“I, in my turn, say, you are making a mistake! Look at the two imprints I have here! That of Jacques Dollon taken a few days ago, and this made from the impressions obtained this very night, or, to be exact, in the early morning hours of today! They are identical – one can be exactly superposed on the other!”

“Coincidence!”

“There is no such coincidence possible – besides –” Monsieur Bertillon took up a powerful magnifying glass – “look at these characteristic details!... Just look at the lines of the thumb, all out of shape!... The presentment of the thumb itself is not normal either; it denotes habitual movement in a certain direction: it is the thumb of a painter, of a potter!... Oh, it is all as clear as daylight – believe me – there is no doubt about it! Jacques Dollon is the guilty person!”“But,” repeated Fandor obstinately: “Jacques Dollon is dead! I swear to you he is dead!”

This assertion made no impression on the man of science.“As to whether Jacques Dollon is alive or dead – that is for the police to decide!... For my part, I can declare that the man who committed the theft, yesterday evening, is the identical man who passed through my hands some days ago – and that man is certainly Jacques Dollon.” Jérôme Fandor left Monsieur Bertillon. The young journalist was profoundly perplexed... If the fingerprints on the neck of Princess Sonia Danidoff were, beyond dispute, those of Jacques Dollon – then the mystery surrounding this affair, and not this affair only, but a series of incidents, so far from being cleared up, was becoming more impenetrable than ever!

But Fandor was obsessed by the idea of Fantômas, of Fantômas in the depths of mystery, presiding over this series of dramatic occurrences.

“Yes, Fantômas is certainly in this!” he cried. “But Dollon has left traces of himself here – has, as it were, put his signature, his identification mark to this crime!... But Dollon is not Fantômas... and besides, Dollon is dead!... I have proofs of it – yes, he is dead!... Well then?...” What to make of it?

Fandor could make absolutely no sense of it at all!

CHAPTER TEN : IDENTITY OF A NAVVY

“The Barbey-Nanteuil bank is certainly gorgeous!” thought Jérôme Fandor as he traversed the hail on the ground floor, where the massive mahogany furniture, the thick carpets, the deep, comfortable chairs, the sober elegance of the window curtains exuded an atmosphere of luxury and good taste. “And banking is decidedly the best of businesses!” added the young journalist.

An attendant advanced to meet him.

“What do you want, monsieur?”

“Will you take in my card to Monsieur Nanteuil? I should be glad to have a few minutes’ talk with him.” The attendant bowed.

“On a personal matter, monsieur?”

“A personal matter?... Yes.”