Holding a mirror to the lips, Fantômas made doubly sure that Désiré Ferrand had ceased to breathe. Yes, he was dead, stone dead! Thereupon, walking quietly over to the switch, he plunged the room in darkness, and in the darkness vanished. * * * * * It was now about three o’clock in the morning. The concierge at the door of the Ministry opening on the Rue Cambon was awakened from a sound sleep by someone tapping softly at his window. “Open, please!” came the usual request, in calm, deliberate accents. In a thick voice the porter, still half asleep, asked mechanically who it was asking to be let out. After a moment’s hesitation, the answer came: “An _attaché_, special service in the Minister’s secretariat!” The concierge drew the cord, and a second or two later heard the door reclose. He had just opened, without a thought of suspicion, for the murderer of Désiré Ferrand! As he dropped off to sleep again, the man merely grumbled to himself: “Pretty hours for working, I don’t think ... One of them bloodsucker fellows again, I’ll be bound, who hang about Ministers. That chap who’s just gone, no doubt he’s been stopping on late to work so as he needn’t turn out so early to-morrow morning.” CHAPTER VIII A WIRELESS FROM MID-ATLANTIC “A nail ... another nail! Monsieur Havard, where did you put the others?” “In the little bowl on the side-table,” replied the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department from where he knelt on the carpet, while Professor Ardell, who was holding between thumb and forefinger the nail he had just found, stood up again, rubbing his back with his free hand. “Extraordinary! most extraordinary!” muttered the learned professor, while M. Casamajols, who was also present, questioned the doctor anxiously: “Well, your diagnosis, Professor?” “Egad! Monsieur le Procureur, my diagnosis is perfectly plain and simple, and equally positive, M. Désiré is dead, and he has been dead several hours now.” At seven o’clock that morning, the discovery of the dead body of the Minister of Justice lying lifeless on his bed had thrown the personnel of the Ministry into the wildest commotion. The domestics, well trained servants, had immediately advised the police, and M. Havard, hurrying with all speed to the Ministry of Justice, had passed on the intelligence to M. Casamajols’ private residence and sent an urgent summons to Professor Ardell. The three men, when they arrived almost simultaneously at the Place Vendôme, had been forced to abandon any false hopes they might have entertained the instant they set eyes on the unfortunate man. Désiré Ferrand was dead! For the tenth time the professor confirmed the fact to M. Casamajols, who could not believe his own eyes and ears. M. Havard, pale and haggard, intervened: “Dead!” he exclaimed, “you mean murdered, do you not, Professor?”