nder a long cassock, as did his hair under a priest's wig;
the three-cornered hat over this effectually transformed the count into
an abbe.

The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was
completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretary, whose
lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.

"Try again," whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,
which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be--"try again,
you have a few minutes' work there." And he advanced to the window.
The man whom he had seen seated on a fence had got down, and was still
pacing the street; but, strange as it appeared, he cared not for those
who might pass from the avenue of the Champs-Elysees or by the Faubourg
St. Honore; his attention was engrossed with what was passing at the
count's, and his only aim appeared to be to discern every movement in
the dressing-room.

Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile
passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered,--

"Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear,
whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you." Ali bowed
in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a lighted taper
from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with his lock,
silently opened the door, taking care that the light should shine
directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard no
sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated. He
turned.

"Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse," said Monte Cristo; "what are
you doing here, at such an hour?"

"The Abbe Busoni!" exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this
strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he
let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The
count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off
from the thief his only chance of retreat. "The Abbe Busoni!" repeated
Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.

"Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe Busoni himself," replied Monte Cristo. "And
I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have
a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met." This
calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, staggered
Caderousse.

"The abbe, the abbe!" murmured he, clinching his fists, and his teeth
chattering.

"So you would rob t