the last drop of water drunk
he began to suffer the tortures of hunger and thirst. And now, like a
caged beast, he paced up and down his prison. His mind went back to
stories he had read, stories of entombed miners, of explorers hemmed in
by ice, of hunters caught in traps, but in all these cases deliverance
in one form or another had come at last--the adventures ended happily.

"I want to live," he cried aloud, "I want to live!"

Suddenly a great calm descended upon him. His coolness and clear
judgment returned.

"To struggle! Yes--but how?"

At this moment the roar of the Nord-Sud shook his prison walls. An idea
took root in his mind.

Might it not be possible to burrow his way through the soil directly to
the tunnel! Examining the ground, he decided that it would be simpler to
tunnel his way like a mole, skirting the concrete base of the statue and
reaching the pavement beyond. It would not be hard work to dislodge one
of the paving stones and reach the open air. No sooner was the plan
conceived than he broke several of the bottles until he obtained a piece
of the thick glass sufficiently jagged to form a trowel.

With this rough implement he then set to work, scooping up the earth and
piling it on one side of his cell. Patiently and ceaselessly he
continued, hour after hour, until suddenly the hiss of escaping gas
could be faintly heard.

"I'm done for this time," he cried in despair. "I shall be asphyxiated!"
But a gleam of hope quickly set him to work again.

"Gas is lighter than air. It may percolate through the chinks of the
masonry. In any case I'd rather die that way than be starved to death."

It was a race between the escaping gas and the tunnel.

Very soon Fandor began to feel a dizziness in his head, and the air
became more difficult to breathe; suddenly, he had the sensation of
being enveloped in an extraordinary blue flame, and then a loud report
deafened him.

Fandor's prison, saturated with gas, had suddenly blown up!

The ground gave way beneath him: he was lying in the ruins.

Destiny had made a plaything of his efforts.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE ACCUSING WAISTCOAT

"As a matter of fact, Monsieur Juve, did not the celebrated Vidocq
before he was a detective begin life as a murderer?"

Wulf, book in hand and comfortably installed in a large armchair,
addressed the question to Juve, who answered in brief monosyllables,
without turning his head:

"That's true, Monsieur Wulf."