All at once, I was struck with a thunderous realization. My eyes gaped—my mouth fell open—and I sat bolt upright in my chair. Half-rising from the seat, I reached across my writing desk and, with trembling hands, snatched the small, casket-shaped mahogany chest from its perch atop my manuscript pile. Extracting the little brass key from the middle drawer of my desk, I hurriedly unlocked the chest and rummaged through its contents until I found the item I was seeking—the yellowed newspaper clipping from 1807 which described my mothers memorable performance as Cordelia at Baltimore’s Front Street Theatre and listed the names of the more notable citizens who had been in attendance on that long-ago night.

A single glance at this review confirmed the realization that had hit me while listening to Sissy’s ravishing song. I now knew precisely who Alexander Montague was, for his name appeared prominently in the clipping—not as one of my mother’s fellow-thespians, nor as a member of the eminent and enthusiastic crowd who had so wildly cheered her performance.

Alexander Montague had been the author of the piece!

So intense was the emotion excited in me by this discovery that I can scarcely convey my reaction in mere words. Leaping to my feet, I began to pace rapidly around the center of the room, while my brain reeled with a multitude of tumultuous thoughts.

Several days earlier, during my initial examination of this review, I had been struck with a sense of its portentous significance. This intuition had now been confirmed with the uttermost force. That the sinister sequence of events which had commenced with the landlady’s murder was connected, in some still-unaccountable way, to the world of American theatredom could no longer be doubted. But what could that connection conceivably be? What reference did it bear to the bloody word “Nevermore”? And how, if at all, did the slaying of Elmira Macready, the death of Roger Asher, and the disappearance of Alexander Montague relate—through my own mother’s distant yet nonetheless tangible association with these individuals—to me?

I halted in my track and considered my alternatives. Only one course of action seemed appropriate. I must communicate my discovery to the authorities without delay. Though my heart did not rejoice at the prospect of venturing forth again into the darkness of the city, I felt it my duty as both a citizen and a man to subdue my misgivings and proceed forthwith to the police.

Nothing, however, was to be gained by sharing my intentions with Muddy. Extinguishing my table lamp, I swiftly crossed the room, slipped into the hallway, shut the door softly behind me, and stole silently towards the front of the house.