der of Nichoune.

The murderer of Brocq is assuredly Vagualame: as to the murderer of
Nichoune: I do not yet know under what guise he committed his crime,
but of one thing I am certain--the author of this double crime is none
other than--Fantomas!

XV

THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP

Although for the past four days Fandor had shown himself the most
punctual, the most correct, the most brilliant of French corporals,
although he had replaced the unfortunate Vinson with striking ability,
it was never without a feeling of bewildered terror that he awoke each
morning in the vast barrack-room at Saint-Benoit, Verdun.

No sooner was he dressed than he found himself in the thick of a life
made up of fears, of ever-recurring alarms, a nightmare life, the
strain of which was concealed by an alert confident manner, a gallant
bearing. Never having done his military service, since legally he did
not exist--it was the cruelest mystery in our journalist's
life--Fandor had played his corporal's role by intuition, combined
with a trained power of observation, Vinson's manual, and Vinson's
verbal instructions. Vinson, for his own sake most of all, had
utilised every minute, and had put the eager Fandor through several
turns of the military mill.

Nevertheless, whenever he gave an order to the men of his squad, he
asked himself with terror, whether he had not inadvertently committed
some gross blunder, whether some inferior might not call out
ironically:

"I say, Corporal Vinson, where the devil have you come from to be
carrying on like that?"

"Suppose I were found out," he thought, "I wonder if they would shoot
me forthwith, to teach me not to run such mad risks in search of
information for police reports?"

On this particular morning, Fandor awoke with a stronger feeling of
uneasiness than ever. The previous evening, the adjutant for the week
had drawn him apart at roll-call, and had handed him a slip of paper.

"You have a day's leave! You have joined only four days, yet you have
managed to obtain your evening! Smart work! Congratulations! By jove,
you must have some powerful backing!"

Fandor had smiled, saluted, marched off to bed--but not to sleep.

"A day's leave! The devil's in it! Who signed for me? What is the next
move to be?" he thought.

This very morning, at ten o'clock delivery, the post sergeant had
handed him a card. It bore the Paris postmark: on it was drawn the
route from Verdun to the frontier