While these strange occurrences were in progress at the peaceful convent of Nogent, and the flight of Lady Beltham at the bidding of Fantômas was effected under the eyes of the sisters, no little stir was manifest in the environs of La Chapelle, in the dreaded region where the hooligans, forming the celebrated gang of Cyphers, have their haunts. A certain misrule reigned in the confederation, due to the fact that Loupart had not been seen for some time. None of its members believed for an instant the newspaper story that Loupart had turned out to be Fantômas--the elusive, the superhuman, the improbable, the weird Fantômas. This was beyond them. Good enough to stuff the numskull of the law with such a tale, but there was no use for it among the gang of Cyphers. That same evening there was considerable excitement at the station in the Rue Stephenson. Detectives, inspectors, real or sham hooligans, were assembled there. "Who is that gentleman?" asked M. Rouquelet, the Commissary of the district, pointing to a young man seated in a corner of the room, taking notes on a pad. Juve, to whom the query was addressed, turned his head. "Why, it's Fandor, Jerome Fandor, my friend." Juve was seated at the magistrate's table, comparing papers, documents, and material evidence; he had, standing round him men in uniform or mufti. One might have thought it the office of a general staff during a battle. The door opened to a man dressed like a market gardener. "Well, Léon?" asked Juve. "M. Inspector, it is done. We have nabbed the 'Cooper.'" A sergeant of the 19th Arrondissement appeared and saluted. "M. Inspector, my men are bringing in 'The Flirt.' Her throat is cut." "Is her murderer taken?" "Not yet--there are several of them--but we know them. The wounded woman was able to tell us their names. They 'bled' her because they suspected her of giving us information." M. Rouquelet telephoned to Lâriboisière for an ambulance, and the officers went to see the victim, who was lying on a stretcher in the hall. At that moment, the sound of a struggle hurried Juve to the entrance of the station. Some officers were hauling in a youth with a pallid complexion and wicked eyes. Fandor recognised the captive. "It's that little collegian who bit my finger the night of the Marseilles Express!" Léon, who had drawn near, likewise identified the youth. "I know him, that's Mimile. His account is settled, he is jugged!" The hall of the station filled once more: an old woman, dragged in forcibly, was groaning and bawling at the top of her voice: "Pack of swine! Isn't it shameful to treat a poor woman so!" "M. Superintendent," explained one of the men, "we caught this woman, Mother Toulouche--in the act of stowing away in her bodice a bundle of bank notes just passed to her by a man. Here they are." The constable handed the packet to the magistrate, and Fandor, who was watching, could not repress an exclamation.