on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire, felt the lock, and contrary to his expectation found that the key was missing. But the glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for all emergencies. The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of their nightly song when they grind against the bolt.
“Ah, ha,” whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment, “he is only a thief.”
But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and immediately a pale light, just bright enough to render objects distinct, was reflected on his hands and countenance.
“By heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting back, “it is—”
Ali raised his hatchet.
“Don’t stir,” whispered Monte Cristo, “and put down your hatchet;