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A single flaring gas jet dimly lights the scene, which is one Rembrandt or Moreland and Keisel would have loved to paint. A garcon is selling absinthe to such of the motley crowd as have a few sous, dealing it out in niggardly portions in broken teacups. Leaning against the bar is Carnaignole Cusheau generally known as the Gray Wolf. He is the worst man in Paris.
"We have made a mistake, monsieurs," he said, but as he turns to leave the room, Count Carnaignole stops him. "One moment, monsieur." The Count Carnaignole tears from his own face a false beard and reveals the flashing eyes and well-known features of Tictocq, the detective.
The Gray Wolf carefully adjusts the climbers on his feet and descends the spire. Tictocq takes out his notebook and writes in it. "At last," he says, "I have a clue." Monsieur le Compte Carnaignole Cusheau, once known as the Gray Wolf, stands in the magnificent drawing-room of his palace on East 47th Street.
While Tictocq is watching with lynx-like eyes the hill of Montmartre, he suddenly hears a heavy breathing beside him, and turning, gazes into the ferocious eyes of the Gray Wolf. Carnaignole Cusheau had put on his W. U. Tel. Co. climbers and climbed the steeple. "Parbleu, monsieur," says Tictocq. "To whom am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" The Gray Wolf smiled softly and depreciatingly.
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