was certain that to whatever degree he had participated in the
assassination of the Baroness de Vibray, one must not be astonished at
anything; neither at anything inconceivable, nor at any mysterious
details connected with the murder.

Fantomas!

He was the daring criminal--daring beyond all bounds of credibility. And
whatever might be the dexterity, the ingenuity, the ability, the
devotion of those who were pursuing him, such were his tricks, such his
craft and cunning, such the fertility of his invention, so well
conceived his devices, so great his audacity, that there were grounds
for fearing he would never be brought to justice, and punished for his
abominable crimes!

Fantomas!

Ah, if life ever brought Jerome Fandor and this bandit face to face,
there would ensue a struggle of every hour, day, and moment--a struggle
of the most terrible nature, a struggle in which man was pitted against
man, a struggle without pity, without mercy--a fight to the death!
Fantomas would assuredly defend himself with all the immense elusive
powers at his command: Jerome Fandor would pursue him with heart and
soul, with his very life itself! It was not only to satisfy his sense of
duty at the promptings of honour that the journalist would take action:
he would have as guide for his acts, and to animate his will, the
passion of hate, and the hope of avenging his friend Juve, fallen a
victim to the mysterious blows of Fantomas.

* * * * *

In his article for _La Capitale_ Fandor did not directly mention the
possible participation of Fantomas in the crime of the rue Norvins. When
it was finished he returned to his modest little flat on the fifth floor
in the rue Bergere. He was about to enter the vestibule, when he noticed
a piece of paper, which must have been slipped under his door. He
stooped and picked up an envelope:

"Why, it is a letter--and there is no name and no stamp on it!"

Entering his study, he seated himself at his table and prepared to begin
work. Then he bethought him of the letter, which he had carelessly
thrown on the mantelpiece. He tore it open, and drew out a sheet of
letter paper.

"Whatever is this?" he cried. His astonishment was natural enough, for
the message was oddly put together. To prevent his handwriting being
recognised, Fandor's correspondent had cut letters out of a newspaper,
and had stuck them together in the desired order. The two or three lines
of printed