“Sacrè Bleu!” he hisses between his new celluloid teeth. “It is Tictocq, the detective. I wonder whom he is following now?”
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.
“You are Tictocq, the detective?” he said.
“I am.”
“Then listen. I am the murderer of Marie Cusheau. She was my wife and she had cold feet and ate onions. What was I to do? Yet life is sweet to me. I do not wish to be guillotined. I have heard that you are on my track. Is it true that the case is in your hands?”
“It is.”
“Thank le bon Dieu, then, I am saved.”