l aware of all the
details of the Cavalcanti episode, and it was hardly likely that
anything further could be exposed that would disturb either him or his
wife. No, the grimy, white-haired, sinister-looking stranger could not
be the quondam Prince; he was some one else, some one more to be feared.
But who was he, if not the miserable son of Villefort? Zuleika was more
perplexed and disturbed than she was willing to admit, even to herself.
If she could only speak with the Count of Monte-Cristo, tell him all,
some explanation of the mystery might, doubtless, be obtained, an
explanation that would, at least, calm her vague fears; but that was
impossible; her promise to Mlle. d' Armilly to be silent sealed her lips
as effectually with her father as with young Madame de Morcerf. Whatever
might be her fears, she would have to bear them alone, or, at the best,
share them with Mlle. d' Armilly, who, evidently, would give her no
further satisfaction.

Meanwhile the man who had caused all this trouble after having almost
run quite a distance along the Rue du Helder, utterly oblivious of the
attention he drew to himself from the rare passers, turned into the Rue
Taitbout, thence reached the Rue de Provence and finally found himself
in the Cite d' Antin. There he made his way into a small drinking-shop
or caboulot, patronized by some of the worst prowlers about that section
of Paris. The room he entered was unoccupied save by a slatternly young
woman, who sat behind the counter reading a greasy copy of the Gazette
des Tribunaux. The man went to the counter and, throwing down the price,
demanded a glass of brandy, which he swallowed at a gulp. Then he
addressed the slatternly young woman, who, with her paper still in one
hand, was half-smiling, half-scowling at him.

"Is Waldmann here?" he asked, with the air of a man who feels himself
thoroughly at home.

"Yes," answered the young woman, resuming her seat and her reading; "he
is in the back room, playing piquet with Peppino, Beppo and Siebecker."

"Good!" said the man. "I am in luck. I scarcely expected to find them
all in at this hour."

With this he opened a glazed door, and, stepping into the back room,
closed it behind him. The players, who were seated at a table, with mugs
of beer beside them, glanced up quickly from their game as he came in,
and one of them, a heavy-framed, beetle-browed German, called out to
him, speaking French:

"How now, Bouche-de-Miel, what is the