Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of the icy glance was clean-shaved at last, and the mother who bore him would not have known him as he looked in the glass when it was done. He chucked Poll a diamond worth about a million piastres, and, 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 Château 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 Château 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. I hold those eminent and highly romantic parties in the hollow of my hand. A letter from me to M. Lecoq, of the Rue Jerusalem, and their little game is up, their eagle moults, the history of Europe is altered. But what good would all that do Montague Tigg? Will it so much as put that delightful coin, a golden sovereign, in the pocket of his nether garments? No, Tigg is no informer; a man who has charged at the head of his regiment on the coast of Africa is no vulgar spy. There is more to be got by making the Count pay through the nose, as we say; _chanter_, as the French say; “sing a song of sixpence”—to a golden tune.