"Help!"
A strange voice! Whose?
Fandor was weakening. His right hand seemed to be caught in a vise which would break and crush it: it was growing tighter and tighter: it was wrenching his arm, was dragging him backwards: it would fracture his shoulder blade! Who?... Who?...
By a miraculous effort he freed himself. He leaped away; sprang to the mantelpiece; seized a pocket electric torch he had placed there—clac—a light flashed out!... Fandor saw, recognised his attacker!...
Ah! The form he had seen before—a slim figure, clothed in black!... Ah, this murderer, whose face was concealed by a hooded mask!
Fandor shouted at him.
"Fantômas! It's you and I, Fantômas!"
But, already, this mysterious bandit, unmasked by the unexpected light, had rushed on our journalist.
The electric torch was extinguished.
The struggle recommenced, fierce, formidable, desperate! Fandor was seized by the throat in a strangling grip: he was choking!