"Do not kill him! If it is Fantômas, 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.
Fandor shot forward, seized Trokoff by the throat, and, rolling on the floor with him, yelled:
"To me, Naarboveck! Fantômas, you are taken! Yield!"
Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not been able to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, in a terrible embrace; panting, livid, with eyes of hate and horror!
De Naarboveck had laid hold of Trokoff, shouting:
"You shall die! You must die!"
This frightful struggle lasted but a few moments. Trokoff managed to free himself from Fandor's grip. The stupefied journalist heard a familiar voice crying:
"Look out, Fandor! It is Naarboveck we must take! Go it! Go it!"
The studio was plunged in darkness: a door banged: Fandor staggered, driven violently back into the middle of the studio. He felt a man was rushing away.