"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every means in your power! Do you swear it still?"

The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:

"We swear it!"

"Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?"

"We are prepared."

The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who bent their heads as he apostrophised them:

"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us the indignant horror of public opinion by an acc.u.mulation of hideous crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I, Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver him up to you!"

The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.

A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur breathing hate and menaces:

"Fantomas!... Fantomas!"

Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.

"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"

Trokoff was Fantomas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to rid himself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his companions. Making him pa.s.s for Fantomas, he drove them on to murder, thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving them to reap what consequences might follow from the journalist's a.s.sa.s.sination.

How Fandor longed to shout:

"I am not Fantomas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"

But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to prove to them he was not Fantomas? Who among them could recognise the unknown, elusive bandit, Fantomas?

These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of reason. How could he show up Trokoff as he really was?

It would be madness to attempt it!

For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evil countenance of Fantomas--Fantomas who was gloating over his confusion and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping for some act of cowardice.

Never would Jerome Fandor play the coward!

At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a sound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were about to utter. He awaited the event.

A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.

"Fantomas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say in your defence?"

Fandor was dumb.

"Fantomas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood and mask--I tear them off you!"

Trokoff rushed forward, crying:

"Do not lay hands on him!... This wretch belongs to me!"

Turning to his fellow-conspirators, Trokoff demanded:

"My hand should strike the fatal blow! I brought him here! The right is mine!"

Trokoff continued, in a quieter tone:

"The police may have been warned of our gathering here! We are spied on, tracked! You know it well!... Suppose we stay to watch the dying agony of this wretch! Suppose the police descend upon us! They will s.n.a.t.c.h from us our just revenge and will arrest us all!... Hand over this monster to me and leave the place. If the police are watching you they will see you go!... Leave Fantomas to me, that, at my leisure, I may see him die as he deserves to die!"

Fandor shuddered: so a lingering agony, a fearful death was to be faced!... Yes, Fantomas meant to torture him, extract from his victim some appeal for pity, for the mercy this monster in human form could never know nor exercise! Yes, Fantomas had changed his plans: rid of the Nihilists, he could have it all his own way with Fandor!

The disciples, as with one voice, cried:

"We are thy faithful followers. What thou ordainest that we do!"...

Trokoff turned to Fandor. He shook a threatening fist in Fandor's face.

"Collect yourself.... You are to pay the price of expiation soon!"

This menace hurled at his victim, Trokoff drew his fanatical partisans together, made them quit the studio, and vanished with them....

"He will return," thought Fandor: "And then it is all up with me!

Courage to face the worst!"

The door of the studio had barely closed on Trokoff and his dupes when Fandor heard a breathless murmur at his ear.

"Quick! Quick! Fandor! Trokoff, you have guessed it, is Vagualame! Is Fantomas!... Cost what it may we must get the mastery of him!"

Fandor could not turn his head, but he felt his bonds were being loosened.... A minute or two and he was free! He took a staggering step or two: his limbs were stiff and numb.... Close to him, watching his first difficult movements with an expression of ardent sympathy, our journalist perceived--Naarboveck....

"You," said he.

"I!... Fandor, I will explain!... Hold! Here is a revolver!... Ah! the bandits!... They took me too! Me also they have condemned to death!

But I managed to escape!... Look out! He returns! We will fall upon Trokoff!... We will avenge ourselves!"

A heavy step was heard on the stairs; someone was mounting hurriedly.... Trokoff was about to reappear....

Fandor grasped the revolver de Naarboveck had just handed to him. He bounded to the door, ready to leap on the entering man.

De Naarboveck was ambushed on the side opposite to Fandor.

Suddenly Fandor shouted:

"Do not kill him! If it is Fantomas, we must take him alive!"

Before de Naarboveck had time to reply, the door was flung back against him, thus putting him out of action for the moment.