Nevertheless M. Fuselier was not without some fleeting gleams of hope. He had perfectly recognized Tom Bob at the moment the American detective sprang into his room and had, like himself, fallen a victim to the apaches. He could not see him, but now and again he heard him move. Tom Bob had not, like him, been tied on a chair, the wretches had left him stretched helpless on the carpet. Perhaps the detective was going to find a way to free himself? Very certainly it was he who was making those cracking, creaking noises he could catch at times. It seemed he must be dragging himself along the floor to try and break his bonds.
M. Fuselier was not mistaken. Battered and bleeding as he was, Tom Bob was giving proof of amazing energy. The apaches once gone, he had managed to crawl up to the magistrate’s desk, and there, with infinite patience, being just able to bend his body, he was employed in chafing against the corner of the desk one of the cords that held him fast. It needed indomitable perseverance, the attempt to free himself in this fashion, but Tom Bob had never wanted for energy. Moreover, the task cost him agonies, every movement forcing the cords deep into the flesh, but he was not the man to be deterred by pain.
After prolonged efforts, Tom Bob at last succeeded in breaking the cord that confined his wrist; after that it was child’s play to free himself altogether. In a very few minutes he had released his arms, then his legs, had then cut off the ropes and snatched out his gag. Barely giving himself time to inhale a deep draught of air, he hurried to the unfortunate magistrate’s side and untied him; then, at the end of his strength, he fell full length on the floor at his feet.
For many minutes, M. Fuselier and Tom Bob, now free, dared not risk a movement; half stifled both of them, dazed and stupefied, they could only pant for breath. M. Fuselier was the first to recover his self-possession.
“Ah! Bob! Bob!” he groaned, “what a dreadful thing has happened to us!... Juve is surely done for!”
In a hoarse voice, forcing the words with difficulty from his dry throat, Tom Bob protested:
“Juve! d’you say Juve? But, Monsieur Fuselier, you are mad! You don’t understand yet?... Juve is just Fantômas!”
“Nonsense, nonsense! if he was Fantômas the brigands would never have pinioned him as they did.”
“Yes, they would, to put you on a false scent.”
“But it was not worth their while, as he was free—I was going to let him go free.”