"No, by gosh, it ain't!" he replied, pointing a trembling finger at the Democratic Chairman. "There stands the man who has concocted the whole scheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for our party. How far has thing gone?" he added, turning savagely to the detective. "All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and the _Statesman_ will have it in plate matter next week," said Tictocq, complacently. "All is lost!" said the Populists, turning toward the door. "For God's sake, my friends," pleaded the Candidate, following them; "listen to me; I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair of socks in my life. It is all a devilish campaign lie." The Populists turn their backs. "The damage is already done," they said. "The people have heard the story. You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race." All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats. "Let's all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee," said the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform No. 2. [Illustration: "The Plunkville Patriot," April 2, 1895] TRACKED TO DOOM Or The Mystery of the Rue de Peychaud 'Tis midnight in Paris. A myriad of lamps that line the Champs Elysées and the Rouge et Noir, cast their reflection in the dark waters of the Seine as it flows gloomily past the Place Vendôme 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. Hundreds of fiacres drive madly through the streets conveying women, flashing with jewels and as beautiful as dreams, from opera and concert, and the little bijou supper rooms of the Café Tout le Temps are filled with laughing groups, while bon mots, persiflage and repartee fly upon the air--the jewels of thought and conversation. Luxury and poverty brush each other in the streets. The homeless gamin, begging a sou with which to purchase a bed, and the spendthrift roué, scattering golden louis d'or, tread the same pavement. When other cities sleep, Paris has just begun her wild revelry. The first scene of our story is a cellar beneath the Rue de Peychaud. The room is filled with smoke of pipes, and is stifling with the reeking breath of its inmates. A single flaring gas jet dimly lights the scene, which is one Rembrandt or Moreland and Keisel would have loved to paint. A garçon 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. He is more than four feet ten in height, and his sharp, ferocious looking face and the mass of long, tangled gray hair that covers his face and head, have earned for him the name he bears.