From henceforth she was faced with this accomplice, guilty of new crimes, clothed in a new personality, already under suspicion, which doubtless he would cast off only to assume another which would enable him still further to extend the list of his crimes! But despite all the horror her lover inspired her with she felt herself tamed again, powerless to resist him, ready to do anything the moment he bade her! She inquired feebly: "Who was it killed Mme. Raymond? Was it that ruffian--whom they speak of in the papers--Loupart?" "Well, not exactly!" "Then was it you? Speak, I would rather know." "It was neither he nor I, and yet it was to some extent both." "I do not understand." "It is rather difficult to understand. Our 'executioner' does not lack originality. I may say it is something which lives yet does not think." "Who is it! Who is it!" "Why not ask Detective Juve. Oh! Juve, too, would like to know who the deuce all these people are. Gurn, Chaleck, Loupart, and, above all--Fantômas!" "Fantômas! Ah, I scarcely dare utter that name. And yet a doubt oppresses my heart! Tell me, are you not, yourself--Fantômas?" Chaleck freed himself gently, for Lady Beltham had wound her arms round his neck. "I know nothing, I am merely the lover who loves you." "Then let us go far away. Let us begin a new existence together. Will you? Come!" She stopped all at once--"I heard a noise." Chaleck, too, listened. Some slight creakings had, indeed, disturbed the hush of the room. But outside the wind and the rain whirled around the dilapidated, lonely abode, and it was not surprising that unaccountable sounds should be audible in the stillness. Once more Lady Beltham built up her plans, catching a glimpse of a future all peace and happiness. With a brief, harsh remark, Chaleck brought her back to reality. "All that cannot be, at least for the moment, we must first----" Lady Beltham laid her hand on his lips. "Do not speak!" she begged. "A fresh crime--that's what you mean?" "A vengeance, an execution! A man has set himself to run me down, has determined my ruin: between us it is a struggle without quarter; my life is not safe but at the cost of his, so he must perish. In four days they will find Detective Juve dead in his own bed. And with him will finally vanish the fiction he has evoked of Fantômas! Fantômas! Ah, if society knew--if humanity, instead of being what it is--but it matters little!" "And Fantômas? What will become of him--of you?" "Have I told you that I was Fantômas?" "No," stammered she, "but----" * * * * * The dim light of a pale dawn filtered through the closed shutters of the big drawing-room in which lover and mistress had met again, after long weeks of separation, to call up sinister memories. For all their hopes the limit of the tribulations to which they were a prey seemed still far off. Chaleck blew out the lamp. He drew aside the curtains. Sharply he put an end to the interview: