Escaped by a miracle from the clutches of the police, the journalist had ever since the tragic night in M. Moche’s garret led an insufferable existence, hardly daring to go out at all, and then only at night in the most out-of-the-way districts, spending whole days hiding in slums, concealed in rag-pickers’ hovels, in constant terror of being caught. And now, to put the coping-stone on his misery had come the assassination of Désiré Ferrand, a mystery still unsolved, a crime without doubt the work of Fantômas, thought Fandor, but which no less surely would rouse the Criminal Investigation Department to renewed exertions, and render his continued evasion more than ever precarious. Yet Fandor was full of courage; he must not give in, it was all important he should remain at liberty, for the journalist was now firmly convinced that he was embarked on the right track, and that it would not be long now before he would unmask Fantômas’ accomplices, perhaps Fantômas himself into the bargain. Luck, good luck, had in fact brought him in touch with a crew of shady individuals, the instruments and intermediaries of old Moche’s nefarious schemes. Now these folks made no concealment amongst themselves of the fact that they were in the habit of receiving orders anonymous but peremptory about the source of which, however, they did not trouble their heads; they served and were glad to serve as Fantômas’ lieutenants, they were in the pay of that notorious brigand. To trace back events to their source would be the surest way to discover the head that set all these arms in motion. “I’m going to the _Blue Chestnut_,” Nini Guinon had told him—and Fandor had boldly replied that at that very moment he, too, was on his way to spend the afternoon at that notorious resort of the Paris criminal world. In fact the discovery that Paulet’s mistress was bound for the _Blue Chestnut_—a suburban semi-rural resort just outside the fortifications, and a favourite _rendezvous_ with crooks and demireps of all descriptions—to meet “her man” had given the journalist a lively glow of satisfaction. Days ago he had come to the resolution of shadowing the young street-walker, getting to know her comings and goings, and so through her getting into close touch with the band of her nefarious associates. And lo! in a moment his hopes were to be realised. Nini was going to the very spot where all these good, or rather bad, people would be gathered. Decidedly Fandor’s lucky star was in the ascendant, he was to enjoy the priceless advantage of meeting and making closer acquaintance with that questionable character, the mysterious apache Paulet, whom the journalist already suspected, not without good reason, perhaps, of having murdered the bank messenger.