"That is a fact." Juve's admission was matter-of-fact. "Do you recall a certain conversation, Monsieur de Naarboveck, between detective Juve and the real Vagualame at Jérôme Fandor's flat?"
"No," declared the Baron: "and for the very good reason that the conversation—you have just said so—was a dialogue between two persons: Juve and Vagualame."
"Nevertheless, this Vagualame was none other than Fantômas!"
"What then?" De Naarboveck was smiling.
Juve, after a short silence, burnt his ships.
"Naarboveck!" he cried: "It is useless to double like that! Vagualame is Fantômas: Vagualame is you, yourself: Fantômas is you, yourself.... We know it. We have identified you; and to-morrow the anthropometric test will prove in the eyes of the world what to-day is the conviction of a certain few only.
"This long time past you have known yourself pursued, tracked: you have noted that the ring has been drawn closer, tighter each day: so, playing your last trump card, attempting even the impossible, you have planned this abominable comedy, which consists in duping a noble king and getting yourself nominated as his ambassador, that you might take advantage of diplomatic inviolability—an advantage, let me tell you, you are in desperate need of!... Quite a good idea! Was it not?"
During Juve's virulent apostrophe de Naarboveck had maintained an ironic self-possession.
"You confess, then?"
"And suppose it were so?... No doubt, Monsieur Juve, you intended to denounce me, to prove that the Baron de Naarboveck is none other than Fantômas.... Well, it pleases me to admit your cleverness. I will even go as far as allow that you may quite well obtain authorisation to arrest me—in a few days' time."