Tictocq’s room in the Avenue Hotel.
A knock is heard at the door.
Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch.
“Ah,” he says, “it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs.”
The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidate who is there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, platform No. 2, the hotel proprietor, and three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as could be found out.
“I don’t know,” begins the Populist Candidate, “what in the h––––”
“Excuse me,” says Tictocq, firmly. “You will oblige me by keeping silent until I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I have unravelled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard with attention.”
“Certainly,” says the chairman; “we will be pleased to listen.”
Tictocq stands in the centre of the room. The electric light burns brightly above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor, cleverness, and cunning.
The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall.