Juve smiled. “Silly boy!” he laughed, “why, don’t you understand that this attempt, so miraculously frustrated, had all been planned by Tom Bob himself? My precious innocent, why, that was just the very best way of avoiding any chance of his being suspected. Look you, I wager, if we inquire, we shall find the occupant who preceded Tom was Moche—that is to say himself!” But again Fandor objected: “I grant your explanation on this point; but here’s another thing—if Tom Bob is Fantômas, why did he have the body of the bank messenger he had murdered brought to light?” “Why, for the same reason, to impress people with his cleverness, my dear sir.... But what are you laughing for?” “Because,” returned the journalist, “I’ve kept my best argument for the last. Remember Fantômas telephoned, before witnesses, to Tom Bob....” But Juve knew better than to attach much weight to this last objection of Fandor’s. The latter was very evidently convinced, if he could find no stronger argument than this to bring against his friend’s theory. “And do you remember this, my friend—how, a few days ago, they found in a garret at the Hôtel Terminus a phonograph, the roll missing, hitched on to the telephone wires. After that, what else can you think of to say? or do you admit that Tom Bob is Fantômas?” Fandor nodded, vastly impressed. “I admit this, Juve, that you are now and always the king of detectives; and yet, there _is_ a doubt still lingers in my mind”—and pointing to the corpse; “Look here,” he persisted, “you say this is truly and indeed Tom Bob’s body—how do you know that?” “By the finger”—and he drew Fandor’s attention to the dead hand. One of the bones of the forefinger piercing through the discoloured flesh hung down, with an uncanny, almost threatening gesture. The bone of the finger was slightly crushed and crooked. “Mark that,” said Juve. “In old days, once when I was working with Tom Bob, without knowing him at all well indeed, in the course of an investigation we were pursuing amongst certain anarchist associations, this unlucky Tom Bob came very near being killed by a bomb. Fortunately the explosion was not so violent as the assassins had expected. Still Tom Bob was severely hurt; his right hand was hit, and this finger damaged. The injury is therefore an unmistakable pointer, a bit of evidence that cannot be challenged. Egad! sir, it will be easy enough for us to cable to the American Criminal Department and get the precise details from the descriptive ticket certifying Tom Bob’s identity. It is only a question of hours; by this evening the dead man will have definitely avowed his name; by this evening, I tell you, we can be sure of having discovered the unfortunate Tom Bob, the real Tom Bob.” Fandor was already on his feet. Less inured than Juve to the sight of death, he felt an instinctive longing to get back to the light of day, to be gone from this noisome cellar that had been turned into a sepulchre.