“_From mid-Atlantic, from aboard the liner ‘La Lorraine’ which sailed the day before yesterday from New York, bound for Hâvre, comes the information by wireless that the American detective, Tom Bob, a passenger on the vessel in question, strongly and justly moved by the daring acts of violence committed of late in Paris, has announced his intention to devote all his time and all his energy, from the first moment of his arrival in Europe, to the discovery and arrest of Fantômas._” The writer concluded the article with the words: “_Let us wish Tom Bob every good luck, but will he arrest Fantômas?_” M. Havard and M. Casamajols looked at each other completely at a loss. “Do you suppose it is serious, this story?” asked the latter; “surely it must be a newspaper _canard_ ... very American, too American ... I don’t believe it, do you?” “Egad!” confessed M. Havard, very much put out, “I am bound to allow that this Tom Bob exists, and even that he enjoys a certain reputation in the New York police force, but then, to advertise himself like that, really!” M. Casamajols suggested with a smile of irony: “Eh, Havard, suppose Tom Bob _did_ run down and arrest Fantômas?” Lifting his hands to heaven, the Chief of the Investigation Department turned his back on the Procureur Général: “God Almighty!” he swore, “hadn’t we enough to worry us, enough to make us look ridiculous, without this Tom Bob shoving his finger in the pie. Upon my word, it’s the last straw, that!...” Havard stopped dead in the middle of his tirade; the door of the room had opened. “Do you mean me by that, Monsieur Havard?” demanded the newcomer. M. Havard curbed a gesture of annoyance; decidedly he was in Fortune’s bad books that day. He drew back, and bowing low to the President of the Council—it was no other than M. Monnier himself who asked the question. “I do assure you, sir,” he replied respectfully, “I should never allow myself to think such a thing of you.” CHAPTER IX THE BLUE CHESTNUT “Get along then that’s no way to treat people! What’s he want with me, anyway, the nasty fellow?” Nini Guinon was furious; turning sharply round, she thus apostrophized an individual who had just signalized his presence by tickling her ribs more roughly than agreeably. It was a Monday, and about two o’clock in the afternoon. Nini had just issued from the Poissonnière Gate; mounting the bank overhanging the moat of the fortifications and turning to the left, she was making for Saint-Ouen. The young woman stared suspiciously at the man who was following her without a word, good, bad or indifferent, a smile of doubtful import on his face. Presently, reassured more or less by her examination of the stranger, Nini added: “I thought it was the ‘cops’.” The man shrugged his shoulders. “D’you think I belong to the police? do I look like it?” “No, you don’t,” Nini admitted; “but come, let’s have a peep at your phiz; what does this here masquerading mean, eh?”