I leaned forward in my seat and fixed the frontiersman with a penetrating look. “The story that I related to you and Captain Russell, regarding my motive for returning to Montague’s dwelling, was not, strictly speaking, the truth.”

“Why, what in blue blazes do you mean?” Crockett said, his brow furrowed with perplexity.

“I mean,” I replied, “that I have uncovered a singular—albeit inscrutable—connection among the various personages who have met such ghastly deaths over the course of the past, unparalleled week.”

Then, having thus thoroughly engaged the frontiersman’s attention, I drew a deep breath and proceeded to apprise him of the circumstance that had sent me rushing back to Montague’s dwelling in search of clues—i.e., my discovery that, among my collection of cherished memorabilia, was a decades-old newspaper clipping composed by Montague and containing allusions to both the Asher and Macready names.

“That something other than mere coincidence is involved in this matter,” I asserted, “seems to me a deduction beyond reasonable dispute.”

For several moments Crockett sat in silence, chewing ruminatively on his glowing panatela, which protruded from one corner of his mouth, “Well,” he drawled at length, “that is most uncommon curious, for a certainty. What in tarnation do you make of it?”

“As of yet,” I answered with a sigh, “I have been unable to arrive at a satisfactory explanation. It would appear, however, that—at the heart of the mystery that now confronts us—lies some dark and ominous secret involving the theatrical realm.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Crockett exclaimed. “The theatre, eh?” Giving his head a regretful shake, he exhaled a stream of cigar smoke and said: “I’m afraid I can’t be of much use to you there, ol’ hoss. I ain’t never even been to the theatre excepting only once, and that was to see Mr. James H. Hackett play-acting in The Lion of the West in Washington City.”

“There is something else that I have yet to divulge,” I declared after a momentary pause. “Something of such a fantastic and inexplicable nature that—in spite of having witnessed it with my own eyes—I can scarcely credit the evidence of my senses.”

“Don’t keep me guessing,” said Crockett, “for I am fit to bust with curiosity.”

Fully cognizant of the sheer implausibility of the information that I was about to impart, I hesitated briefly before declaring: “There was another person in Montague’s apartment. A woman.”

A long moment passed while Crockett absorbed this remarkable, this startling revelation. “A woman?” he said at last, regarding me with a deeply quizzical expression.

“That is correct. She appeared in Montague’s bedroom immediately following my appalling discovery of the old man’s horribly mutilated corpse.”

Regarding me with an intensely doubtful expression, Crockett declared: “Why, it must’ve been that neighbor lady, Mrs. Purviance.”