Without the quiver of a muscle, Juve had listened to the appalling confession of the hideous virago.
“This dead man,” he asked in a low, broken voice, “who was he?”
But suddenly there rose an urgent cry of “Hush! hush!” The apaches had heard unusual sounds, the tramp of footsteps in the distance. By the wan, feeble light that filtered in through a grated opening on a level with the ground outside, the crowd could see one another’s repulsive faces drawn with anxiety. Already half suppressed vows of vengeance began to be heard. Fandor was terrified; what was to happen next? Was Juve, after escaping the gravest of his dangers, finally to fall a victim to Fantômas’ fury? Was it he, the real Fantômas, that was coming?
But Juve with superb audacity, an admirable effrontery, commanded:
“Silence, all of you, and don’t budge! if it is Fantômas alone they are after, Fantômas will defend himself alone, if it is all of us they are looking for, Fantômas will be at your head to defend you and triumph over our enemies; hush, do not speak, do not stir!”
Slowly Juve pushed through the throng and made for the door of the cellar. He tried to open it; it was locked fast!
“The key,” he demanded. The “Beadle” advanced grumbling: “Here it is,” he said, “what to do now?”
“Open,” ordered the inspector.
“You are leaving us, Fantômas?” he was asked.
“I am keeping guard over you,” replied Juve boldly.