Then – without a cry, without a warning sound, without a moment’s time to cope with the violence of the attack, Fandor felt a cloth over his face, strong hands on his throat, a heavy weight crushing his chest.

I am lost! flashed through his mind.

I mean to find out the truth! his will countered.

With all the force of his resistant muscle and will, he disengaged himself from the power crushing him to death; seized an arm by chance, hung on to it, gripped it, threw off the man, ran to the switch, shouting:

“Help!”

Again Fandor thought he was done for: the switch clicked, but no light flashed forth!

They had cut the wire!

Men were holding on to him again: their grip was tightening!

A voice gave a strangled cry.

“Help!”

A strange voice! Whose?

Fandor was weakening. His right hand seemed to be caught in a vise which would break and crush it: it was growing tighter and tighter: it was wrenching his arm, was dragging him backwards: it would fracture his shoulder blade! Who?... Who?

By a miraculous effort he freed himself. He leaped away; sprang to the mantelpiece; seized a pocket electric torch he had placed there – clack – a light flashed out!...

Now Fandor saw, recognised his attacker!

Ah! The form he had seen before – a slim figure, clothed all in black!... Ah, this murderer, whose face was concealed by a hooded mask!

Fandor shouted at him.

“Fantômas! It’s you and I, Fantômas!”

But already, this enigmatic phantom, revealed by the sudden light, had rushed on our journalist.

The electric torch was knocked into blackness.

The struggle recommenced, fierce, formidable, desperate! Fandor was seized by the throat in a strangling grip: he was choking!

His right arm, so twisted, so bruised, was powerless – and in that hand, now so deadened and helpless that it seemed detached from his body, was his revolver. He must shoot, though almost powerless in the formidable grip of the assassin. He must shoot if he was to be saved. He managed to pull the trigger.

There was a loud crack of muzzle-fire.

Fandor felt himself flung towards the wall. The vise loosed its grip. There was a terrific smashing noise. The window panes were shattered, a heavy piece of furniture was pushed aside, teetered, fell with a crash; then a sudden silence; but a silence broken by gaspings, loud breathing, hoarse sounds, an agonising death rattle.

The dead pause seemed interminable... Fandor was about to shoot again, when a voice close to him cried:

“He is escaping!”

Jérôme Fandor recognised that voice!

Another voice said”

“We must have a light!”

A wax match flamed and flared.

By its wavering light Fandor could distinguish three men in the room... Their clothes were torn: there was blood on their faces, they were panting. They stared at one another.

Fandor recognised them instantly.

Leaning against the bed, a gash in his cheek, was Monsieur Barbey.