“No humbug, eh?” muttered one.
“We’ve been done once before!” objected another.
“Fantômas,” declared a third, “you will not leave this place before you’ve paid up!”—and to a popular air, the whole assemblage began to growl out the refrain:
“Money ... money ... money!”
But now, high above the hoarse-voiced, monotonous chant, there suddenly rang out like a peacock’s scream a shrill, screeching voice, demanding:
“Fantômas, tell us where you have put the stuff?”
Juve was losing his first fine confidence, and though to some extent reassured by the presence of his invisible ally, he began to fear he could not keep up the bold front he had shown so far. What was he to answer now?
Fortunately Fandor’s voice again whispered words of counsel, and Juve, listening with one ear to what his trusty comrade was saying, brought out in broken jerks:
“The money ... my lads ... it’s not far off, it’s here ... here in this very place, under the stone flags that pave the cellar floor.”
The announcement was received with shrugs of incredulous derision and cries of