Meantime in the ballrooms the festivities were still in full swing while these untoward events were happening in the winter-garden, but at last the dance was now drawing to a close. Four o’clock was striking, and the wan, pallid light of day peeped in at the doors half open into the park: the loveliest faces began to look faded, the smoothest locks ruffled, it was time for pretty women to beat a retreat, under pain of seeming positively plain. Then suddenly, no one knowing whence the news came, all stood frozen in rigid horror at a dreadful report that circulated from group to group. There was a general rush for the park, while broken phrases passed between the hurrying guests. “Wounded?” “Dead!” “You are sure, madam?” “It was a chauffeur found the body.” “Yes, a dagger was still stuck in the heart.” “Appalling!” “So it wasn’t Tom Bob, then?” “Who _was_ the victim?” “It is not known.” “Where are the ‘Fantômas’?” “One of them has just gone.” “Who? which?” “The cloak-room attendant recognized him; it was Tom Bob.” “It seems he was wounded?” “Yes, the attendant said he had blood on his sleeve; he had actually turned back the sleeve and looked at his arm; there was a long, red gash there.” “But Tom Bob is no assassin!” “Ah! but was it really Tom Bob? that is just the question, my dear sir.” Fandor still lay exhausted in the conservatory, still dazed from the attempt on his life he had only just escaped. But in a moment he sprang up with a start, the Grand Duchess Alexandra, Lady Beltham, stood before him. She looked agitated, she was panting and frightfully pale. “Fly! fly!” she cried distractedly. Jérôme Fandor looked at the great lady in wide-eyed astonishment. “Fly! fly!” she could only repeat. “Oh! for pity’s sake, begone! It is horrible, appalling they have just found in the park a man dressed as Fantômas lying dead, stabbed to the heart—an officer of the Criminal Investigation Bureau!” Fandor listened without a word, while Lady Beltham went on again, wringing her hands: “But fly, I tell you, fly! Don’t you understand they will accuse you? You were seen just now, dressed as Fantômas, leaving the rooms with another ‘Fantômas’, they will make sure the first masquer was the murderer, that is you!” Still dazed as he followed Lady Beltham, who was leading him towards a hidden door, Fandor asked: “But then there were three ‘Fantômas’?—Tom Bob, myself, this officer?” “There were four or five,” replied Lady Beltham, “I cannot tell how many: there was you, there was Tom Bob, there was an officer of the Bureau ... there was ...” Fandor finished the sentence the grand duchess dared not complete. “There was ... there was,” he hesitated, “there must have been the true Fantômas!” A malediction rose to Jérôme Fandor’s lips, but all ready to make his escape as Lady Beltham urged him, he yet stayed his flight an instant; he had heard, like a benison the unhappy woman murmur a parting word.