remarking that he would not trouble him for the change, he walked
out. By this characteristic swagger, of course, he more than
confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, the celebrated foreigner
the Count of Monte Cristo; whose name and history even YOU must be
acquainted with, though you may not be what I have heard my friend
Chevy Slime call himself, "the most literary man alive." A
desperate follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a
martyr to the cause in the Chateau d'If, Monte Cristo has not
deserted it now that he has come into his own--or anybody else's.

Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down Kingsgate
Street and took a four-wheeler that was loitering at the corner. I
followed on foot, escaping the notice of the police from the fact,
made only too natural by Fortune's cursed spite, that under the
toga-like simplicity of Montague Tigg's costume these minions
merely guessed at a cab-tout.

Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the four-
wheeler (it was dark now) at the Travellers', throwing the cabman a
purse--of sequins, no doubt. At the door of the Travellers' he
entered a brougham; and, driving to the French Embassy in Albert
Gate, he alighted, IN DIFFERENT TOGS, quite the swell, and LET
HIMSELF IN WITH HIS OWN LATCH-KEY.

In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers' shops, this prisoner of
the Chateau d'If, this climber of Corsican eyries, is to-day the
French Minister accredited to the Court of St. James's!

And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land lies, the
Promised Land, the land where there is corn and milk and honey-dew.