As they approached Verneuil-street, the Count proceeded a few steps in advance of Taddeo. "Wait for me here," said he, pointing out a house which stood yet farther back than the others, on the alignment of the street, "and come to me if I call out." He then left the young man, assumed a vulgar air, and straggled towards his hotel. Soon he saw in an angle of the wall opposite to his house a motionless shadow, which was certainly that of the man Pignana had pointed out to him. The Count had a quick and keen eye, which recognized objects even in the dark. He saw the two eyes which watched him, and which were fixed on his hotel. They were moved from time to time, but only that on turning again they might more easily recognize every passer. Monte-Leone, with the presence of mind which never left him, and which characterized all the decisive actions of his life, no sooner conceived his plan than he put it into execution. He was anxious to know with what enemies he had to deal, and could conceive of no better way than to question the man himself. The question he put, it is true, was rather _brusque_, as will be seen. When a few paces behind the man, who had not the least suspicion, and had suffered him to come close to him, the Count faced about and rushed on the stranger. He clasped his throat with one hand, and with the other seized the stranger's weapons, which he naturally enough concluded he wore. The latter uttered a cry, and an only cry, which, by the by, was terrible. He was then silent. A stranger passing by might have fancied those men were speaking confidentially together, but never that one was strangling the other. "One word," said Monte-Leone. "Tell me why you are here." "On my own business," said the man. "That is not true," said the Count. "You are not a robber--you have been here for two hours. Many persons well dressed have down this street, yet you did not attack them." The living vice which bound his throat was again compressed. The man made a sign that he wished to speak. The Count relaxed his hold. "Whom do you watch?" "Yourself." "You know me, then?" "Yes." "Who bade you watch me?" The stranger was silent. Feeling the iron hand again clasp him, he muttered, "A great lady sent me." "Her name?" said the Count, who began to guess, but who wished to be sure. "The Neapolitan ambassadress." "And why does your companion stand in the Rue Saint-Dominique?" "Then you know all?" said the wretch. "All that I wish to," said the Count. "Speak out," said he, again clasping his fingers tightly as if they had been a torture-collar. "Speak now, or you will never do so again." "Well," said the man, "my companion is ordered to ascertain if you were not at the hotel of the Prince de Maulear. Why should I know any thing about it?" "Ah! this is unworthy," said the Count. "When her passions are concerned nothing restrains this woman."