Hattie Blum, meanwhile, called at Glen Eliza with her aunt frequently. Whatever disapproval on their part had developed from my recent transgression had passed, or at least been suspended. Hattie was as thoughtful and generous in our conversations as ever. Her aunt, perhaps, was more watchful than usual, and seemed to have developed the dark eyes of a secret agent. Of course, my intense preoccupations, along with my general tendency to grow quiet when others talked, meant the women in my drawing room addressed each other more than me.

"I do not know how you bear it," said Hattie, looking up at the high domed ceiling. "I could not suffer a house as enormous as Glen Eliza alone, Quentin. It takes bravery to have too much space for yourself. Don't you think, Auntie?"

Auntie Blum snorted out a laugh. "Dear Hattie becomes terribly lonesome when I leave her for an hour with only the help for company. They can be dreadful."

One of my domestics came from the hall and refreshed the ladies' tea.

"Not so, Auntie! But with my sisters gone," Hattie began, then paused, with a slight and uncharacteristic blush.

"Because they've all married," her aunt said quietly.

"Of course," I agreed after a long pause from both Blum ladies suggested a comment on my part.

"With my three sisters out of the house, well, it can seem awfully desolate at times, like I must fend for myself but I do not even know against what. Haven't you ever had a feeling like that?"

"On the other hand," I said, "dear Miss Hattie, there is a certain peace to it, separated from the bustle of the streets and the concerns of other people."

"Oh, Auntie!" She turned jovially to the other woman. "Perhaps I crave the bustle too much. Do you think our family blood runs too warm for Baltimore after all, Auntie?"

A word about the woman being addressed, the one sitting in front of the hearth on an armchair as if it were a throne, the stately dame with a shawl wrapped around her as though it were a monarch's robe, Auntie Blum-yes, a word more about her since her influence will not diminish as our story's complications set in. She was one of that stalwart species of lady who seemed lost in her choicest bonnets and social habits but in fact possessed an ability to jostle her listener to his core, in the same trifling tone with which she critiqued the table of a rival hostess. For instance, during the same visit to my parlor she found occasion to comment offhandedly, "Quentin, isn't it fortunate, Peter Stuart finding you for his partner?"

"Ma'am?"

"Such a mind for business he possesses! He is a man of flat-footed sense, depend upon it. You are the younger brother of the pair, allegorically I mean, and soon shall be able to boast you are like him in all respects."

I returned her smile.

"Why, it is like our Hattie and her sisters. One day she shall be as successful in society as them-I mean if she becomes a wife in time, of course," Auntie Blum said, taking a long taste of the scalding hot tea.

I saw that Hattie looked away from both of us. Her aunt was the one person in the world who could remove Hattie's wonderful self-assurance. This angered me.

I placed my hand on Hattie's chair, near her hand. "When that time comes, her sisters will learn how to be true wives and mothers from this woman, I assure you, Mrs. Blum. More tea?"

I did not want to mention anything related to Edgar Poe in their hearing on the chance that Auntie Blum would find some excuse to inform Peter, or write a concerned epistle on the state of my life to my great-aunt, with whom she had been very hand and glove over the years. I found myself relieved, indeed, when each interview with that woman closed without my having said a word about my investigations. However, the restriction would make me anxious to resume my recent searches as soon as the Blums had departed.

On this occasion, when I boarded an omnibus I was addressed by the conductor as though I had just spit tobacco juice on the floor. "You!"

I had forgotten to hand over my ticket. An inauspicious start. After correcting this, the bus conductor painstakingly studied the portrait I held up for him before deciding the face was unfamiliar.

This portrait of Poe, published after his death, was not of the highest quality. But I believed it captured the essentials. His dark mustache, straighter and neater than his curling hair. The eyes, clear and almond shaped-eyes with restlessness almost magnetic. Forehead, broad and prominent above the temples, so that from certain angles he must look to have no hair-a man who could be all forehead.

As the doors closed and I was bumped into a seat by the line of oncoming passengers, a short and wide fellow tugged at my arm with the end of his umbrella.

"Pardon me!" I cried.

"Say, the man in that illustration, I think I'd seen him a while ago. Sometime in September, like you said to the conductor."

"Truly, sir?" I asked.

He explained that he rode the same bus almost every day and remembered someone who looked just like the man in the portrait. It happened as they were leaving the omnibus.

"I recollect it because he asked for help-wanted to know where a Dr. Brooks lived, if I remember. I'm an umbrella mender, not a city directory."

I readily agreed with the point, although I did not know if the latter comment was meant for me or Poe. N. C. Brooks's name was familiar enough to me-and certainly would have been to Edgar Poe. Dr. Brooks was an editor who had published some of Poe's finest tales and poems, which had helped introduce Poe's work to the Baltimore public. Finally, some real proof that Poe had not entirely disappeared into the air of Baltimore after all!

The horses' rumbling was starting to slow, and I jumped out of my seat as the vehicle began rolling to its next stop.

I hastened to my law chambers to consult with the city directory for Dr. Brooks's address. It was six in the evening, and I had assumed Peter had retired already after finishing his appointments at the courthouse. But I was wrong.

"My dear friend," he bellowed over my shoulder. "You look startled! Nearly jumped out of your skin!"

"Peter." I paused, realizing when I spoke that I was out of breath. "It is only-well, I suppose I was presently on my way out again."

"I have a surprise," he said, grinning and lifting his walking stick like a scepter. He blocked my way to the door, his hand groping for my shoulder.

"There is to be a grand blow-out this evening at my home, with many friends of yours and mine, Quentin. It was very lately planned, for it is the birthday of one who is most-"

"But you see I'm just now…" I interrupted impatiently, but stopped myself from explaining when I saw a dark glint in my partner's eyes.

"What, Quentin?" Peter looked around slowly, with mock interest. "There is no more to do here this evening. You have somewhere you must rush to? Where?"

"No," I said, feeling faintly flushed, "it is nothing."

"Good, then let us be right off!"

Peter's table was overrun with familiar faces, in celebration of Hattie Blum's twenty-third birthday. Shouldn't I have remembered? I felt a terrible tinge of remorse at my insensitivity. I had seen her for every one of her birthdays. Had I strayed so far from my ordinary path to forsake even the most pleasurable affairs of society and intimate friends? Well, one visit to Brooks, and I believed my preoccupation could be happily concluded.

There were as highly respectable ladies and gentlemen there that night as could be obtained in Baltimore. Yet wouldn't I have preferred to be in Madame Tussaud's chamber of murderers just then, anywhere just then but caught in slow and smooth conversation, when I had such a momentous task tempting me!

"How could you?" This was spoken by a large, pink-faced woman who appeared across from me when we sat down to the elaborate supper.