enter the room. He was a man of a certain age. His moustache was quite
white: he wore the whiskers and imperial of 1850.

Fandor recognised Baron Naarboveck. He was going to apologise for not
having noticed his entrance, but de Naarboveck smiled at the
journalist with apparent cordiality.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Fandor, for not having received you myself, but I
had a guest: moreover, Mademoiselle Berthe must have told you what my
views are regarding interviews."...

Fandor made a slight gesture. The baron continued:

"Oh, they are definite, unalterable! But that will not prevent you
from taking a cup of coffee with us, I feel sure. I have the highest
esteem for Monsieur Dupont, and the terms in which he has recommended
you to me are such that, from now on, I have not the slightest
hesitation in treating you as one of ourselves, as a friend."

Monsieur Naarboveck put his hand familiarly on the young journalist's
shoulder, and led him into the next room.

It was a library: a very lofty room. It was soberly and elegantly
furnished. Before a great chimney-piece of wood, two young people were
standing, and were chatting very much at their ease.

They paused when Fandor entered.

Close behind followed Mademoiselle Berthe.

Fandor bowed to the two young people.

Naarboveck made the introductions:

"Monsieur Jerome Fandor--Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, my
daughter--Monsieur de Loubersac, lieutenant of cuirassiers."

Silence reigned after these formal introductions. If Fandor was in
certain measure satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, he
was really bored by this involuntary intrusion into a family gathering
which mattered little to him. He felt he had been caught. How the
devil was he going to escape from this wasp's nest? His eye fell on a
timepiece. Seeing the hour, he thought:

"Had it not been for this Brocq fellow, and that fool of a Dupont, I
should now be in the train asleep, and rolling along towards
Dijon!"...

Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, with the ease of a well-bred woman,
offered the journalist a cup of boiling hot coffee.

Mademoiselle Berthe suggested sugar.

Monsieur de Naarboveck, as if he had suddenly remembered something,
said to him:

"But you bear a name which recalls many things, Monsieur Jerome
Fandor! It was you, of course, famous journalist that you are, who,
some time ago, was in constant pursuit of a mysterious ruffian whom
they called Fantomas?"

Fandor, a little embar