have fought Fantomas, and
not always has the victory been wholly his! More than once I have
called check to him! It is his turn to take revenge with the
irrevocable checkmate. Well, I have lost. I pay."

The heavy silence of the studio was loud with menace.

Surrounded by it, he awaited Death's coming, in whatever guise....

The studio door swung open noiselessly. Some twenty men appeared, all
clothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thickly
carpeted floor was soundless.

Fandor stared at these strange figures.

Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facing
Fandor. He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, arms
crossed, head high, considering Fandor. He spoke:

"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every
means in your power! Do you swear it still?"

The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:

"We swear it!"

"Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?"

"We are prepared."

The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who
bent their heads as he apostrophised them:

"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than
have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us
the indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideous
crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I,
Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your
vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver
him up to you!"

The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.

A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur
breathing hate and menaces:

"Fantomas!... Fantomas!"

Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.

"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"

Trokoff was Fantomas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent
faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to rid
himself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his
companions. Making him pass for Fantomas, he drove them on to murder,
thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving them
to reap what consequences might follow from the journalist's
assassination.

How Fandor longed to shout:

"I am not Fantomas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"

But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to
prove to them he was not Fantomas? Who among them could recognise the
unknown, elusiv