A ruminative expression had come over the widow’s countenance as the frontiersman spoke. All at once, it was replaced by a look of delighted realization, as if she had been visited by a sudden insight. Clapping her hands together excitedly, she declared: “I have it!”

“Yes?” I inquired, leaning forward in my seat.

“The two of you must attend the party along with my other guests,” she said cheerfully. Then, as the frontiersman and I stared at her in thunderstruck silence, she continued: “Don’t you see?—it is the perfect solution! In this way, the event can proceed as planned, while my person will be under your protective scrutiny.”

Smiling broadly, she added: “Why, with two such guardian angels hovering about, surely no harm can befall me!”

Of the remainder of our visit I have little to recount. Toby having fetched a tray of tea-cakes, the frontiersman and I helped ourselves to several of these delicacies, while our hostess—who devoured half a dozen of the pastries before I had disposed of my first—continued to insist that her well-being (if not, indeed, her very survival) depended on our presence at her masque. At length, we yielded to her importunities, and—after ascertaining the precise time of the event—we thanked her for her hospitality and took our leave.

Emerging into the courtyard, we discovered that the rain had ceased to fall, although the sky remained sombre and gray. Climbing aboard his conveyance, Crockett and I proceeded in the direction of Amity Street, engaging in desultory conversation along the way. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at our destination. As I dismounted from the carriage, I observed that my companion was gazing curiously at something directly to my rear. Turning my head, I saw that his attention had been caught by a small but conspicuous object resting on the doorstep of my dwelling. It was a package of roughly circular shape, crudely wrapped in brown paper and secured with a length of coarse twine.

“I don’t recollect seeing that parcel when I came to fetch you this morning,” said Crockett with a frown.

“No,” I replied, stepping towards the doorway. “Clearly, it has been delivered since our departure.”

Gazing down at the package, I saw at once that I was the intended recipient, my cognomen having been inscribed on the wrapper in heavy, black crayon. Though my family appellation comprised only three letters, the writer had somehow contrived to misspell it, the crayoned address appearing thusly: “Mr. E. A. Po, Amity St.”

I reached down for the little bundle and took it in my hands. The object enclosed within the paper was heavier than I had anticipated, and of a somewhat pliable consistency. Here and there, the wrapper was defaced with oily, reddish-brown stains. There was something vaguely—though palpably—disagreeable about the parcel that induced an instinctive feeling of repugnance within my bosom.