“Well and good!” pronounced Juve, “... and you?” he proceeded, turning now to the “Beadle.” “You know yourself, Fantômas, you know what I did.” “That goes for nothing; say it over!” “What’s the good?” But murmurs of discontent broke out; why must the “Beadle” give himself these airs? all he’d got to do was to state his case like the rest; else he’d get nothing at all! “Well,” he let out reluctantly, “it was me did the trick about the Princess Sonia’s jewels ...” But “Bull’s-eye” broke in furiously. “And what about me, ‘Beadle’?” he growled, “didn’t I see you at work—with your hands in your pockets? I was in that business, too!” Imperturbably Juve noted down on his slip three significant memoranda: “Jewels, the ‘Beadle,’ ‘Bull’s-eye.’” “Next,” he called—and two women, “Big Ernestine” and another virago known as the “Panther,” insisted on the master’s hearing them. “It was us,” they clamoured, “flooded the lake with petroleum, so as you could light up the blaze.” Juve, however, had a question to put. Would he get an answer? he hardly dared expect it. Still he ventured to ask: “And the big things, eh? the Minister of Justice, who killed the Minister of Justice?” But at this everyone burst out laughing. “Devilish funny,” they grinned; “none of your jokes on us, Fantômas! everybody knows it was you.” Juve took heedful note of the information; yes, the crime should be set down to the account of the real culprit. He went on with his questions: “And the bank collector? who did the murder of the Rue Saint-Fargeau?” A chorus of voices answered him: “Moche, it was Père Moche.” But one voice protested; someone had sprung lightly over the gaping grave and stood before Juve. It was Paulet. The young apache with the light eyes and pallid complexion growled out: “Moche never did anything but make his profit out of the crime; he robbed me of the money, as he’s robbed me of my wench, to marry her to the rich Englishman; but as God’s above me, I swear it was I, Paulet, all on my own, who did in the bank messenger!” “Bravo!” rose the answering cry; “bravo! it’s you, Paulet, for the big prize!” But now mother Toulouche, the hag who had hauled out the strongbox from the half decomposed corpse, emerged from the dark corner where she had been crouching ever since.