“Off we go! let’s hook it, mates, all that’s left to do is to slip down by the scaffold ropes. Underneath we’ll come on the masons’ workshops. There’s a watchman, of course, on guard there, but he’s full up at this time of night; no fear of his waking up. To get the gentleman away, we’ve the motor-car. Ah! by God! but it’s a fine bit of work we’ve done this journey!” * * * * * It was three hours or more since the daring ruffians who had found a way into the Palais de Justice had tried and accomplished their capture of Juve, whom they took for Fantômas. M. Fuselier was almost despairing. It was all too abominable; just as he was liberating Juve, Juve had fallen into the brigands’ power. The man was done for for certain—and so keen was the sympathy the magistrate felt for the gallant officer, he almost forgot the grotesque horror of his own position in fear for Juve’s fate. He was the more alarmed, inasmuch as, being reduced to helplessness, M. Fuselier realized quite clearly it would be long ere he was set free, that there was practically no chance of his being restored to liberty before the next morning at seven or eight o’clock, the hour when the cleaners of the Palais would want to come in to put his room to rights, and surprised to find the door locked, would make enquiries and no doubt find means to enter the room by way of the window. Nevertheless M. Fuselier was not without some fleeting gleams of hope. He had perfectly recognized Tom Bob at the moment the American detective sprang into his room and had, like himself, fallen a victim to the apaches. He could not see him, but now and again he heard him move. Tom Bob had not, like him, been tied on a chair, the wretches had left him stretched helpless on the carpet. Perhaps the detective was going to find a way to free himself? Very certainly it was he who was making those cracking, creaking noises he could catch at times. It seemed he must be dragging himself along the floor to try and break his bonds. M. Fuselier was not mistaken. Battered and bleeding as he was, Tom Bob was giving proof of amazing energy. The apaches once gone, he had managed to crawl up to the magistrate’s desk, and there, with infinite patience, being just able to bend his body, he was employed in chafing against the corner of the desk one of the cords that held him fast. It needed indomitable perseverance, the attempt to free himself in this fashion, but Tom Bob had never wanted for energy. Moreover, the task cost him agonies, every movement forcing the cords deep into the flesh, but he was not the man to be deterred by pain.