Had not Juve been haunted by this form, this figure so mysteriously indicated, haunted by this invisible face hidden by its hooded cloak of black—haunted for years! Never had he been able to get close to it!
Never had he been able to seize it in his hands, outstretched to grasp it!
Whenever this sinister garment had met his eyes, it had been the sign of some frightful deception! He did not know the countenance it masked so darkly, but that same cloak he knew!... So well did he know it, that never could he confuse it with another hooded cloak of black—never! Its shape was peculiar; its cut singular—unmistakable! It was the impenetrable mask of one of those counterfeit personalities assumed at the pleasure of that enigmatic, sinister, formidable bandit, whom Juve had pursued for ten years, without cessation, without mercy; there had been no truce to this hunting.
Now he turned, and returned, this cloak of dark significance with trembling hands, as if he would tear its secret from its sinister folds. This hooded cloak which his knife had revealed, which he had torn from its hiding place in the accordion of Vagualame, was none other than the cloak of Fantômas.
Suddenly there was brought home to Juve the comprehension of all this adventure signified—a distracting, a maddening adventure!
"Fantômas! Fantômas!" Juve murmured. "Great Heavens! I saw Fantômas before me!... Vagualame! He is Fantômas!... Curse it! He has slipped through my hands, thrice fool that I am! Never again will he appear as this beggarly accordion player—never will he dare to show himself in that make-up!... What new form will he take?... Fantômas! Fantômas! Once again you have escaped me!"
Our detective remained in Fandor's flat all night. He awaited the journalist's return.
Fandor did not come.