“Nevertheless, it is unquestionably true that you are the gainers by these crimes: beginning with Madame de Vibray and ending with Thomery. Madame de Vibray might have brought an action against you for the loss of her fortune, owing to your risky speculations and bad management. Thomery’s murder brought down his shares with a run, and you found that a most advantageous state of affairs – you gained by it!

“But, of course, this is coincidence, since you are not Fantômas, since you are not Jacques Dollon, since you cannot imitate the imprint of his thumb!... I have only said this to show...” Fandor stopped short.

“Hark!... Someone is coming upstairs! Here is Monsieur Havard!”

As the bankers were hurrying impatiently to the door, Fandor said in a bantering tone:

“Do not stir a step further, I beg of you! Not a step!

Let us receive the chief of the detective force exactly in the position we were, not an hour ago, when we encountered the fiend whom the chief has now come to arrest.” Barbey and Nanteuil returned to their former positions. Those in the room could hear voices on the other side of the door exchanging brief remarks. The lock was being picked. Monsieur Havard entered and hurried up to the journalist.

“Well, my dear Fandor, I have followed all your instructions to the letter!... Ah, you here too, Juve! Well?...

Speak! Anything fresh since your extra ordinary telephone call?... What were you telling me?”

“I was saying, Monsieur Havard, that the assassin had entered this room, and assuredly had not left it – that he was here – is here!”

“Here?”

Monsieur Havard had recognised the eminent bankers at the first glance... His question betrayed a certain incredulity which piqued Fandor.

“Here! Yes! That is absolutely so, because it is impossible that he can have left the room! Besides, you shall soon convince yourself of that!... Monsieur Nanteuil, will you do me a small service? Will you draw a plan of the first floor of your house?”

The banker rose and seated himself at his writing-table, which was placed in a corner of the room.

“I am at your disposal.” And be began to trace a plan, a pretty rough one, of the various rooms which made up the first floor of his house.

“Is that what you want?” he asked.

Jérôme Fandor rose quickly and went towards Nanteuil.

The journalist’s nerves must have been out of sorts – in a jumpy state, despite his apparent calm – for, in approaching the writing-table, he suddenly staggered, nearly fell, tried to regain his balance, and reeled so clumsily that he upset the contents of a large ink pot on the writing-desk.

“Take care!” said Monsieur Nanteuil, who, to save himself from coming into contact with this black flood, threw himself back in his chair, and lifted his hands above the tide of ink.

The banker repeated: