."

"What do you think of doing?"

"I am going to make an investigation. I am going to learn where and how Lady Beltham was killed. I shall see you again, Maitre. Read The Capital this evening. You will find in it many interesting surprises."



XIX

THE ENGLISHWOMAN OF BOULEVARD INKERMANN

"To sum up what I have just learned."

Juve was seated at his desk, and those who knew the private life of the great detective would assuredly have guessed that he was gravely preoccupied. He was trying to extract some useful information from the notary's visit, some hints essential to the investigation he had taken in hand, and that at all hazards he meant to pursue to a successful termination. The task was fraught with difficulties and even peril. But the triumph would be great if he should succeed in putting the "bracelets" on the "genius of crime," as he had called him to his friend Fandor.

"Lady Beltham had gone to visit Gerin. She was an astute woman after all, and knew how to get her own way. There must have been powerful motives which urged her to write that confession. What were those motives?

"Remorse? No. A woman who loves has no remorse. Fear? Probably, but fear of what?"

Juve, without being aware of it, had just written on the paper of his note-book the ill-omened name which haunted him.

"Fantomas!"

"Why, of course, Fantomas killed Lady Beltham, and killed her in the house of Doctor Chaleck, an accomplice. And Loupart, a third accomplice, got his mistress to write to me, and I believed the denunciation. Loupart got us to dog him, led me unawares behind the curtains in the study, and made me witness that Chaleck was innocent. Oh, the ruse was a clever one. Josephine herself, by the two shots she received some days later at Lariboisiere, became a victim. In short, the scent was crossed and broken."

The detective snatched up his hat, saw carefully to the charges of his pocket revolver, then gravely and solemnly cried:

"It is you and I now, Fantomas!" with which he left his rooms.

* * * * *

Juve and Fandor were entering a taxi-cab.

"To Neuilly Church," cried Juve to the driver. "And, now, my dear Fandor, you must be thinking me crazy, as less than two hours ago I sent you off to write an article, and here I come taking you from your paper and carrying you away in this headlong fashion. But just listen to the tale of this morning's doings."

Juve then gave a full account of Maitre Gerin's visit and wound up by saying: "It is through Lady Beltham that we must unearth that monster, Fantomas."

"That's all very well," replied Fandor, "but as the lady is dead, how are we going to set about it?"

"By reconstructing the last hours of her life. We are now on our way to Lady Beltham's residence, Boulevard Inkermann."

"And what are we to do when we arrive there?"

"I shall examine the house, which is probably empty, and you are to 'pump' the neighbours, to ask questions of the tradespeople. I should attract too much attention if I were to do this myself, and that is why I dragged you away from your work."

Some moments later the taxi pulled up at the corner of Boulevard Inkermann.

"The house is number—" said Juve as he took Fandor by the arm. "Bless me, you remember the house! It is the one in which I arrested Gurn three years ago; that famous day he came to see Lady Beltham, disguised as a beggar."

The two friends soon found themselves at their destination. Through the garden railing, which was wholly covered with a dense growth of ivy, the two saw the house, which now looked very dilapidated.

"It doesn't look as if it had been inhabited for a long while," said Fandor.

"That's what we want to make sure of. Go and make your inquiries."

Fandor left his companion and made his way back to the commercial section of Neuilly. He stopped opposite a sign which read:

"Gardening done."

"Anyone there?" he inquired.

An old woman, standing in the doorway, came forward. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"If I am not mistaken, it was you who attended to Lady Beltham's garden?"

"Yes, sir, we kept her garden in order. But my husband hasn't worked there for several months, as Lady Beltham has been away."

"I heard she was coming back to Paris, and called to-day, but found the house closed up."

"Oh, I am sorry. Lady Beltham's an excellent customer and Mme. Raymond also bought flowers of us."

"Mme. Raymond. She is a friend of Lady Beltham?"

"Her companion. It is now close to a year that Mme. Raymond has been living with her. Oh! a very pleasant lady; a pretty brunette, very elegant and not at all proud."

Fandor thought it well not to seem astonished.

"Oh, yes, of course," he cried, "Mme. Raymond. I remember now. Lady Beltham's life is so sad and lonely."

"True enough," the woman replied, and, lowering her voice: "And then, what with all these tales of noises and ghosts, the house can't be too pleasant to live in, eh?"

Fandor pretended to be well posted. "People still talk of these incidents?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

Fandor did not venture to press the subject, and, taking leave of the worthy woman, he made his way back to the Boulevard. As soon as Juve caught sight of him in the distance he ran up eagerly.

"Well?"

"Well, Juve, what have you found out during my absence?"

"In the first place that it is exactly sixty-four days since Lady Beltham left Neuilly. I discovered this by the dates on a lot of circulars in the letter box. I also had a talk with a butcher's man and learned that Lady Beltham had a companion."

"Oh! I was bringing you that same news!"

"This Mme. Raymond is young, dark, very pretty. Can't you guess who she is?"

Fandor stared at Juve.

"You mean——"

"Josephine. It's perfectly clear. We know Lady Beltham wrote a confession, that Fantomas suspected this and murdered her to get hold of it, and further that in this murder Loupart was involved. Josephine was introduced to Lady Beltham by Fantomas. A spy going there to betray the great lady and possibly entice her later to the Cite Frochot. Let us make haste, lad. We thought we had to follow the trail of Loupart and Chaleck, but we mustn't lose sight of Josephine. She may be the means of helping us to the truth."



XX

THE ARREST OF JOSEPHINE

The somewhat grim faces of Mme. Guinon, Julie and the Flirt lit up suddenly. Bonzille, the tramp set free by the police the day after the "drive" in the Rue Charbonniere, had opened the bottle of vermouth, and Josephine bustled around to find glasses to put on the table.

Josephine had visitors in her little lodging. There was to be a quiet lunch. On the sideboard attractive dishes were ready, a fine savour of cooking onions came from the dark corner in which Loupart's pretty mistress was doing hasty cookery over the gas.

"Neat or with water?" asked Bonzille, performing his office of cup bearer with comical dignity.

Mme. Guinon asked for plenty of water. Julie shrugged her shoulders indifferently; she didn't care so long as there was drink, while the Flirt, in her cracked voice, breathed in the loafer's ear: "How about a sip of brandy to put with it?"

The appetiser loosened tongues: they began to cackle. From a drawer Josephine got out a pack of cards, which the Flirt promptly seized, while Julie, leaning familiarly on her shoulder, counselled her:

"Cut with the left and watch what you are doing; we shall see if there's any luck for us in the pack."

* * * * *

Josephine had now been back three days from her painful journey and had not seen Loupart. The latter, after having abandoned the motor in some waste ground among the fortifications, had vanished with the Beard, only bidding his mistress go home as if nothing had happened and wait for news of him.

The Simplon Express affair had made a great stir in the fashionable world, and had produced considerable uneasiness among the criminal class.

To be sure no name had been mentioned, and apparently the police were not following any definite clue. Still, in the Chapelle quarter, and especially in the den of the "Goutte d'Or" and the Rue de Chartres, it was noticed that the absence of the chief members of the Band of Cyphers coincided with the date of the tragedy.

At first there had been some slight stand-offishness shown to Josephine on her return. She was greeted with doubtful allusions, equivocal compliments, with a touch of coldness, and folks were also amazed at not seeing Loupart reappear with her.

Josephine told herself that she must at all costs disabuse her neighbours of this bad impression, and that is why she had decided to give a luncheon party to her most intimate friends. These might also be her most formidable opponents, for such damsels as the Flirt and Julie, even big Ernestine, could not fail to be jealous of the mistress of a distinguished leader; besides, she was the prettiest woman in the quarter.

Joining the conversation from time to time, Josephine smiled and regained confidence. Her manoeuvre bade fair to be crowned with success.

As they sat down to table the door opened and Mother Toulouche came in, carrying a capacious basket.

"Well," cried the old fence, "I got wind that something was going on here, and I said to myself, 'Why shouldn't Mother Toulouche be in it as well?' One more or less don't matter, eh, Josephine?"

Josephine assented and made room for her. Before sitting down the old woman put her basket on the floor.

"If I invite myself, Fifine, I bring something to the feast. Here are some portugals and two dozen snails which will help out."

All at once, Josephine, who, despite the general gaiety, was absent-minded and preoccupied, rose and ran to the door, answering a knock. She was at bottom horribly uneasy at hearing nothing of her lover. She began to fear that the police for once might have got the upper hand. It was little Paulot, the porter's son, who rushed in quite out of breath.

"Mme. Josephine, mother told me to come up and warn you that two gentlemen were asking for you in the lodge just now. Two gentlemen in special 'rig.'"

"Do you know them, Paulot?"

"I don't, Mme. Josephine."

"What did they want of me?"

"They didn't say."

"What did your mother answer?"

"Don't know. Believe she told 'em you were in your den."

The occurrence cast a chill over the company. Little Paulot was given a big glass of claret, and when he had left the Flirt observed gravely:

"It's the cops."

"Why should they come and inquire for me?"

Julie tried to console her.

"Anyhow they'll not come up to your place."

Josephine was greatly upset. Were they after her or Loupart? Why had they withdrawn? Would they come back?

In a flash she burst out, beating her fist on the table:

"Bah! I've had enough of this, not knowing what is going to happen from one moment to the next. Sooner than stay here, I'll go and find out."

The Flirt suggested, with a spiteful smile.

"Go ahead, my girl, they won't be far away; go and ask them what they want."

"Very well," cried Josephine, "I will."

And the young girl emptied her glass to give her courage.

"And if you don't come back, we'll set your room to rights," cried the Flirt after her. "Good luck, try and not sleep in the jug."

Josephine rushed downstairs, and then, after a moment's hesitation, turned and went down the Rue de Chartres.

At first she noticed nothing unusual or suspicious. The faces of those she met were mostly familiar to her. But suddenly her heart stopped beating. Two men accosted her simultaneously, one on her right, the other on her left.

Her neighbour on the right asked very softly:

"Are you Josephine Ramot?"

"Yes."

"You must come with us."

"Yes," said Josephine, resigned.

A few moments later, Josephine, seated in a cab between the two men, was crossing Paris. The detectives had given the address: "Boulevard du Palais."

Loupart's mistress, taken on her arrival to the ante-room adjoining the private rooms of the examining magistrates, had not much time for reflection.

To be sure, she was not guilty. Not guilty? Well, at bottom the affair of the Marseilles train made Josephine uneasy. And the story of the motor, too, the motor taken by force from unknown travellers. What knowledge had the police of these events? When questioned, was she to confess or deny?

A little old man, bald and fussy, appeared at the end of the passage and called her.

"Josephine Ramot, the private room of Justice Fuselier."

Mechanically she went forward between her two captors, who pushed her into a well-lit apartment, in the corner of which stood a big desk. A well-dressed gentleman was sitting there, writing; opposite him, in the shadow, some one stood motionless. The magistrate raised his head; his face was cold and contained, but not spiteful.

"What is your name?"

"Josephine Ramot."

"Where were you born?"

"Rue de Belleville."

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-two."

"You live by prostitution?"

Josephine coloured and, with an angry voice, cried:

"No, your honour, I have a calling. I am a polisher."

"Are you working now?"

Josephine felt awkward.

"Well, to say the truth, at the moment I have no work, but they know me at M. Monthier's, Rue de Malte; it was there I was apprenticed, and——"

"And since you became the mistress of the ruffian Loupart, known as 'The Square,' you have ceased to practise an honest calling?"

"I won't deny being Loupart's mistress, but as for prostitution——"

The man Josephine had noticed standing in the shadow came forward and murmured a few words in the magistrate's ear.

"M. Juve," cried Josephine, moving toward the inspector with her hand out. She stopped short as the detective motioned to her that such a familiarity was not allowable, and the examination was resumed.

The magistrate, after having by some curt questions brought to light the salient points of Josephine's life, and clearly mapped out the speedy development of the honest little work girl into a ruffian's mistress, and in all probability, accomplice, began the interrogation on the main point.

At some length he narrated without losing a single change of her countenance, the various incidents of the evening begun in the railway which ended with the disaster to the Simplon Express.

Fuselier made Josephine pass again through her headlong exit from Lariboisiere, her quick passage through Paris when she was barely convalescent, and still suffering from the effects of the fever, her departure in the Marseilles Express, where she picked up half a score of footpads headed by her redoubtable lover; then the waiting in the silence of the night, the affray, the threats, and lastly, after breaking the couplings to the train, the dangerous flight of the band, the headlong rush through the country.

The magistrate wound up:

"You came to town afterwards, Josephine Ramot, in company with Loupart, called 'The Square,' and his factotum, the ruffian 'Beard.'"

Josephine, embarrassed by the steady glance of the magistrate, endeavoured to keep her face devoid of expression, but as in his recital the points of the adventure she had shared grew more definite, she felt she was constantly changing colour and at certain moments her eyelids quivered over her downcast eyes.

Evidently he was well posted. That young man who got into the same compartment as M. Martialle must certainly have belonged to the police. But for that the judge would never have known precisely what took place. Decidedly this was a bad beginning.

Josephine now dreaded to see the door open and Loupart appear, the bracelets on his wrists, followed by the Beard, similarly fettered, for beyond a doubt the two men had been nabbed.

Hunched up, her nerves tense, Josephine kept her mind fixed on one point. She was waiting anxiously for the first chance to protest. At a certain juncture the magistrate declared:

"You three, Loupart, 'The Beard' and yourself, shared between you the proceeds of the robberies committed."

As soon as she could get a word in, Josephine shouted her innocence.

Oh, as to that, no! She had not touched a cent from the business. She did not even know what was involved.

The exact truth was this. She was ill in the hospital when all of a sudden she remembered that Loupart had some days before bidden her be at all costs at the Lyons Station, on a certain Saturday evening at exactly seven o'clock. Now that particular Saturday was the day after the attempt on her life. As she was much better she set off in obedience to her lover. She knew no more; she had done no more; she would not have them accuse her of any more.

The young woman had gradually grown warm, her voice rose and vibrated. The judge let her have her say, and when she had finished there was a silence.

M. Fuselier slowly dipped a pen in the ink, and in his level voice declared, casting a glance in Juve's direction:

"After all, what seems clearly established is complicity."

Josephine gave a start—she knew the terrible significance of the term. Complicity meant joint guilt.

But Juve intervened:

"Excuse me, in place of 'complicity' perhaps we had better say 'compulsion.'"

"I don't follow you, Juve."

"We must bear in mind, your honour, that this girl is to be pardoned to a certain extent for having obeyed her lover's order, more particularly at a time when the latter had gained quite a victory over the police. For in spite of the protection of our people, his attempt against her partially succeeded."

Taken aback, M. Fuselier looked from the detective to the young woman whom he regarded as guilty. Juve's outburst seemed to him out of place.

"Your pardon, Juve, but your reasoning seems to me somewhat specious; however, I will not press this charge against the girl; we have something better."

Turning to Loupart's mistress, the judge asked abruptly:

"What has become of Lady Beltham?"

Josephine was amazed by the question. She turned inquiring eyes toward Juve, who quickly said:

"M. Fuselier, this is not the moment——"

The magistrate, dropping this line, again tackled Josephine on her relations with Loupart.

In a flash Josephine made up her mind. She would simulate innocence at all costs. With the craft of a consummate actress, she began in a low voice, which gradually rose and became impressive, insinuating:

"How pitiful it is to think that everyone bears a grudge against a poor girl who, some day in springtime, has given herself the pleasure of a lover! Is there any harm in giving oneself to the man who loves you? Who forbids it? No one but the priests, and they have been kicked out of doors!"

The magistrate could not help smiling, and Juve showed signs of amusement.

"But I am honest, and when I understand something of what was going on, I wrote to M. Juve. And what thanks did I get? Two bullet holes in my skin!"

M. Fuselier hesitated about turning his summons into a committal.



XXI

AT THE MONTMARTRE FETE

The fete of Montmartre was at its height. In the Place Blanche a joyous crowd was pressing round a booth of huge dimensions, splendidly lighted. On the stage a cheap Jack, decked out in many-coloured frippery, was delivering his patter:

"Walk in, ladies and gentlemen; it's only ten cents, and you won't regret your money! The management of the theatre will present to you, without delay, the prettiest woman in the world and also the fattest, who weighs a trifle over 600 pounds and possibly more; as no scale has yet been found strong enough to weigh her without breaking into a thousand pieces.

"You will also have the rare and weird sight of a black from Abyssinia whose splendid ebony hide has been tattooed in white. Furthermore, a young girl of scarcely fourteen summers will astound you by entering the cage of the ferocious beasts, whose terrible roarings reach you here! The programme is most interesting, and after these incomparable attractions, you will applaud the cinema in colours—the last exploit of modern science—showing the recent tour of the President of the Republic, and himself in person delivering his speech to an audience as numerous as it is select. You will also see, reproduced in the most stirring and life-like manner, all the details of the mysterious murder which at this moment engages public interest and keeps the police on tenter-hooks. The crime at the Cite Frochot, with the murdered woman, the Empire clock, and the extinguished candle: all the accessories in full, including the collapse of the elevator into the sewer. The show is beginning! It has begun!"

Among the throng surrounding the mountebank three persons seemed especially amused by the peroration. They were two gentlemen, very elegant and distinguished, in evening clothes, and with them a pretty woman wearing a loose silk mantle over her low dress.

She put her lips to the ear of the older of her companions, who, with his turned-up moustache and grey hair, looked like a cavalry officer.

She murmured to him these strange words:

"Squint at the guy on the left, the one passing before the clock-seller's booth. That's one of the gang. He was in the Simplon affair."

The pretty Parisian, so smartly dressed, was no other than Josephine. The young man with the fair beard was Fandor and the cavalry officer was Juve. The three now "worked" together. The partnership dated from the afternoon that Josephine escaped arrest, thanks to the lucky intervention of Juve.

The latter had little belief in the young woman's innocence, but by getting her on his side, he hoped to secure information as to Loupart's doings.

Juve was talking to a ragged Arab selling nougat to the passers-by.

"Ay, sir," explained the Arab. "I have been dogging little Mimile since two this afternoon."

"Bravo, my dear Michel, your disguise is a perfect success."

Josephine came suddenly close and pulled Juve by the sleeve, and then pointed to a group of persons who were crossing the Place Blanche. Without troubling further about the Arab, Juve at once began to follow this group, motioning to Josephine and Fandor to follow him closely. The three threaded their way through the crowd with a thousand precautions, seeking to avoid attention, yet not losing sight of their quarry. All three had recognised Loupart!

The outlaw, dressed in a long blouse, with a tall cap, and armed with a stout cudgel, was walking among half a dozen individuals similarly attired. By their garb they would be taken for cattle-herders from La Villette.

This group proceeded slowly in the direction of Place Pigalle, and Juve, who was pressing hard on his quarry, slackened his pace in order to let them forge ahead a little. The square, which was surrounded by brilliantly illuminated restaurants, was a flood of light, and the detective did not want people to notice him. Moreover, the pseudo-cattle-drivers had stopped, too: gathering round Loupart they listened attentively to his remarks, made in a low tone. Clearly they were accomplices of the robber, who, perhaps, realised that they were being followed.

Fandor, who had put his arm through Josephine's, felt the young woman's heart beating as though it would burst. They were all playing for high stakes. Josephine, especially, was in a compromising and dangerous plight. Not only had she to fear the wrath of her lover, but she ran the risk of being "spotted" by one of the many satellites of the gang of Cyphers, in which case her condemnation would be certain.

Fandor encouraged her with a few kind words:

"You know, mademoiselle, you mustn't be frightened. If I am not greatly mistaken, Loupart is about to be nabbed, and once in Juve's hands he won't get out of them in a hurry."

Josephine's perturbation was scarcely quieter, and Fandor, a trifle skeptical, asked himself whether in reality the girl was on their side or if she were not playing the game of false information. Suddenly something fresh happened.

Loupart, separating himself from his companions, entered a restaurant upon which the words

"The Crocodile"

were inscribed in dazzling letters on its front. The Crocodile comprised, like most night resorts, a large saloon on the ground floor and a dining-room on the first floor which was reached by a little stairway and guarded by a giant clad in magnificent livery. Above this were apartments and private rooms.

Just then, as it was near midnight, a number of carriages were bringing couples in evening dress, who mounted the staircase. To their great surprise, Fandor and Josephine saw Loupart make for this staircase. The long smock of the seeming cattle-driver would certainly make a queer showing. What was the formidable robber's game? Juve gave hasty directions:

"It's all right. I know the house. It has only one exit. You, Ramot," he went on, addressing the young woman, "go up to the first floor and take your place at a table; here are ten dollars, order champagne and don't be too stiff with the company."

Josephine nodded and went upstairs.

Juve and Fandor followed a few minutes later and took up a strategic position at a table near the doorway. Fandor had a view of the room and Juve commanded the hall and stairway. From the room came a confused hum of laughter, cries and doubtful jokes. A negro, clad in red and armed with a gong, capered among the tables, dancing and singing.

Fandor caught sight of Josephine, who appeared to be carrying out Juve's instructions. Beside her was a fair giant of red complexion and clean-shaven face, whose Anglo-Saxon origin was beyond doubt. Fandor knew the face; he had seen the man somewhere; he remembered his square shoulders and bull-like neck, and the enormous biceps which stood out under the cloth of his sleeves.

"By Jove!" he cried suddenly. "Why it's Dixon, the American heavyweight champion!"

Juve signalled to the waiter to bring him the bill as he fitted a monocle into his right eye.

Fandor stared at him, surprised.

"Well, Juve, when you get yourself up as a man of the world, you omit no detail."

Juve made no reply for some moments, then turned to his companion.

"Who else do you see in the room?"

Fandor looked carefully, and then made a gesture of amazement.

"Chaleck! Chaleck is over there eating his supper!"

"Yes," said Juve simply, "and you are stupid not to have seen him before."

The profile of the mysterious doctor was in fact outlined very sharply at a table, amply served and covered with bottles and flowers, around which half a score of persons, men and women, had taken their places.

Without turning his head, Juve remarked:

"Judging by the action of the person who is at this moment lighting a cigar the supper is not far from coming to an end."

"Come, now, Juve, have you eyes in your back? How can you know what is going on at Doctor Chaleck's table, while you are looking in the opposite direction?"

Juve handed his eye-glass to the journalist.

"Ah! Now I see! A trick eye-glass, with a mirror in it—not a bad idea."

"It is quite simple," murmured Juve. "The main thing is to have thought of it. Come, let us go down."

"What? And desert the doctor?"

"An arrest should never be made in a public place when it can be avoided. Here, give me your card that I may send it up with mine."

Juve called M. Dominique, the manager, and, pointing out Chaleck to him, said:

"M. Dominique, please give our cards to that gentleman and say that we are waiting outside to speak to him."

In a few moments Chaleck came out of the saloon to the Place Pigalle.

His face was calm and his glance unmoved. Juve laid his hand upon the doctor's shoulder, and, signalling to a subordinate in uniform, cried:

"Doctor Chaleck, I arrest you in the name of the law."

Chaleck quietly flicked off his cigar ash and smiled:

"Do you know, M. Juve, I am not pleased with you. I read in the papers, during a recent holiday abroad, that you had pulled my house absolutely to pieces! That was not nice of you, when we had been on such good terms."

This speech was so startling, so unlooked for, that Juve, though not easily surprised, had nothing to answer for the moment.

Meanwhile, Chaleck tamely let himself be dragged toward the station in the Rue Rochefoucauld.

"The fine fellow," thought Juve, "must have got his whole case prepared—he will give us a run for our money; still it must——"

The detective gave vent to a loud yell. They had just got to the point where the Rue Rochefoucauld is intersected by the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette: a cab drawn by a big horse was moving in one direction and a motor-bus coming from another. It had already cleared the Rue Pigalle, and in a second would cut across the Rue Rochefoucauld, when Chaleck, literally coming out of the Inverness coat he wore, leaped ahead of Juve, dodged under the cab horse and boarded the bus, which rapidly went on its way. All this had been accomplished in an instant.

Left dumbfounded, face to face, Juve and Fandor, together with the officer, contemplated the only token left them by Chaleck. An elegant Inverness cloak with capes, which, oddly enough, had shoulders and arms—arms of India-rubber, so well imitated that through the cloth they distinctly gave the impression of human arms.

Juve let fly a tremendous oath, then turned to Fandor and cried:

"How about Loupart?"

The two men hastily reascended the Rue Pigalle. They counted on standing sentry again before the "Crocodile." But as they reached the square Juve and Fandor were faced by fresh surprises. A powerful motor-car was slowly getting under way. In it was the American Dixon, with Josephine beside him.

Was the girl playing them false? That was the most important thing to ascertain.

The car made off at a good pace toward the Place Clichy. Half a moment later Juve was bowling after them in a taxi, calling to Fandor as he left:

"Look after the other."

Fandor understood "The other" referred to Loupart, and carefully pumped M. Dominique, but could get no further news from him, so, after waiting an hour for Juve to return, he went home to bed far from easy in his mind.

* * * * *

Juve followed the American through Billancourt, past Sevres Bridge, and finally into the Bellevue District, when, opposite Brimboison Park, Dixon, with the air of a proprietor, took his motor into a fine looking estate. Then, having housed the car, the pugilist, with Loupart's mistress, went into the house, which was lit up for half an hour, after which all was plunged again into darkness.

Juve had left his taxi at the bottom of the hill, and, having cleared the low wall of the grounds, hid himself in view of the house. He waited until daybreak, but nothing occurred to trouble the peace and hush of the night. And then, unwilling to be seen in his evening clothes by chance passers-by, he regretfully returned to the Rue Bonaparte.



XXII

THE PUGILIST'S WHIM

An old servant had brought out the early coffee to the arbour in the garden. It was about eight o'clock, and in the shady retreat the freshness of springtime reigned. Soon down the gravel walk appeared the well-built figure of Dixon, dressed in white flannels. He bent under the arch of greenery that led to the arbour, and seemed vexed to find that it was empty.

Clearly the pugilist was not going to breakfast alone and, to while away the time until his companion should appear, he lighted a cigarette.

Suddenly the door of the house opened to give passage to a gracious apparition—Josephine. Wrapped in a kimona of bright silk and smiling at the fine morning, the young woman came slowly down the steps and then stopped short, blushing. Some one came to meet her—it was Dixon.

The giant, too, seemed moved. Lowering his eyes he asked:

"How are you this morning, fair lady?"

"And you, M. Dixon?"

"Mlle. Finette, the coffee is served, won't you join me?"

The two young people broke their fast in silence, exchanging only monosyllables, to ask for a napkin, a plate, the sugar. At last, overcoming his bashfulness Dixon asked in a voice full of entreaty:

"Will you always be so hard-hearted?"

Josephine, embarrassed, evaded the question, and with a show of gaiety to hide her confusion, remarked:

"This is an awfully nice place of yours."

The pugilist answered her by describing the calm and simple delights of a country life in the springtime, and, slipping his arm round her supple waist, asked her softly:

"As you consented to come this far with me, why did you repel me afterwards? Why resist me so stubbornly?"

"I was a trifle tipsy yesterday," she replied. "I don't know what I did or why I came here with you." And then, with a touch of sadness: "Naturally, finding me in such a place you took me for a——"

"Sure enough," replied the American, "but I can see you are not like the others."

"And what attracts me to you," continued Josephine, "is that you are not a brute. Why, yesterday evening, if you had wanted, when we were alone together, eh?"

And she gave Dixon such a queer look that he asked himself whether she did not regard him as absurd for having respected her.

"I like you very much," he said, "more than any other woman. In a month from now I shall be off to America. I have already a good deal of money and I shall earn much more out there. If you will come with me, we won't part any more. Do you agree?"

Josephine was at first amused by this downright declaration, but gradually she took it more seriously. She would see the world, be elegant, rich, well dressed. She would have her future secured and no more bother with the police. But, on the other hand, it might become terribly boring after the exciting life she had led. And there was Loupart. Certainly he was often repellant to her, but he had only to come back and speak to her to be again submissive, loving and tractable. And, strange to say, there was also—just of late—at the bottom of Josephine's heart, a feeling of friendship, almost affection, for the stern and thorough-going detective, for Juve, to whom she owed her escape from a very bad fix. Fandor, too, she liked pretty well. She valued the daring journalist, quick, full of courage, and yet a good sort, free from prejudice. The more she thought about it, the more Josephine felt herself to be strikingly complex: she felt that she could not analyse her feelings, she was incomprehensible even to herself.

"Let me think it over a little longer," she asked. Dixon rose ceremoniously.

"Dear friend," he declared, "you are at home here, as long as you care to stay, and I hope you will consent to lunch with me at one o'clock. From now till then I shall leave you alone to think at your leisure."

The old servant, too, having gone off shopping, Josephine remained alone in the place, and after visiting the charming villa from top to bottom strolled delightedly amid the lovely scenery of the park. As she was about to turn into a narrow path, she uttered a loud cry. Loupart was before her. The leader of the Gang of Cyphers had his evil look and savage smile.

"How goes it?" he cried, then queried, sardonically: "Which would madame prefer, the pig-sticker or the barker?"

Josephine, in terror, stepped backwards till she rested against the trunk of a great tree.

Loupart carelessly got out his revolver and his knife: he seemed to hesitate which weapon to use.

"Loupart," stammered Josephine, in a choking voice, "don't kill me—what have I done?"

The ruffian snarled.

"Not only do you peach to M. Juve, but you let yourself be carried off by the first toff that comes along; you don't stick at making me a cuckold! That's very well!"

Josephine fell on her knees in the thick grass. Sure enough she had played Loupart false, and suddenly a wave of remorse rose in her heart. She was overcome at the thought that she could have endangered her lover even for a moment, that she could have informed the police. She was honestly maddened by the thought that Loupart had all but been arrested through her fault. Yes, he was right in reproaching her, she deserved to be punished. As for having wronged him, that was not true. She protested with all her might against his accusation of unfaithfulness.

"I was wrong in listening to the pugilist, in coming here, but in spite of appearances—Loupart, believe me, I am still worthy of you."

Loupart shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, we'll leave that for the moment. Just now you are going to obey me without a word or protest."

Josephine's heart stopped; she knew these preambles. She tried to turn the conversation.

"And how did you get here?"

"How did you get here yourself?"

"M. Dixon's motor-car."

"And who tracked you?"

"Why—no one."

"No one?" jeered the ruffian. "Then what was Juve doing in the taxi which was rolling after you?"

Josephine uttered an exclamation of surprise. Loupart went on, greatly satisfied with himself:

"And what was Loupart up to? That crafty gentleman was cosily ensconced on the springs behind the taxi in which the worthy inspector was riding."

The ruffian was teasing, and that showed he was in good humour again. Josephine put her arms round his neck and hugged him.

"It's you that I love and you alone—let's go, take me away, won't you?"

Loupart freed himself from the embrace.

"Since you are at home here—the American said as much—I must see to profiting by it. You will stay here till this evening: at five you will be at the markets, and so shall I. You won't recognise me, but I shall speak to you, and then you will tell me exactly where this pugilist locks up his swag. I want a full plan of the house, the print of the keys, all the usual truck. This evening I shall have something new for Juve and his crew, an affair in which you will serve me."

Josephine, panting, did not pay heed to this last sentence. She flushed crimson, perspiration broke out on her forehead, a great agony tightened her heart. She, so docile till then, so devoted, suddenly felt an immense scruple, an awful shame at the thought of being guilty of what her lover demanded. Against any other man, she would have obeyed, but to act in that way toward Dixon, who had treated her so considerately, she felt was beyond her powers. Here Josephine showed herself truly a woman. While determined not to be false to Loupart, she would not leave the pugilist with an evil memory of her. She hesitated to betray him and unwittingly proved the truth of the philosopher's dictum: "The most honest of women, though unwilling to give hope, is never sorry to leave behind her a regret!"

But Loupart was not going to stay discussing such subtleties with his mistress. He never gave his orders twice. To seal the reconciliation he imprinted a hasty kiss on Josephine's cheek and vanished. A sound of crackling marked his passage through the thickets. Josephine was once more alone in the great park around the villa.

* * * * *

Fandor and Dixon were taking tea in the drawing-room. The journalist came, he alleged, to interview Dixon about his fight with Joe Sans, the negro champion of the Soudan, which was to come off next day. After getting various details as to weight, diet and other trifles, Fandor inquired with a smile:

"But to keep in good form, Dixon, you must be as sober as a camel, as chaste as a monk, eh?"

The American smiled. Fandor had told him a few moments before that he had seen him supping at the "Crocodile" with a pretty woman.

At Juve's instigation Fandor had alleged a sporting interview, in order to get into the American's house and discover if Josephine was still there. He meant to ascertain what the relations were between the pugilist and the girl.

The allusion to that evening loosened the American's tongue. Absorbed by the pleasing impression which his pretty partner had made on him, Dixon began talking on the subject. He belonged to that class of men who, when they are in love, want the whole world to know it.

The American set the young woman on such a pedestal of innocence and purity—that Fandor wondered if the pugilist were not laughing at him. But Dixon, quite unconscious, did not conceal his intention to elope with Josephine and shortly take her to America. Suddenly he rose.

"Come," he said, "I will introduce you to her."

Fandor was about to protest, but the American was already scouring the house and searching the park, calling:

"Finette, Mlle. Finette, Josephine!"

Presently he returned, his face distorted, unnerved, dejected, and in a toneless voice he ejaculated painfully:

"The pretty little woman has made off without a word to me. I am very much grieved!"

Five minutes later, Fandor jumped into a train which took him back to Paris.



XXIII

"STATES EVIDENCE"

"Juve, I've been fooled." The journalist was resting on the great couch in his friend's study, Rue Bonaparte, and wound up with this assertion the long account of the fruitless inquiry he had made at Dixon's.

"I'm played out! For two days I haven't stopped a minute. After the night at the "Crocodile," which I spent for the most part, as I told you, in search of Loupart, yesterday my day went in fruitless trips; my mind is made up; to-night I shall do no more!"

"A cigarette, Fandor?"

"Thanks."

From the crystal vase where Juve, an inveterate smoker, always kept an ample stock of tobacco, he chose an Egyptian cigarette.

"My dear Juve, it is absolutely necessary to go again to Sevres and draw a close net round Dixon. He needs watching. Isn't that your opinion?"

"I'm not sure."

Juve thought for a few moments, then:

"After all, what grounds have you for thinking that Dixon should be watched?"

"Why, any number of reasons."

"What are they?"

It was Fandor's turn to be surprised. He had given Juve the account of his visit, supposing that would bring him to his way of thinking, and now Juve doubted Dixon being a suspect.

"You ask me for particulars. I am going to reply with generalisations. Taking it all in all, what do we know of Dixon? That he was in a certain place and carried off Josephine under our very eyes. Hence he is a friend of Josephine's, which in itself looks compromising."

"Oh!" protested Juve. "You arrive at your conclusions very quickly, Fandor. Josephine is not an honest woman. She may know the type of people that haunt the night resorts, yet who, for all that, need not be murderers."

"Then, Juve, how do you account for it that during my visit Dixon tricked me and kept me from meeting Josephine while making believe to look for her? Is not that again a sign of complicity? Does not that show clearly that Josephine, realising that she is suspected in our eyes, has decided to evade us?"