On leaving the Gare du Nord, as they were carrying off Juve to prison, the young man had clearly realized that he must disappear unless he wished to be clapped in gaol, too. Now it would never do for him to be arrested, in the first place because, if still at liberty, he could perhaps help Juve to get out of the mess, secondly, because now Juve was under lock and key, he, Fandor, was the only one left to fight Fantômas and paralyse the machinations of the brigand whom he still held to be at liberty, inasmuch as he refused to believe Juve to be Fantômas. At the time the journalist had some money in his possession. Without a moment’s delay he had changed his costume, and dressed out as a “ragged rascal,” had plunged into the underworld, the social stratum where an artful and wary fugitive can most easily cover up his tracks. This done, he had waited events. Day followed day, however, without bringing him any further information. Juve was in prison, the authorities still believing him to be Fantômas, and this evening Fandor, who had hitherto been living by casual odd jobs, was penniless and starving; what was he to do, he asked himself. The young man continued to follow the Boulevard de Belleville, hesitating between the notion of going to find a night’s lodging under the arch of a bridge and his fear of being run in by a police-patrol, an eventuality he was far from desiring, when his attention was attracted to a passer-by, a woman who brushed past him, walking very fast, and rapidly outdistanced him. “Hello!” muttered Fandor, looking after the form of the young woman, “doubtless a Paris workgirl; now, if I were really what I seem, an apache, I should profit by the opportunity. A little woman of this sort would be better in bed at this time of night than out and about on the Boulevard de Belleville! and she carries a bag in her hand—how imprudent! I’d wager twopence something will happen to the girl.” Jérôme Fandor possessed something of that extraordinary instinct to be found in some veteran detectives. He seemed to have a presentiment of crime, to divine beforehand the possibility of acts of violence; and being a man of courage, he never failed to forestall and try to prevent the mischief. Mechanically, Fandor followed the young woman, keeping some distance behind, and as he went, took stock of her appearance. Small black toque, black jacket, a flowing veil, a slim umbrella, small shoes, a quite simple frock. “A workgirl, a respectable workgirl, on her way home after doing a bit of overtime ... Good!—but, well, one may be mistaken!” The young woman Jérôme Fandor was following had just been accosted by a street-walker, a little dark-haired creature with a touzled head, outrageously powdered and painted, clad in the typical spotted corsage of her class, the swaying skirts, the apron with scarlet bib, its pockets bulging, stuffed full of silk handkerchiefs.