“I am not mistaken because I am making no assertion, but this much is certain, that Fantômas this time is not acting alone. He had accomplices, and accomplices highly placed. Upon my word! I confess that Tom Bob ...” But the other sprang up, unwilling to listen to such extravagant theories. “Come now, Juve,” he remonstrated, “you know the man yourself, you know Tom Bob personally. You are aware he is a famous detective, are you not?” Juve wagged his head as he replied: “Yes, I knew a Tom Bob; that Tom Bob I esteemed and admired and I do so still, but, sir, I am speaking of the Tom Bob who is now in Paris, who is a popular hero, the Tom Bob who boasts he will run Fantômas to earth, and who—mark this, it is an important point, believe me—who nevertheless never took the trouble to ask permission to see me at the _Santé_, when I was supposed to be Fantômas! There are but two alternatives: either the Tom Bob I speak of is my old friend, in which case it was only natural, I take it, he should have come to offer me the solace of his sympathy, or he is one of the ...” Juve stopped short again then, unwilling to say all he thought. “However, time will show,” he said; “anyway, sir, you may be sure that all my energies from now on will be devoted to following up my investigations.” It was getting late. Since early in the afternoon Juve had been discussing with the magistrate the extraordinary incidents in which Fantômas’ name once more figured so disastrously. “Well, it’s too late now to sign your discharge paper, and carry out the lengthy formalities required. So I am going to give you a provisional form of release and sign the formal document to-morrow. Will that suit you?” Juve nodded, and was just opening his mouth to answer when a knock came at the door, and the magistrate bade the applicant come in. It was a working mason who presented himself. “Give you my excuses,” he said, “but now, sir, can’t we come into your room to fix up our scaffoldings?” “Yes, yes, my man, just as you please?” M. Fuselier got up, hastily arranged his papers, locking away some in drawers, anxious not to leave any compromising document lying about. He grumbled, “It’s just killing. Here’s a whole week I’ve never been left in peace with these building operations for enlarging the Palais; every hour of the day I have workmen fussing around.” While the magistrate was speaking, in fact, five or six masons had entered the room. One of these made his way to the window, in front of which was a hanging scaffolding, where two more workmen were standing. “All right, mates?” shouted the mason. “All right it is ... and you?” “We’re right, too—come on and see!” And then next moment—the words were evidently a signal—there followed an abominable scene of violence and horror.