The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.
A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur breathing hate and menaces:
"Fantômas!... Fantômas!"
Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.
"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"
Trokoff was Fantômas! 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 pass for Fantômas, 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 assassination.
How Fandor longed to shout:
"I am not Fantômas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"
But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to prove to them he was not Fantômas? Who among them could recognise the unknown, elusive bandit, Fantômas?
These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of reason. How could he show up Trokoff as he really was?