“What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank you!”
“No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.”
“Really? What is it?”
“Listen,” said the guide; “I said to myself, ‘Something is always left in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began to sound the wall.”
“Ah,” cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbé’s two hiding-places.
“After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the head of the bed, and at the hearth.”
“Yes,” said the count, “yes.”
“I raised the stones, and found—”
“A rope-ladder and some tools?”
“How do you know that?” asked the guide in astonishment.
“I do not know—I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally found in prisoners’ cells.”
“Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.”
“And have you them yet?”
“No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great curiosities; but I have still something left.”
“What is it?” asked the count, impatiently.
“A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth.”