"She then spoke as follows: 'I am going to write a letter which, if it fell into the hands of a third person, would bring about a great calamity. This letter I shall intrust to you together with my Will which will instruct you what to do with it at my death. I will send you a visiting card with a line in my own handwriting every fortnight. If ever this card fails to come, conclude that I am dead, that they have murdered me, and carry that letter where I tell you--Avenge me!'" "Well, what then?" cried Juve, anxiously. "That is all, M. Juve. I have not seen Lady Beltham again, nor had any news of her. When I called at her residence I was told she was away. I have come to ask you whether you think she has been murdered." Juve was pacing his room with great strides. "Maître," he said at last, "your story confirms all I have suspected. Yes, Lady Beltham is dead. She has been murdered. That letter contained her confession and revealed not only her own crimes, but those of her accomplices, of her master--of--Fantômas. Fantômas killed her to free himself of a witness to his evil life." "Fantômas! But Fantômas is dead." "So they say." "Have you proofs of his existence?" "I am looking for them." "What do you think of doing?" "I am going to make an investigation. I am going to learn where and how Lady Beltham was killed. I shall see you again, Maître. Read _The Capital_ this evening. You will find in it many interesting surprises." XIX THE ENGLISHWOMAN OF BOULEVARD INKERMANN "To sum up what I have just learned." Juve was seated at his desk, and those who knew the private life of the great detective would assuredly have guessed that he was gravely preoccupied. He was trying to extract some useful information from the notary's visit, some hints essential to the investigation he had taken in hand, and that at all hazards he meant to pursue to a successful termination. The task was fraught with difficulties and even peril. But the triumph would be great if he should succeed in putting the "bracelets" on the "genius of crime," as he had called him to his friend Fandor. "Lady Beltham had gone to visit Gérin. She was an astute woman after all, and knew how to get her own way. There must have been powerful motives which urged her to write that confession. What were those motives? "Remorse? No. A woman who loves has no remorse. Fear? Probably, but fear of what?" Juve, without being aware of it, had just written on the paper of his note-book the ill-omened name which haunted him. "Fantômas!"