Wherever
this eagle is your uncle's legions will gather together."
"'Tis well; and the gold?"
"TRUST MONTE CRISTO!" says the bearded man; and then, David, begad!
I knew I had them!
"We meet?"
"At Folkestone pier, 7.45, tidal train."
"I shall be there without fail," says the Prince, and sneaks out of
the street-door just as Poll comes in with the extra soap and
strop.
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 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.
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