Fantômas?—no, it could not be Fantômas! For six months past, M. Havard had cherished the absolute conviction that the notorious criminal had been personated by his subordinate, Inspector Juve, of the Criminal Investigation Department, who under pretence of relentlessly tracking down the elusive ruffian, had carried out a whole series of thefts and other crimes under this sinister disguise. But Juve was in prison, there was no shadow of doubt about that. Then what was one to think? As time went on and the day lengthened, corridors and antechambers grew more and more crowded, hummed louder and louder with excited talk—magistrates having appointments to confer with the Chief, electors from Ferrand’s constituency come to see their member, officials and employés coming and going unceasingly; outside the very door of the death chamber eager voices were raised in discussion and dispute, regrets for the past mingled with hopes for the future. So far, however, the tidings of Désiré Ferrand’s death had hardly spread beyond official circles. The Elysée, the Ministries, were aware of the tragedy, the public knew little or nothing. But this was not to last long. Suddenly a swarm of newsboys, crying special editions, burst with strident shouts into the Place Vendôme, debouching from the Rue de la Paix, deploying under the windows of the Ministry, then tearing off like a whirlwind towards the Tuileries, red and breathless, their papers selling like hot cakes at a premium. The special edition of _La Capitale_ penetrated to the private apartments of the Ministry, and M. Havard, impatient to know in what terms the tragic story was told and to read the criticisms on the police with which the Press was evidently supplementing the narrative of the murder, secured a copy of the paper. Looking over his shoulder, M. Casamajols read in huge capitals, immediately below the name of the journal: “_Assassination of the Minister of Justice._” Below this again, figured the cryptic headline: “_Will he arrest Fantômas?_” “That question, M. Havard,” slyly suggested M. Casamajols, “is probably addressed to you.” The head of the Criminal Investigation Department made no reply, but with pursed lips, ran his eye rapidly over the detailed account of Ferrand’s death, though without learning anything he did not know already, and then went on to the article he believed, like M. Casamajols, to specially concern himself. But as he read on, M. Havard was lost in deeper and deeper wonderment. The article in question ran as follows: