"Peace be to his ashes," said Henry Herring in solemn tones, and then joined Neilson in front of the building.

"We have enough problems to concern ourselves with in all events, Mr. Clark," Officer White began once we were left without Poe's relatives. "There are the vagabonds, the night-strollers, the foreigners, harassing, corrupting, robbing our stores, demoralizing the good children more every day. No time for small issues."

The officer's speech went on and, as he spoke, I cast a glance out the window. My eyes followed Neilson Poe and Henry Herring to a carriage. I saw a petite woman waiting inside as the door was opened. Neilson Poe climbed in next to her. It took me a moment to realize how eerily familiar she looked. In another moment, I remembered with a chill through my bones where I had seen her or, rather, a woman just like her. That death portrait in Neilson Poe's office that had so disturbed him. This woman was almost a double, a twin, for Edgar Poe's deceased young love, Virginia. She was Virginia-Poe's darling Sissy!-as far I was concerned.

Remembering the countenance of Sissy Poe, captured only hours after her death, some lines of Edgar Poe's inserted themselves in my mind.

But stay! I could not believe it. Poe's description of the beautiful girl Lenore at her death-"that now so lowly lies"-were the same two words at the end of the Phantom's warning. It is unwise to meddle with your lowly lies. The warning had been about Poe after all, just as I had thought! Lowly lies!

I leaned out the window and watched the carriage disappear safely.

Officer White sighed. "Realize it, Mr. Clark," he said. "There is nothing more here, sir. I beg you to give these concerns to the wind! It seems you have an inclination to think of affairs as extraordinary that are quite ordinary. Do you have a wife, Mr. Clark?"

My attention was pulled back to him by the question. I hesitated. "I will soon."

He laughed knowingly. "Good. You should have much to occupy yourself without needing to think of this unhappy affair, then. Or your sweetheart might give you the mitten."

Faithful use of the blank page before me would describe the ensuing despondency as I sat at my misted window overlooking the exodus of people from the offices surrounding ours. I stayed until even Peter had gone. I should have felt at ease. I had done all I could. Even speaking with the police. There was nothing remaining for me to attempt to do. A pall of routine seemed to stretch out before me.

Days passed like this. I entered into an advanced state of ennui that no comforts of society could diminish. It was then I received a knock at the door, and a letter. It was a messenger sent from the athenaeum; the reading room clerk, not having seen me for some time, had decided to send me some newspaper cuttings he had come upon. Newspaper cuttings from several years before; noticing some that had occasion to allude to Edgar Poe, and no doubt remembering my inquiries, he had thought to enclose them in a letter to me.

One seized me entirely.

Think of it.

He had been out there all along.

September 16, 1844

Our newspaper has been informed by a "Lady Friend" of the brilliant and erratic writer Edgar A. Poe, Esq., that Mr. Poe's ingenious hero, C. Auguste Dupin, is closely modeled from an individual in actual life, similar in name and exploit, known for his great analytical powers. This respected gentleman is recognized widely in the regions of Paris, where that city's police frequently request his involvement in cases even more baffling than those Mr. Poe has chronicled in his truly strange accounts of Mr. Dupin, of which "The Purloined Letter" marks the third installment (though the editors hope more will be produced). We wonder how many thousands of burning questions occurring these last years in our own country, and how many yet to come, this real genius of Paris could have effortlessly unriddled.

I HELD THE newspaper clipping in my hands. I felt an unnameable difference in myself and in my surroundings as I read it. I felt transported.

A few minutes after the messenger from the athenaeum had exited my chambers, Peter burst in with an armful of documents.

"What are you looking at with such intolerable excitement, Quentin?" he asked. I think it was only a rhetorical question. But I was so enthused that I answered him.

"Peter, see for yourself! It was sent over with some other articles by the clerk at the athenaeum."

I do not know why I did not restrain myself. Perhaps consequences no longer mattered to me.

Peter read the newspaper clipping slowly, his face dropping. "What is this?" he asked with clenched teeth. I cannot pretend not to understand his ensuing reaction. After all, we had an appointment at court the next morning. Peter had been running about the office, frantically preparing, until he'd come in just now. Imagine how he found his partner. Studying documents for our client's hearing? Checking them one last time for errors? No.

"There is a real Dupin in Paris-I mean Poe's character of a genius investigator," I explained. "‘Recognized widely in the regions of Paris.' You see? It is a miracle."

He slapped the extract onto my desk. "Poe? Is this what you have been doing here all day?"

"Peter, I must find out who this person spoken of in the article is and bring him here. You were right that I could not do this myself. He can do this."

There was an edition of Poe's Tales I kept on my shelf. Peter grabbed the book and waved it in front of my face. "I thought you were finished with this Poe madness, Quentin!"

"Peter, if this man exists, if a man with a mind so extraordinary as C. Auguste Dupin's is really out there, then I can complete my promise to Poe. Poe has been telling me all along how to do it, through the pages of his own tales! Poe's name can be restored. Snatched away from an eternity of injustice."

Peter reached for the newspaper extract again, but I grabbed it out of his hand and folded it into my pocket.

He seemed angered by this. Peter's massive hand now shot forward, clutching, as though needing to choke something, even the air. With his other hand, he flung the book of Poe tales straight into our hearth, the flames of which had been stoked up into a cheerful fire by one of the clerks just a half hour before.

"There!" he said.

The hearth fizzled with its sacrifice. I think Peter was instantly sorry for his action, since the fierceness in his face transformed into sourness as soon as the flames reached for the pages of the book. Understand, this was not one of the volumes I prized for its binding or from any particular sentimental attachment. It was not the copy I had found myself reading in the quiet days after receiving the telegram of my parents' deaths.

And yet, unthinkingly, with the swiftest motion I had ever shown, I reached in and pulled out the book. I stood there in the middle of my chambers, the book ablaze in my hand. My sleeve became a burning ring at the cuff. But I stood resolutely in place as Peter blinked, his helpless eyes large and glinting red with the fire as he took in this sight: the sight of his partner gripping a flaming book while the sizzling fire was beginning to engulf his arm. Strangely, the more delirious his expression became, the more tranquil I felt myself become. I could not remember ever having felt so strong, so decided in my purpose as in this single moment. I knew what was necessary for me now.