Fandor, followed by the Sister, left the parlour and reached the outer gate. Already the porter was about to open it for him when he pulled up short. Moving at a measured pace, one behind the other, the ladies of the community crossed the courtyard, going toward the chapel at the far end of the garden.
"Sister," Fandor inquired anxiously, "who is that nun who walks at the head?"
"That is our holy Mother Superior."
Fandor was lucky enough to find a taxi as he left the little convent, into which he jumped: he was immersed in such deep reflections that when the taxi stopped he was quite surprised to find himself in Rue Bonaparte, when he had meant to go up to Bonardin's and expected to reach Montmarte.
"Where did I tell you to go?" he asked the driver.
The man looked at his fare in amazement:
"To the address you gave me, I suppose."
Fandor did not reply, but paid his fare.
"Heaven inspires me," he thought. "To be sure I wanted to see Bonardin to tell him I had done his commission, but it was to prove I should have gone after what I found out at the convent."
The journalist remained motionless on the pavement without seeming to feel the jostling of the passers-by. He stood there with his eyes fixed on the ground, his mind lost in a dream. He had unconsciously gone back several years, to his mysterious childhood, stormy and restless. He went over again in thought, this last affair, which had once more brought him so intimately into Juve's life: the abominable crime in the Cité Frochot, in which Chaleck and Loupart were involved, and behind them Fantômas—the crime of which the victim—as Juve had clearly established—was no other than Lady——