All this was assuredly the work of Fantômas! This conclusion Juve had definitely arrived at in the course of the terrible night he had just lived through, the last hours of which were still slowly dragging out their weary length. He had clearly seen that, taking advantage of his own long detention in prison, adroitly profiting by the judicial blunder to which he owed his incarceration in the _Santé_, Fantômas had duped his confederates and persuaded them that Juve was no other than the elusive brigand himself, and that it was actually Fantômas who was in gaol. Yes, he understood the whole scheme now, and from information gathered here and there, he could guess what was going to happen. Fantômas, the real Fantômas, not content with exploiting honest people, had exploited the apaches into the bargain—and these latter were out to take their revenge. With amazing audacity they had carried off Juve, more than ever convinced that he was Fantômas. And Juve, now in their power, was about to pay the penalty for the grim brigand’s perfidy. As the night wore on, the noises the detective heard round him grew louder and more frequent. Evidently men were arriving at a _rendez-vous_ arranged beforehand, and their number increased as time went on, while new voices could be distinguished demanding the immediate opening of the sitting. Presently Juve felt someone was coming up to him, and the cords that held him fast were loosened and the bandage removed from his eyes. Mechanically the prisoner stretched his limbs, cramped by the pressure of the ligatures. Juve found himself stretched on the floor of a square chamber with bare, white-washed walls. By the light of a smoky lamp he saw he was surrounded by a score of apaches, with grim faces and surly, threatening looks. Some of these were unfamiliar to him, others he knew to belong to notorious criminals. By the chilly damp that exuded from the walls and the flagged floor of the place, as well as by the absence of windows, the detective gathered that he was confined in the depths of a cellar. But his reflections were soon cut short. One of the apaches, the same who had untied him, now kicked a wooden stool towards him with the order: “Sit there, in the middle of us, and listen.” Juve suddenly sprang to his feet. With a desperate, senseless impulse—for indeed it was useless to dream of escape—he pushed away the wooden seat, drove back fiercely with his elbows some of those nearest him, and darting to the farthest end of the cellar, set his back against the wall with clenched fists and furious face, ready to offer a vigorous resistance to the first who should come near him.