A laughing group had gathered round, finding a new and piquant diversion in this altercation between the two masquers, each defending with apparent seriousness his title to be the true Fantômas. “The vanquished,” cried Sonia, merrily, “shall take off his cowl for the rest of the evening.” At this one of the disputants wheeled round, and in answer to the gibe: “No, madam,” he said, “the vanquished will not appear again, for one good reason—he will be dead.” * * * * * “Madam, I will use no empty words of compliment to thank you for granting me this interview. Words are incapable of translating my feelings, and between us they would be yet more vain than with others.” The “Fantômas” who uttered the words bowed low with infinite respect before the Grand Duchess Alexandra, whom he had just come upon in one of the little nooks of greenery, so quiet and retired, so convenient for flirtations or confidential talks, which the great lady had contrived in the superb winter garden, opening out of her drawing rooms. The masquer went on: “I will not thank you, madam, for on us, alas! weighs a past too heavy to allow soft words to do aught but call up sad memories in our hearts. That past you do not disown any more than I do, but I ask your permission to remember in speaking to you two facts, that you, you, the Grand Duchess Alexandra, are Lady Beltham, and that I, under this travesty of Fantômas, am Jérôme Fandor.” In a weak, trembling voice, Lady Beltham questioned: “Speak, sir! But first, why this disguise? why, why do you, you of all men, wear that cowl?” “Because, that mask, madam,” returned Fandor, in a broken voice, “that mask lets me remain nameless among your guests. Probably you forget, Lady Beltham, that at this present moment Jérôme Fandor is held by general consent to be a criminal. And, besides this, madam, yet another reason—you will forgive my naming it—led me to adopt this disguise. Was I not certain you would accord a few minutes’ talk to the man wearing this costume. I could not tell if it would be possible for me to give you the letter; but I felt convinced if as Fantômas I asked to speak with you, you would not refuse your lover three minutes’ conversation.” Lady Beltham, pale and trembling, made no reply—what answer could the unhappy lady find to give Fandor, the man who at that very time was suffering the direst torments at the hands of the real Fantômas, her lover? She could only repeat again: “Speak, sir, what do you want of me?” “A small thing, madam,” returned Fandor, “a small thing, and yet of infinite moment—_happiness_. I am going to beg you to say three words—three words that will assure me the chiefest joy of my life.” Almost on the defensive, in a voice of fear, Lady Beltham said for the third time: “Speak, sir, speak!”