“I must see him,” he urged, “I must see him and speak to him. Tom Bob is the only person on earth, madam, who by his perspicacity, his adroitness, his admirable detective skill, can extricate me from my difficulties, and put me in a position to avenge my relatives’ deaths. Tom Bob, madam, is the man who must fight Fantômas!”
Lady Beltham was like to die of distress and perplexity. No doubt, she had but to open a door to bring the young Englishman face to face with the bogus detective. But was it her duty to act so? Ought she not rather to enlighten Ascott, to tell him that Fantômas and Tom Bob were one and the same, just as Père Moche and Fantômas again were one single and identical person! This course was what her conscience bade her take. But would duty triumph over love?
Mechanically, moving like an automaton, without knowing yet what decision she would adopt, for, if she felt pity for Ascott, she burned with an ardent love for Fantômas, the great lady advanced slowly into the room where the brigand was. But next instant, horrified, she sprang back, though not without having first double locked the door of communication.
What she had seen must have been something to cause both terror and despair, for Lady Beltham turned deadly pale, her splendid arms beat the air, she staggered and fell flat on the floor in a dead swoon. The look she had directed into the adjoining room and which had, in fact, determined her fainting fit, had passed unnoticed by the unfortunate young Englishman, too much preoccupied and agitated to observe the details of what was happening before his eyes. But now, seeing Lady Beltham’s condition, he hurried to her side and endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. His efforts proved vain, and shocked and alarmed, he rang the bell in the anteroom and called loudly for help.
Servants appeared in answer to his summons; Lady Beltham was laid on a couch and restoratives applied. In ten minutes, by slow degrees, the unhappy woman began to regain her senses.
But suddenly the tense silence was broken by the sound of shots. Lady Beltham shuddered and grew paler than ever.
“Great heavens!” she asked, “what is happening?”
Ascott could not tell her; the servants gathered about their mistress stood rooted to the spot in dumb bewilderment.
Fantômas, when he left Lady Beltham waiting to receive Ascott, had his plan already cut and dried. The desperate villain realized that the game was up, beyond redemption. Unmasked so far as Moche was concerned, he was no less so in his incarnation as Tom Bob—but only in the minds of Juve, of Fandor, and of Lady Beltham.
For one brief instant the criminal had debated with himself what course was best to adopt. The moment was surely near at hand when he must either take to flight and disappear, or play his last desperate card, defy the world and maintain that he was indeed Tom Bob and no one else. But would that suffice?