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Twenty minutes later a dark and muffled figure was seen to emerge from a recess in the mullioned wall of the Arc de Triomphe and pass rapidly northward. It was no other than Tictocq, the detective. The network of evidence was fast being drawn about the murderer of Marie Cusheau. It is midnight on the steeple of the Cathedral of Notadam.
'Tis midnight in Paris. A myriad of lamps that line the Champs Elysees and the Rouge et Noir, cast their reflection in the dark waters of the Seine as it flows gloomily past the Place Vendome and the black walls of the Convent Notadam. The great French capital is astir. It is the hour when crime and vice and wickedness reign.
"I saw you do it, and your own confession on the spire of Notadam." The Count laughed and took a paper from his pocket. "Read this," he said, "here is proof that Marie Cusheau died of heart failure." Tictocq looked at the paper. It was a check for 100,000 francs. Tictocq dismissed the gensd'arme with a wave of his hand.
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