Juve was a free man. The Juge d’Instruction, M. Fuselier, who had all along been sceptical as to the generally accepted theory of the identity of the police-officer with Fantômas, but who had been rudely shaken in his faith in the detective’s innocence by the startling coincidence of the wound found on the prisoner’s arm, had bestirred himself with redoubled zeal and had instituted further searching investigations. The result had been the discovery that one of the warders at the _Santé_, Nibet by name, was in close touch with the Fantômas’ gang, and having access to Juve’s cell, had presumably seized an opportunity to drug the prisoner during the night and effect the cut on his arm that seemed to supply such convincing evidence of his being the same as the assailant of the unfortunate inspector of the Criminal Bureau at the Grand Duchess Alexandra’s ball. Soon the conjecture became a certainty, albeit Nibet had disappeared, alarmed by M. Fuselier’s inquiries, and Juve had been released. He was now closeted with M. Fuselier in the latter’s official room within the Palais de Justice and was receiving the friendly magistrate’s cordial congratulations on the vindication of his character and his restoration to liberty: “Juve, you are free; the fact is established, you are not Fantômas; Nibet is proved the culprit in the matter of your wound”—and with a spontaneous and charming affability the magistrate shook Juve cordially by the hand. “But alas!” he proceeded in a less cheerful tone, “we do not know when we shall be in a position to announce the capture of another and a more terrible culprit.” Juve with equal seriousness replied: “Pooh! I ask you, sir, for a fortnight at the outside! It is more than a police matter for me now to arrest Fantômas, to unmask him at any rate and force him to fly; it is a personal matter. Remember, all the time I have been in gaol, I have no doubt my friend, my _accomplice_, Fandor, has been at work; I am going now to see him, and between us two ...” “Or you three,” corrected M. Fuselier, “for indeed you must not forget, Juve, that you will have an invaluable helper in the person of Tom Bob.” But at once the worthy police-officer’s professional pride was up in arms; at the mention of Tom Bob Juve’s brow contracted and it was in a hard voice that he answered roughly: “Tom Bob!... well, it strikes me, folks make a deal of fuss about this Tom Bob, and for my part, Monsieur Fuselier, I am far from desirous of working with him ... even ...” Juve stopped short, but the other craved an explanation of the broken sentence. “Even what?” he demanded. “Even,” Juve resumed, “if I do deal with him, it will not perhaps be in the way you think, sir!” M. Fuselier started violently. “Oh! oh!” he cried, “oh, Juve!... is it possible?... but no, it cannot be! you are mistaken.” Juve gave a dry little laugh: