But the lantern held firm, and by the time he had been a quarter of an hour shut up in his odd prison-cell, Fandor had ceased to give a thought to the possibility of taking a fall. His whole attention was again concentrated on Fantômas; but the brigand remained perfectly still and seemed to have forgotten the other’s very existence. On his knees, his revolver all the time pointed through the improvised loophole, he was evidently watching for the arrival of someone or something. And it was in a flash, without his having so much as given a start, or moved a muscle, or uttered an exclamation, that the sharp explosion of his weapon rang out, followed by the dull thud of a body dropping! Instantly the whole house resounded with cries of pain, shouts and screams and the din of tramping feet. “Go on! break in the door!” Fandor heard a voice yelling. Next moment two more shots tore the air, two other voices bellowed in agony, two more wounded men sank heavily to the ground; then a mighty thrust shook the door and overset the trunk. With one bound, Fantômas was at the window, Fantômas had disappeared, yelling as he vanished: “Hurrah! three officers brought down! hurrah!” while into the garret, preceded by the blinding rays of electric torches, sprang a whole troop of men, shouting, swearing, revolvers in hand. A prisoner in his lantern, still gagged, still tied hand and foot, Fandor seemed the victim of an atrocious nightmare. Scarce had the men entered the room before Fandor realized the full horror of his situation, guessed the whole secret of the villainous design. The men were police officers, they were shouting: “Jérôme Fandor, hands up! or you are a dead man.” Then they began to search the garret, to turn everything upside down, to hunt about, to _hunt for him_! The young man felt a cold sweat bead his temples. What had been in Fantômas’ mind? He knew it only too well. The brigand had spared his life once more only to keep alive the man who he was planning should bear the whole weight of responsibility for his, Fantômas’ acts. If he had pinioned the journalist instead of killing him, it was because Fandor was now marked down by public odium as being Fantômas. He had hidden him in the lantern, he had taken post behind the door, he had three several times fired on the police and disappeared, all this only because he chose to make men think that Fandor—the man they were come to arrest—was really Fantômas, and that it was he, Fandor—not Fantômas—who had used his revolver to such deadly effect! “Let the lantern give way,” thought the prisoner, “and tumble me into the middle of the constables, and I’m done for! they will kill me—and they will be justified.”