In the midst of that Parisian oasis formed by the Parc des Princes, Lady Beltham had for some months been in occupation, under the name of the Grand Duchess Alexandra, of a magnificent mansion standing in the middle of a vast park. The front of the house was approached by great gates of wrought iron, dividing the boulevard from a fine gravelled drive that swept round a lawn before the main entrance. Behind the building was a short cut leading from the offices and opening into a deserted by-street; this could only be reached after crossing an orchard planted with fruit trees, a spot of quite a countrified and unpretending aspect. The path connecting the house with the exit into the by-street was completely overshadowed by a double row of clipped yews, a relic of a garden of an earlier date, and throughout its length were ranged a number of beehives, giving this part of the garden a homely and utilitarian appearance, a charm that was at once restful and picturesque. While Lady Beltham was awaiting the visitor whom, at Fantômas’ unexpected order, she had decided to receive, and was endeavouring to restore to her features, distorted by the agitations she had gone through, some appearance of calm and composure, the monstrous malefactor, who had for months duped all Paris, passing himself off as the American detective, Tom Bob, slipped away softly into the adjoining room, under pretext of an intention to listen to the conversation the wealthy young Englishman wished to have with the lady he doubtless still took to be the Grand Duchess Alexandra. But anyone who could have seen Fantômas when alone in the room would surely have suspected the man of some more sinister motive. The brigand did not stay near the half open door, shielded though it was by a heavy curtain. With preoccupied air and a brow wrinkled in anxious thought, he stepped up to the window, and long and carefully scrutinized what lay outside, if by any chance he might espy under the shadow of the trees some suspicious figure, some symptom of unknown danger. Ascott was shown in by a footman to the grand duchess’s apartments. The Englishman appeared, his features drawn with anxiety, his limbs twitching in uncontrollable excitement. With a hurried bow, he sank into a chair. “Excuse me, madam,” he stammered; then going straight to the point, he asked: “Tom Bob is here, is he not? Oh! I beseech you, tell me; I _must_ see him.” So agitated was the young man he never noticed the look of terror his words brought to his hostess’s face. Hearing it said that Tom Bob was with her, she all but fainted, but recovering her self-possession: “Who told you that?” she demanded: “What do you want with him?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she questioned further: “But tell me, what has happened to you?” Ascott faltered in broken words that betrayed his confusion of mind: “A calamity, madam, an appalling calamity has befallen me and still crushes me.”