Just as Ferrand, alarmed by the noise he had heard, was making instinctively for the electric switch at the other end of the room, the light suddenly flashed out, dazzling his eyes, grown accustomed to the dark. Someone with the same intention as himself, but with greater quickness, had anticipated him. Désiré Ferrand gave a cry of terror. A few yards away, a masked man stood confronting him, a grim, appalling figure. He was wrapped in a black cloak, and carried a cudgel in his hand. “The man of last week—my assailant!” ejaculated the Minister, turning pale. Yes, before him stood the redoubtable outlaw, who, a week before, had, with the help of mysterious confederates, laid hands on the Minister of Justice, had kept him secluded from his fellow men, and only restored him to liberty conditionally, delivering, in a letter addressed to the President of the Council, an ultimatum couched in threatening language. Désiré Ferrand waved a hand ordering the intruder to leave the room, but the latter strode forward unheeding. “Désiré Ferrand,” he proclaimed, “the hour is come to obey me, you must decide ... you have five seconds.” The unhappy Minister recoiled, utterly confounded; unarmed, barefooted, in night attire, he felt himself at a manifest disadvantage in face of the scoundrel confronting him. But Désiré Ferrand was no coward. Reckoning up his chances of escape, he put between himself and his antagonist the great desk littered with endless documents, and again repeated his order: “Go,” he reiterated, “go!... I will have you arrested.” But the man in black broke into a sardonic laugh: “Fantômas does not take orders,” he asseverated, “it is for Fantômas to issue commands. For the last time, I repeat that I demand a million francs; give it me!” “But,” protested Ferrand, “where do you expect me to get the money from? It is odious, abominable, your effrontery is unparalleled!” “Unparalleled is the word, sir; Fantômas has no equal—only despicable imitators.” The Minister resumed: “Neither Government nor Ministers will ever consent to obey you; _I_ will never consent. Why, then,” he added gloomily, “we should have nothing left us but to retire discomfited, dishonoured, the laughing-stock of France!” Fantômas advanced a step or two nearer, and in insinuating tones: “All said and done,” he hinted, “I understand your scruples, and I quite see it is difficult for you to agree, officially that is, under pain of risking your post. Well, so be it; I now propose a compromise. There is the Secret Service fund; my million will be charged on it without scandal or publicity; you will hand me over the sum I need; in return, I will disappear. Is it a bargain?” Désiré Ferrand was boiling with rage and indignation: