A Nest of Spies. Marcel Allain

useful to you? Will you not let me share this secret?"

      "Will you tell me yours?"

      "In three minutes."

      Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, a solemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said:

      "You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course? … Let me tell you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's this affair I am giving all my attention to."

      When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was a strange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind been distressed by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And now here was Juve also upset by his examination of this same affair.

      Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve, putting his elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands.

      "You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve? … Very well! So am I! … You have read my articles?"

      "They are very interesting."

      "They lack conclusiveness, however! … But, as things are, I could not do better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon. Are you quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who has struck the blow?"

      "Don't you suspect, Fandor?"

      Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and, bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes.

      "Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six months of tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If you understood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity of six long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thought you had achieved did not exist—that you had to begin all over again—that once more you had to play a match with not only your life for stakes, but your honour as well—tell me, Fandor, would you not be stirred to your depths?"

      Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juve on, he well knew.

      "What do you mean, Juve?"

      "What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killed Captain Brocq?"

      "No! Who?"

      "Fantômas!"

      At this sinister name Fandor jumped up as though thunderstruck.

      "Fantômas? … You accuse Fantômas of having killed Captain Brocq?"

      Juve nodded assent.

      The two men stared at each other in horror-struck silence.

      Fantômas!

      What a flood of memories, horrid, menacing, that name evoked! There flashed through Fandor's mind all that he knew of the atrocities which could be imputed to Fantômas. He seemed to live over again the recent years of continual struggle, of almost daily contest with the mysterious criminal—Fantômas! … But had not Juve declared—and not so long ago—after the drama of rue Norvins,[2] when the elusive monster had been driven to flight—had not Juve declared that Fantômas had vanished for good and all! Now, at this precise moment, he was accusing this criminal of a fresh crime! … Fandor thought, too, of the conclusions he had himself arrived at, whilst studying the Brocq affair from his own point of view: that it was a drama of spies and spying. … Surely either he was mistaken—or Juve was! … Was it a murder, or a political assassination? … No longer pretending indifference, he questioned Juve anxiously: