“Atrocious monster!” he screamed, “begone! How have I borne to hear out your odious proposals! Be sure, this very day the whole police force shall receive the most stringent orders to seize you! I do not know who you are, but no matter for that, I will punish you.” Fantômas folded his arms across his chest. Through his black mask his eyes flashed lightning at his unfortunate victim. “So it is war?” he asked—“war to the knife? war to the death?... I bid you reflect ...” Ferrand made no reply. Seizing the first thing he caught sight of on his writing-table, he grasped a silver paper-knife in his hand, ready to sell his life dearly. Fantômas saw the Minister was incorruptible. “Be it death then!” he grinned his defiance. With a sudden, swift movement, the brigand whirled his cudgel round like a sling and hurled it full in the other’s face. But the Minister ducked his head, the weapon missed its aim and struck the wall with a dull thud. “Help!” yelled Ferrand, dashing for the window. But Fantômas barred the way, and a grim chase, pursuer and pursued, began in Désiré Ferrand’s chamber. The Minister, with the energy of despair, fled before his assailant, throwing down obstacle after obstacle in his way, oversetting chairs, tables, every piece of furniture he could lay hands on. Thus, following and fleeing, the two men made the circuit of the room; but just as fast as the fugitive cast a stumbling-block in the other’s way, it was cleared away and tossed into a corner. So the mad race went on. The competitors were well matched; no doubt one was armed, he had a revolver, but equally without doubt, he dared not use it for fear of making a noise. The thickness of the carpet deadened the sound of the steps, the heavy curtains intercepted the Minister’s frantic appeals for help. But suddenly, the wretched man, running barefoot as he was, gave a cry of pain, followed by another and another. Next moment he staggered, fell to his knees, cried out again; then tried to rise, but could not struggle to his feet. Blood began to trickle from the soles of his feet, from his thighs, his wrists, the arm on which he had fallen. A last despairing groan was succeeded by utter silence, the tortured man had fainted. Fantômas, taking advantage of his adversary’s helplessness, had snatched up his cudgel again, and with a yell of triumph, dealt him a stunning blow on the head. Then, calmly walking up to his victim without a vestige of compunction, he lifted him bodily by the shoulders and knees and carried him to his bed, where he laid him on his back. Ferrand’s nightshirt gaped open over the chest. Fantômas passed the palm of his hand lightly over the damp skin to verify the exact position of the heart that was still beating in hurried jerks. Then, drawing from beneath his cloak a long, fine needle, the cowardly victor plunged it into his victim’s body below the left breast and pierced the heart.