situation, he had taken the unfortunate journalist to his own home in Rue Richer and called in a physician of the quarter, Doctor Gast. An examination of the patient showed that he had received no serious injury, merely some abrasions and one or two burns.
As Juve and the Doctor answered his call for food, Fandor sat up and without surprise or question repeated his cry:
"I'm dying of hunger. Hurry up and give me something to eat."
The Doctor took his pulse, then suggested:
"Something light won't hurt him, say, a slice of ham."
A formidable oath was the reply:
"No, thanks!… anything you like, but not ham."
"All right … a chicken wing instead."
This seemed to satisfy Fandor, who added:
"While I'm awful hungry, don't forget that I'm just as thirsty!"
"Well, Doctor?"
"Well, Monsieur, I find everything going well. Our patient has had a good meal and is now sleeping peacefully. By to-morrow, M. Fandor will be all right again. It was, however, about time he got food, for in my judgment he pretty nearly died of hunger."
"That's what I can't understand."
"When you went back just now to the scene of the accident, didn't you learn any of the details?"
Juve answered evasively:
"Nothing to speak of, Doctor, merely that the wounds of the passengers are not serious. As to the cause of the explosion, I have a notion that it may have been due to an escape of gas. I noticed a strong odor of it about. Probably a spark set it off."
The doctor now took his leave, and no sooner was he well out of the door when a joyful whistle came from the sick man's room. Juve could not restrain an exclamation of surprise as he looked into the bedroom. Fandor was already partly dressed and in the act of lacing up his boots.
"You are crazy to get up in your condition!"
"Hang my condition, I feel as strong as a horse and as hungry as a bear."
Juve laughed.
"Oh, if that's the way you feel there's nothing more to be said."
After a second breakfast, Fandor turned to his friend:
"Now, then, Juve, let's hear where you've been!"
For two hours each in turn narrated their adventures of the past days, and by combining their experiences, they arrived at a clear view of the situation. One question was answered beyond doubt. The hand of Fantômas was everywhere apparent. His carefully laid plan to get possession of the King's diamond unquestionably involved the arrest of the King by the French authorities for the murder of his mistress.
It was now their difficult task, first to recover the jewel and then capture the bandit. Two points still remained to be cleared up. What rôle had Marie Pascal played in the affair? Was she innocent or an accomplice? And had Lady Beltham intended to save Juve or had she intended to save Fantômas?
It was finally arranged that Juve should go to the America Hotel and call on the pseudo Grand Duchess Alexandra, and that Fandor should see Marie Pascal. They were about to put this project into execution when a loud knocking at the door startled them.
Fandor sprang forward, but the detective quickly thrust him into the bedroom, and opened the door himself.
"You here, Wulf!"
"As you see."
The absurd officer marched into the apartment with an air of great satisfaction.
"Well, Monsieur Juve, and what do you think of my detective instinct?"
"I don't understand."
"Ah, you thought you'd got rid of me at the Sud-Nord Station, didn't you, but I fooled you. I arrived at the scene of the explosion at the precise moment you were giving an address to the chauffeur and carrying away a body."
"A body … in pretty good health!"
"Furthermore, I came across some one you were looking for, I think."
"Fantômas?"
"No, not Fantômas, but the Primitive Man, generally called Ouaouaoua."
"And you let him go?"
"Oh, I let him go all right, but not before he gave me his address."
Juve smiled grimly.
"A nice mess you've made of it!"
Wulf continued with an air of great importance:
"I can tell you something else, the King returns to Glotzbourg to-night, but before he goes we shall have the guilty person arrested."
A slight noise made Wulf turn his head and then give a loud cry.
Fandor had entered the room.
"Good God! Who is that?… the King?… No, it's not the King … help! help!"
Wulf cast frightened glances to right and left and then made a dive for the door, slamming it behind him as he rushed out:
"I knew he was a fool," exclaimed Juve, "but I didn't know he was crazy besides. And to think he had Fantômas in his hands and let him go!"
The two men now reverted to their interrupted project and decided to pay their respective visits to Marie Pascal and Lady Beltham.
"Mam'zelle Marie! Mam'zelle Marie! Come in and rest a bit!"
The pretty lace-maker was passing the office of the concièrge, the so-called Mother Citron. The young girl accepted the invitation and sat down, heaving a deep sigh. It was only ten in the morning but her red eyes and her face showed signs of having passed a bad night.
"You mustn't work so hard!" exclaimed the concièrge.
"Oh, it isn't my work; that rests me, it helps me to forget… . I have so many troubles."
"Tell me all about them."
By degrees and through her tears, Marie confided all that had happened to her since the night of the murder. The avowal of love she had made to the King and the unforgettable hour she had passed in his company; then the police inquiries, suspicions, and the fact that they were continually following her.
"Ah, if only I had some one to turn to. I've thought of going to see this detective the King spoke of, M. Juve."
As Marie Pascal pronounced that name, an expression of sinister joy came into the eyes of Mother Citron:
"That's a good idea," she exclaimed.
Marie hesitated:
"I would never dare go to see him alone."
"Marie
