The officer replied deliberately, in a quiet voice, perfectly calm and collected:
“Why, my dear Commissary, it was you I was waiting for!”
“The brigands,” went on the official excitedly, “Fantômas’ accomplices—where are they?”
Juve pointed a finger at the door against which he leant.
“They are there,” he said, “inside there; it only remains for us to have them out one by one; how many men have you with you?”
“Twenty-three,” the Commissary informed him.
After thinking a moment, “Yes, that is sufficient,” Juve declared, “we can get to work.”
The Commissary, a worthy fellow, once a subordinate under the friendly Inspector at the Criminal Bureau, could not refrain, despite the critical conditions of the moment, from expressing his delight.
“Juve, my dear Juve,” he cried, “what a blessed thing! Your innocence is acknowledged at last; I am so glad, so very glad!...”
But the good man never finished his congratulations. For some minutes ominous sounds had been heard coming from the cellar, and now a fearful yell broke out and a hailstorm of bullets, fired at point blank range from inside, pitted and pierced the door, fortunately a thick, heavy one. Nevertheless Juve was struck by two or three projectiles, spent balls luckily, otherwise the inspector would have been shot dead. He stepped back a pace or two.