For, impossible as it seemed to admit that Tom Bob was really Fantômas, the Minister had almost come to believe it—to wish to believe it at any rate, since the tragic events of the previous night! On the other hand, M. Havard, more accustomed to think things out coldly and impartially, to weigh the arguments for and against a proposition, was less convinced. “Events,” he reflected, “do certainly seem to show Tom Bob to be Fantômas. But there are so many facts on the other side that go to prove the contrary that we must not rush to so extravagant a conclusion. Deuce take it, Tom Bob is a police-officer—an officer of repute in America; he has already, here in Paris, since his arrival, effected some telling arrests.... No, he cannot be Fantômas! If appearances are against him, they are, after all, only appearances, probably contrived by the real Fantômas. It is true....” M. Havard broke off his reflections to answer the Minister’s question: “Alas! sir, in all these baffling difficulties, I really do not know what I think.” “A very canny answer.” “But a sincere one, sir.” “Sincere, why, yes, I grant you; but surely not very frank. However, I will force you to give a plain reply—yes or no, do you believe Tom Bob is the murderer?” M. Havard coughed again; it was evidently a chronic complaint, this cough of his! Finally, sinking back in discouragement on the cushions and nervously cracking his finger joints, he confessed in a dubious voice: “Believe! what do I believe?... well, I just make guesses, Monsieur le Ministre.” “But, my dear man, you told me yourself ...” then breaking off again, the Minister started afresh. “Come, tell me the exact particulars—I have so much business on my mind there are times when I cannot trust my own memory—tell me the precise results of your investigations. You were saying that yesterday ...” This time, when it became a question of setting out the results of a police investigation, without deducing the consequences, without drawing any compromising conclusion, M. Havard recovered all his usual coolness, all the peremptory tone of authority that was habitual with him. So it was with perfect lucidity, with the strictest logical precision, he now answered the Minister. “My investigation has established nothing absolutely definite. All it justifies us in doing is to specify certain facts, relevant facts I admit, but in no way conclusive.” “And these facts are?...”