“It is beyond belief!” he declared, “... just look over yonder!... the thing was a criminal attempt! They have masked the turn in the road by laying down the bogus grass lawn over a length of ten yards, and extended the road itself in a straight line right up to the waterside. The footway is cut through! the wire fencing removed! Why, they have even chalked over the rammed earth to make it look as white as the road! For sure, no blame attaches to the chauffeur; in the glare thrown forward by the lamps he was bound to make a mistake; he could not possibly see the trap laid for him, and so, quite naturally, he drove straight on till the final crash came.” Tom Bob was going to say more when suddenly a cry burst on the silence of the night, a cry of stupefaction, of tearful distress. The detective flew to a group standing round the Princess Danidoff, who still lay on the ground inhaling a restorative. “What ... what is it? what is happening now?” The English Ambassador replied to the American detective’s question. “It is atrocious,” he cried, “the Princess Sonia Danidoff has just discovered she has been robbed of articles of very considerable value.” For the moment the American stood stock still, as if paralysed with amazement. “What,” he exclaimed, “what is that you say?” “I say, my good sir,” returned the Ambassador, “that the Princess Sonia has been stripped of all her jewels, all her jewels—do you hear what I say?—rings, bracelets, necklaces, hair ornaments. Some hundreds of thousands of francs gone!” In his bewilderment Tom Bob could only repeat himself: “But the thing’s past belief; it’s impossible! When did it happen? and how?” He darted to the princess’s side, while the Ambassador, turning to a young _attaché_, finished what he was saying for his benefit. “For my part,” he declared, “I consider the whole catastrophe had but one object—this theft! It must have been done while the princess lay in a faint and Tom Bob had left her to help in saving life. Tom Bob, police-detective as he is, never saw the wood for the trees!” The _attaché_ nodded: “You are doubtless right, sir; but who can have organized this daring, this audacious plot?” It was in a hushed voice, almost in a whisper, that the Ambassador made answer: “Who? Egad! I think there is only one man in all the world ... and you know his name!” “Fantômas?” “Yes, Fantômas.” Already on every lip the dread name was being repeated, the name of horror and of blood, the name that alone could make credible the incredible reality, that could make it seem possible, that could account for it. “Fantômas! Fantômas! he and no other must have planned all this!” And through the night, more grim than ever the three tragic syllables re-echoed, spreading consternation—Fantômas! CHAPTER XV IN A PRIVATE ROOM