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which held a key decorated with a red tassel. I reached over and opened the box, revealing an interior lined with crimson leather and the bundle of letters knotted together with a green ribbon. I placed them on the marble table.
    â€œSeven missives written over half a century ago, in two distinct hands, and documenting a scandalous series of events.” I lowered my voice although there was no one else present to hear. “It appears that I have inherited evidence pertaining to several villainous attacks committed in London in the year 1788.”
    Dupin continued to puff on his cigar, his expression unchanged. “In two distinct hands, you say?”
    I nodded. “Those of an Elizabeth and Henry Arnold.”
    Dupin scrutinized the bundle of letters, the smoke from his cigar curling around him like an unearthly mist.
    â€œAnd what do you know of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold?” he asked, fixing his eyes upon me like a baleful cat.
    â€œVery little,” I said cautiously. “Only what I find in this correspondence. That they were husband and wife, and actors on the London stage.”
    Dupin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It is peculiar that the box and the letters within it were released to you in such an inexplicably tardy manner if truly a legacy from your adoptive father. Was there any note from him?”
    â€œNo. Just a letter from Mrs. Allan.”
    â€œDo you still have her letter?”
    â€œYes, but I did not think to bring it with me this evening.”
    â€œI should like to see it.” Dupin ran his finger along the edge of the mahogany box, then leaned to peer inside it. “Quite a large vessel for its cargo,” he murmured before settling back to sip his cognac. I wished I had not drained my glass quite so quickly, but did not wish to play the glutton and ask for another.
    â€œLet me be direct, Dupin,” I said. “I think these letters must be forgeries, designed by the pernicious Mrs. Allen to distress me by suggesting that I have some connection to the scandal contained therein.” A sigh escaped me. “It is one thing to disinherit the child one has raised, it is quite another to burden him with such a peculiar legacy, and while my adoptive father was certainly aware of my passion for conundrums, he never sought to encourage such intellectual proclivities within me. I cannot believe that he wished the box to be sent to me.”
    â€œAnd so you think that John Allan’s widow desires to cause you pain by sending you a box of forged letters?”
    He tapped ash from his cigar and then drew on it until it flared crimson like a demon’s eye, hypnotic and cruel. It was what I believed, but when Dupin expressed my thoughts, he made them sound ridiculous.
    â€œRead the letters. You will see what I mean.” The cigar smoke and heavily perfumed tapers in the candelabrum began to overwhelm my senses and an intolerable weariness swept over me. “Thank you for dinner, but I am terribly tired. Shall we take up this conversation tomorrow? At eleven perhaps?”
    Dupin’s eyes were fixed upon mine. “Of course. Leave the letters with me. I would like to read them.”
    * * *
    Once back in my room, I thought to calm myself by writing a letter to Sissy, but found I had nothing to tell her that would not make her anxious. The windows began to rattle with a hard driving rain and a chill came upon me. Feeling utterly enervated, I fell into my bed, but sleep eluded me. An iciness pervaded the atmosphere and with a sickening of my heart, I sensed a presence in the room, a presence that emitted a pestilent and mystic vapor, which grew stronger and brighter, like aflash of lightning captured by storm clouds and frozen. Then a glowing red eye pierced through the blue haze—a solitary eye of fire, mesmerizing me, completely overwhelming me. The bedclothes clasped my body like some supernatural entity and as I struggled to breathe, I wondered