What did it all mean? He was far from having any clear conception of this. Once more Fantômas had laid his plans marvellously well; once more Fortune had favoured him. He it was, Fandor could surely guess, who had contrived that Tom Bob and M. Havard were on the island at the very moment the lake was to burst into flame. Fantômas had of course felt no doubt that Fandor, prowling about the neighbourhood waiting to know the result of Lady Beltham’s visit, would be one of the first to make a dash for the island. In this way he would tumble into a regular trap. Fandor was in full flight, seeing everywhere men hunting for him, revolver in hand, for the scattered conflagrations, dying down one by one, still afforded some light. “By the Lord!” he thought to himself, “I have no choice. I must take to the water, stay as long as possible out in the middle of the lake; it’ll be the devil’s own luck if I don’t manage to put them off the scent.” But at that moment a ball whistled past his ear. He had imprudently come too close, an officer had caught sight of him and fired. “Damnation!” muttered the young man, springing back sharply, “it seems a price is set on my head.” “There! there, I tell you! God Almighty, give me a revolver!” The pursuit was still hot, when suddenly a splash was heard in the water. The police officers gathered in a crowd; “He’ll get away! and never a boat!” But one of the men was equal to the occasion; “‘Dead or alive!’ M. Havard told us we were to capture Fantômas dead or alive! By God! it was childish to spare his life when we had him at our mercy. A volley!” cried the man, “Fire, all together!” His advice was followed, the officers fired off their revolvers at a venture in the direction of the splash. And next instant, drowning the sound of the shots, a sharp cry rang through the night: “Help!... oh!... help!” “Hit! Fantômas is hit!” But Tom Bob was already making for the restaurant at a run. A boat lay high and dry on the bank; swiftly he dragged it to the water’s edge, sprang in, and in a few strokes of the oars was at the spot the cries had come from. “Fantômas” he yelled—he could be clearly heard from the shore—“Fantômas! surrender!” Other boats came up; each second seemed an eternity. But now M. Havard, leaning over the side of his boat, gripped a dark shape struggling in the water; “I’ve got him!” Then in triumph, he shouted an order to the officer who was at the oars: “Row, my man, bring us to the shore!... there, beside that tree, it is still burning, so we shall see plain, anyhow!... he must be seriously wounded, he has stopped struggling.” But as the boat entered the zone illuminated by the blazing tree, M. Havard, still holding the mysterious human body he had gripped in the darkness, could not check an exclamation of dismay. “Oh! curses on it! curses on it! It is not Fantômas! It is not the man! it is a woman!” Others helped, and the inert form was soon carried ashore.