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 "What kind of a woman? Out with it!"

"Oh! what shall I say? You will not believe. A woman like a man, with white pantaloon, with a topper hat, a yellow jacquette with stripes like zis." He made a pitiful gesture down the front of his coat.

"Aw, g'wan!" said McGraw. "D'you expect me to believe a pipe dream like that? That's the worst I ever heard, and I've heard some thin ones, too!"

"But I tell ze truth, I swear it! She have a green ombrelle."

"Any more? Go as far as you like." McGraw's tone was affable.

"She wear big boots of la gomme,—what you call it—rubbaire."

McGraw towered above him now, and calmly folded his arms. "No blue whiskers, or purple hat pins stuck in her face, was they? She wasn't chewin' shavin's or had red fire on her hands, I suppose? Lord, man! you got no imagination at all! Why, I can dream out things that would make that old lady seem like a fashion-plate. When I dope 'em out they generally wears armor plate and glass gloves at least. But I guess that'll be about all for you. I'm going to run you in."

The count in despair appealed to Valeska. "But ze lady and ze gentleman, she see ze old woman! Ask them! I am spik ze truth to you!"

Valeska, smothering her laughter, did her best to speak calmly. "We saw nothing at all, officer. The man must be intoxicated."

"Or crazy," Shaw put in wickedly.

"You see nozzing?" the count ejaculated in amazement. Then he dropped in a dejected huddle, nodding his head sillily.