Crockett’s proposal to escort me home to Amity Street would, under ordinary circumstances, have been greeted with a polite but firm refusal; for—in spite of the lateness of the hour and the dreary expanse of deserted thoroughfares that lay between Montague’s dwelling and my own—I would normally have required no such assistance. My nerves, however, had been so completely unstrung by the dismaying events of the day that I not only acceded to his offer but positively welcomed it.

Even with Crockett’s companionship, the long march homeward promised to be a wearisome undertaking, given my state of extreme emotional and physical depletion. The reader may thus imagine my intense and delighted surprise when—upon emerging with Crockett from Montague’s dwelling—I spied a handsome chaise hitched to die wooden post directly in front of the house.

Undoing the reins, the frontiersman climbed into this conveyance and motioned me to assume the seat beside him. “Mr. Potter, the hotel manager, loaned me the use of this-here buggy for as long as I am lodging here in Baltimore,” my companion informed me as I settled into my place. “Said he reckoned a man of my station ought to be riding around in style.” Then, with a flick of the reins and a cluck of the tongue, Crockett urged the steed forward.

As we proceeded along the moonlit streets towards our destination, the rhythmic motions of the carriage, combined with the hollow clopping of die animal’s hooves upon the paving-stones, seemed to lull me into a sort of Mesmeric trance. My eyelids felt weighted with lead—my head drooped—my shoulders slumped—my mouth hung partway open. Sunk into this stuporous state—incapable not merely of speech but, indeed, of coherent thought—I sat dully beside my companion, so utterly oblivious of our progress that I bolted erect with a startled gasp when the chaise suddenly drew to a halt and the frontiersman announced: “Here we are, ol’ hoss. You’d best git yourself straight to bed. I’ll be shot with a packsaddle if you ain’t plumb tuckered out.”

With a muttered word of gratitude, I dismounted from the vehicle and made my way towards my front door.

“I will see you and them two purty gals of yours tomorrow evening,” Crockett said by way of farewell, as he skillfully maneuvered the carriage around and headed back in die direction from whence we had travelled.

The extremity of my mental fatigue was such that I could make no sense of Crockett’s parting words. For what unexplained reason he intended to visit my household on the morrow I neither knew nor cared. My only thought at that moment was of the sweet, unutterably beguiling object that lay just within the walls of my abode. I mean, of course, my bed.