But suddenly the amazing crew who had invaded M. Fuselier’s sanctum stopped dead and stood motionless, afraid to stir. A knock had sounded at the door.
“Curse it!” muttered the “Beadle”—the chief of the band was in fact, that redoubtable apache—“here’s something to queer our pitch!” Then, after motioning his accomplices to gather in a body at the door, he called out “Come in,” in a quiet voice.
The door opened and the figure of a man appeared on the threshold; “M. Fuselier?...” he began: but the sentence was never finished. At a glance he had seen Juve’s body lying bound and inert on the floor, he had even caught sight of M. Fuselier, helpless in his chair. Instantly doubling his fists, a marvel of coolness and courage, he hurled himself into the room and rushed at the “Beadle” with a hoarse yell. But behind the door stood massed the apaches, waiting; he had not taken two steps when a human swarm was clinging round his shoulders, blows fell thick and fast, arms and legs were hauled and mauled, he was down, he was choking, he was helpless. Like Juve, like Fuselier, in half a minute he was tied and bound, unable to move a muscle.
“Well, my fine fellow!” the “Beadle” now took up his parable, “here’s someone I never expected! why the devil must he come trespassing on our preserves? You know the chap, eh? You know him, Paulet, don’t you?”
The rest shrugged shoulders contemptuously.
Paulet, with his crooked smile, swore: “By God! yes, there’s no mistaking the beggar, it’s Tom Bob, ain’t it—the chap that ran in poor ‘Beauty Boy’?”
But the older apache had already resumed his gravity:
“Yes, it’s Tom Bob, the detective! I’m thinking if we must ‘finish’ him; but no, by the Lord! not worth the trouble, it ain’t.”
Thereupon the “Beadle” knelt down beside the detective’s body where it lay and extended on the ground, took the unfortunate man by the shoulder and shook him roughly:
“Hi! detective, d’ye hear me? Yes? good—now look and see how we stand, we chaps? You wanted to arrest Fantômas, did you? Well, old man, it’s us have laid hands on you. And if we don’t finish you off, it’s only to save worries here. Only, let me give you a bit of advice—by the next boat you’ll have to hook it back to your own country. You twig?”