A peal of laughter emphasized the bandit’s last words, and Fandor was still pondering what precisely these expressions signified when Fantômas turned his attention to a task the object of which seemed quite inexplicable. He proceeded to drag out into the middle of the floor a tall stool, and depositing it there, climbed on the top, a manœuvre which brought him on a level with an enormous Chinese lantern, one of those huge lanterns of wrought iron and coloured glass, of the kind to be seen in the streets of Pekin, and which are sometimes imported from the East to be suspended in the vestibules of houses. By what strange chances the thing had come to be hanging from the ceiling of old Moche’s garret, it would be hard to say. Anyway, Fantômas must long ago have noticed its being there. He leant over towards it, opened the door, and this done, descended from his perch. “There, Monsieur Fandor,” he announced, “inside there, you’ll be in the best boxes for seeing the play—I may say in the grated boxes, for I’m pretty confident nobody will see you. One can see from within outwards, but not the reverse way.” With a catlike dexterity, the man slipped off the long, black coat enveloping him in its folds, and without seeming to make any special effort, took up Fandor on his shoulders, mounted the stool once more, and deposited the young man in the interior of the lantern! “Now, Mr. Journalist, I refasten the door, by way of precaution, but I give you full leave to look out of the window to see what happens. You’ll see, not a doubt of it, the way Fantômas fights for his friends, and even for you, his enemy!” Yes, he would look, no fear of that—and Fandor, still bound and ensconced inside the Chinese lantern, into which Fantômas had forced him, his limbs cramped, his flesh bruised by the cords, half stilling, glued his face to the painted panes of his extraordinary prison. Jumping down again, Fantômas set to work with the very utmost rapidity. He pushed back the stool against the wall. He hauled up against the door a huge trunk stuffed full of papers to reinforce the crazy panels. From his pocket he extracted a screwdriver, and in a very few minutes had taken off the lock. Then, kneeling against the trunk, he produced a revolver, the nickel-plated barrel of which glittered in the moonlight, and passing the muzzle through the loophole where the lock had been torn away, waited events. Minute after minute passed in deadly silence. Presently, as often happens in the most tragic situations, Fandor in the midst of all his poignant anxieties, began to be tormented by yet another apprehension—a fantastic fear that the lantern in which Fantômas had imprisoned him was not strong enough to bear his weight. “I’m going to come tumbling down!” thought the journalist, “to come tumbling down directly, with a crash of broken glass and an appalling rattle. That’s something Fantômas has failed to foresee. Pray God, it might upset his plans!”