the simple room of the
young lace-maker. It has been frequently said that the souls of people
can be divined from the atmosphere of their homes, and if this is true,
the journalist was surely not mistaken when at the Royal Palace he had
experienced a rather warm feeling for Marie Pascal.

The room showed no sign of precipitate abandonment, nor any preparation
for a long absence. Her work-basket and cushions were all in place, and
one would have expected her return at any moment. But alas! Fandor could
harbor no illusion regarding her. Her flight was evidently to escape a
probable arrest by Juve. A minute inspection of Marie's papers disclosed
nothing of importance; but upon opening the last drawer in her desk he
found, hidden under envelopes and letter paper, a number of small
objects.

"Ah! the devil!" he exclaimed.

The objects were jewels, brooches, rings, earrings and also a large
key, evidently of an apartment door. One glance at the jewels was
enough. Fandor had seen and admired them upon the person of Susy d'Orsel
during the supper which preceded her tragic death.

"My God! there's no doubt now," he muttered, "Marie Pascal is the
accomplice of Fantomas."

And then the journalist decided upon a theory to account for her having
left the jewels behind. She had probably arranged to have them found
among somebody else's things and thus to throw suspicion from herself,
just as she had attempted to leave the famous chemise in the Marquis de
Serac's laundry.

"What will Juve say to this? I must see him right away!"

He turned to the concierge:

"Madame Ceiron, I realize our search here will be without result, so I
will leave you now and probably return about ten to-night with my friend
Juve."

"Very good, Monsieur. You found nothing, I suppose?"

"Nothing at all," declared Fandor.

While Fandor was going downstairs the pseudo Mme. Ceiron made a grimace.

"He's found nothing, hasn't he? And yet he's turned over everything I
left in that drawer! He's not so clever as Juve, although he isn't a
fool.... After all, I don't care, I've got them both where I want
them."

Jerome Fandor shouted an address to his driver:

"Rue Bonaparte, and if you hurry there's a good tip waiting for you."

CHAPTER XXX

SHADOWED

An unusual cold had continued for nearly a week, and the ice fete
organized by the skating club upon the upper lake in the Bois de
Boulogne had been announced for this particular day. This