I thought of the Phantom who had followed me once, long before I had dreamed of finding a man like Duponte or hiding from a man like the Baron Dupin; I thought, too, of the dead stare of the Baron's man Hartwick as he trailed me through the halls of Versailles, preparing to grab me. Once, I saw this new stranger standing across from where I was walking on Baltimore Street. I was not surprised to see this presumed freeman speaking quietly with the Baron Dupin. The Baron took his arm enthusiastically.

That same evening, Duponte was reading Poe's tale "Ligeia" on a sofa in the drawing room. Von Dantker had left with his brushes some hours before in a state of high irritation. Duponte had announced that he no longer wanted to see Von Dantker's staring face whenever he looked up, and had informed the artist that he would have to sit behind him. Von Dantker had naturally protested on the basis that he could not paint Duponte's back, but Duponte had refused to argue, and a system had soon been devised whereby a mirror was placed in front of Duponte and Von Dantker sat behind the analyst. He had positioned another large mirror by his easel, facing the first mirror, to transfer the original reflection back to the correct orientation. I thought both men quite mad. But Von Dantker, taking bites from the "olycoke"-a strange cake fried in lard-he always brought with him, had continued on with his project.

I busied myself reading a copy of Thomas Moore's Irish Melodies, which I had procured from a book-stand. Dr. Carter, Poe's friend in Richmond, had told the newspaper there that Poe had been reading Moore 's poems when he visited his office. It was also said that during his stay in Richmond Poe quoted this verse of Moore 's to a young lady he befriended: "I feel like one / Who treads alone / Some banquet hall deserted."

My thoughts floated to the distracting subject of Hattie. "I wonder," I said, interrupting Duponte's reading.

"Yes?"

"Well, I am wondering whether a woman who says that things are ‘different' means to say that her emotions, that is, affections, have changed, or rather refers to other, less profound matters."

"Are you," Duponte asked, putting aside the book, "soliciting my opinion on the subject, monsieur?"

I hesitated, hoping he would not believe that I was attempting to misdirect his skills of ratiocination at a purely personal concern, although that was precisely what I was doing.

He continued without an answer from me. "Do you, Monsieur Clark, believe it is the larger or smaller concern that her words refer to?"

I considered this. "Well, which is the larger and which the smaller of the concerns?" I asked.

"Exactly the quarrel, monsieur. To persons who are not the direct recipients of her affections, the question of her emotional state would be the smaller one; the state of the roof of her house, or a loan she may have secured from the bank, and whether these are different from some previous state of affairs would be the larger and most crucial question. To the person who seeks or has sought her affections, those emotions would be by far the more significant question to unravel, whereas if her roof were sinking entirely it would make little difference to that suitor. Therefore, your answer is that the meaning of her words would vary depending very much on whom she is addressing."

I was quite flabbergasted by the coolness of Duponte's advice on love, if that is what this was, and I did not pursue the subject any further.

At length the doorbell rang. The servants had left for the day, and I had gone downstairs. After several moments, Duponte clapped his book closed, rose from his place with a sigh, and descended to the street door. There on the other side stood a short, bespectacled man peering inside expectantly.

"What is it you wish for me, sir?" the man asked politely.

"Is it not you who has come to the door?" replied Duponte. "I should think I would have asked you that very question, had I any interest in the answer."

"Why-?" said the visitor, flustered. "Well, I'm Reynolds. Henry Reynolds, may I come inside?"

I watched this from the kitchen corridor. Mr. Reynolds found a place for his hat. He showed Duponte the card he had received from me earlier that day.

I had planned that Duponte might have a greater degree of interest if he were to unexpectedly greet Reynolds at the door, and thus be the proprietor of the discovery and, finding the opportunity irresistible, pursue all information that could be extracted from the visitor.

This was not to be. Duponte, his hand cupping his book of Poe tales, bid a polite good evening to the guest and walked past me to the stairs. I rushed after him.

"But where are you going?"

"Monsieur. You have a caller, a Monsieur Reynolds, I believe," Duponte answered me. "I suppose you gentlemen wish to talk together."

"But-!" I fell quiet.

"Someone did call for me?" asked Reynolds loudly and impatiently from the bottom of the stairs. "I have other appointments too. One of you fellows is Clark?"

I caught up to Duponte with a sheepish shrug. "I know I should have told you about leaving word for Reynolds to call. I saw the Baron Dupin speaking with this fellow, and found out that he was an election judge at the voting place where Poe was found. But this man wouldn't give the Baron any information. Just hold for a moment! Come to the drawing room. I thought you might refuse at first, and this is why I have done this secretly. I believe it is a matter of utter importance that we interview him."

Duponte remained impassive. "What do you wish me to do?"

"Sit in the room. You needn't say a single word."

Of course, I hoped that Duponte, incited by whatever knowledge was held by the carpenter, would not only say a single word; I hoped he would intervene with extensive interrogatories once I began the dialogue. The analyst assented to come with me to the drawing room.

"Well, how are we today?" The carpenter forced a friendly smile as he looked around the gigantic room and up at the impressive dome that rose to the height of the third floor. "Planning on bettering the structure of your home, Mr. Clark? Its beauty is a bit in decay, if I may take the liberty to say. I've appreciated not a few mansions this year with betterments."

"What?" I demanded, perturbed, forgetting for a moment his profession.

Duponte sat in the corner armchair by the hearth. He propped his head in his hand, and his fingers spread in a web over the side of his face. He sucked his tongue, as was his habit.

Instead of feeling compelled by the situation to speak, Duponte directed his glare beyond Reynolds and me to some indefinite point of the room's horizon, and yet betrayed a look of distant enjoyment at how the conversation progressed.

"I am in no need of carpentry," I said.

"Not carpentry? Why have I been requested to make this visit, gentlemen?" Reynolds frowned and then fed himself some chewing tobacco, as though to say that if there was no carpentry, there might as well be tobacco.

"Well, Mr. Reynolds, if I may…" My mouth felt dry, and my words dribbled out uncertainly.

"If I made this visit for you gentlemen's amusement-" he said indignantly.

"We require some information," I said. This seemed like a good start to me. Duponte's mouth twitched, and I waited for him to speak, but it was a yawn. He crossed his legs at a different place.

Reynolds was speaking over me. "-well, because I shouldn't like to think I have wasted my time. I am a key figure to the future dignity of Baltimore. I have helped erect the athenaeum, have lent my hand to raising the Maryland Institute, and directed the first iron building in the city for the Baltimore Sun."

I tried to pull him to the primary subject. "You served as a ward judge for the Fourth Ward polling station at Ryan's hotel in 1849, is that true?"