Fandor, more and more well pleased with the turn events were taking, had whispered to Juve: “Let them share out the swag!” But the journalist said no more, assailed by a new anxiety, for Juve had taken the game into his own hands and was preparing to speak. “By the Lord!” thought Fandor, “what is he going to say? How risky, pray God he won’t make a hash of it!” Juve had drawn up his tall figure to its full height and with a sweep of the arm pushed away the apaches crowding round him; with a sudden jerk of the knee he upset “Bull’s-eye”—this was his thanks for the man’s zeal in opening the chest—reclosed the strong box and planted his foot on the lid. “Not so fast,” he cried, “hear me first, you chaps! The money is there, and it’s good money; you can rest assured of that, but first of all, do as I tell you. Everyone shall be paid, each according to his deserts; you have worked for Fantômas, and Fantômas means to reward you in proportion to what you’ve done! Go on, my lads, and every man tot up his accounts: the bravest will come off the best. Let’s sit down!” A round of applause approved the officer’s announcement. Yes, he was right, those who had done nothing much did not deserve much pay, the cute ’uns who had worked hard should get the richest prizes. Juve marshalled his men in a circle round him, and Fandor, reassured as to his comrade’s fate, slipped away and mingled unobtrusively with the crowd. A majestic figure, with flashing eye and commanding pose, the ex-detective played to perfection the rôle of the grim, mysterious Fantômas. The man’s coolness was amazing, for did he not confront the possible risk that at any moment the true owner of that redoubtable name might appear before him? He went on: “I am listening, out with it all! give in your claims, my lads; every man shall have his deserts!” But to begin with a protest was voiced by all present. Nothing was to be paid away to the absent, the cowards, the shirkers, who had not dared to come—and by this they meant Moche, Père Moche, the gang’s confidential agent, the man who no doubt had engineered the scheme to entrap Fantômas, but who from now on seemed of no more use and inspired only feelings of hostility. Why yes, Juve saw no objection to sacrificing the old reprobate. “Père Moche,” he cried, “shall get nothing, that I swear.” Another burst of acclamation; then in the pause that followed, seven or eight voices were raised. “It was us,” they declared, “kidnapped the Minister, by your order, Fantômas; you remember, it was a devil of a job, we had to be mighty smart!...” Calmly, impassively, Juve drew a memorandum slip from his pocket, “Your names?” he questioned coldly. One by one, the apaches filed past the officer, giving in their names and their nicknames. The “Gasman” made a halt before his superior: “It was me,” he said, “set afire the beggars’ refuge, while you were getting ’em aboard your car.”