Could anyone have overheard this extraordinary soliloquy, he would assuredly have been struck with sheer amazement, for if at a pinch sundry persons _had_ come to suppose that Père Moche bore so close an affinity with Fantômas that possibly he was Fantômas himself, none could ever think that the detective, who had come to France under official sanction with the express object of hunting down the brigand, was in fact none other than that same notorious, ever evasive criminal, now better assured than ever against capture, seeing he was actually giving chase to himself. Fantômas stood, a solitary figure in the far-stretching plain, thinking. “I cannot rest satisfied,” he muttered, “till I see Juve lying dead—as dead as a man can be! I must also,” he went on, “for a few hours more keep up my rôle of Tom Bob; I shall score yet another success if by one triumphant cast of the net I contrive that the French police shall arrest the whole gang of my confederates ... I should say Fantômas’ confederates!” Then it was that, calculating his time almost to a minute, the atrocious scoundrel had given the alarm at the Alfort police-post. * * * * * Dawn was breaking fast. The officers from Charenton had joined the Alfort contingent and the united force was hurrying, Tom Bob and the Commissary at their head, towards the extremity of the military road where the mysterious house stood. The sergeant was issuing his instructions. “You will surround the building,” he ordered his men; “you will draw in the circle more and more, but taking cover to avoid accidents; have your revolvers out, the brigands lurking there are terrible fellows; at the first suspicious movement, fire without a moment’s hesitation.” Meantime Tom Bob, quite unruffled, was explaining to the Commissary: “You know what happened yesterday—Fantômas released from prison, carried off by the apaches, tried by the villains, doomed and perhaps executed?...” But Tom Bob broke off short with a cry of terror. On the threshold of the ill-omened house, at the opening of the stairs giving entrance to the cellar, stood a man motionless, with folded arms. “Fantômas!” exclaimed Tom Bob. But the Commissary set him right at once. “No, no! it is Juve,” he cried, “Juve! Yes, we heard aright; the papers that gave the news yesterday spoke the truth, Juve is innocent and a free man”—and the Commissary sprang forward towards the Inspector of the Criminal Bureau. “Juve, Juve,” he questioned, “what are you doing here? What are you waiting for?” The officer replied deliberately, in a quiet voice, perfectly calm and collected: “Why, my dear Commissary, it was _you_ I was waiting for!” “The brigands,” went on the official excitedly, “Fantômas’ accomplices—where are they?” Juve pointed a finger at the door against which he leant. “They are there,” he said, “inside there; it only remains for us to have them out one by one; how many men have you with you?”