Grinning broadly, Crockett enveloped my hand with his own and gave it a vigorous shake. “There ain’t no need for thanks, Poe. That’s what friends is for. You and me is pards to the end, ol’ hoss—and until this plaguesome business is all took care of, I will cling to you as tight as a snapping turtle to a fisherman’s toe!”

CHAPTER 26

Before embarking on our mission, I strode down the hallway to Virginia’s bedchamber and tapped lightly on the door. From within, Muddy’s voice beckoned me to enter. Proceeding inside, I was overjoyed to find Sissy fully alert and reposing in a half-upright position in bed, her back supported by a voluminous pillow.

Beside her sat Muddy, an open book resting upon her lap. To beguile her daughter’s time, the good woman had plainly been reading aloud from this volume, which—I was startled to discover—turned out to be the very copy of Colonel Crockett’s life story that Mr. Timothy White had sent me for review. Unbeknownst to me, Muddy had rescued it from the ever-replenished pile of discarded books that accumulated in my study and that I periodically transported to a local bookseller, who paid me a small remuneration for each volume.

“Oh, Eddie,” exclaimed Sissy, after I had expressed my delight in seeing her thus recuperated. “Colonel Crockett has had the most thrilling life! And what a wonderful book he has written about it!”

“I am pleased that you find it so,” I replied somewhat stiffly, “and will be sure to convey your compliments to its author who is, even now, awaiting my appearance.” I next turned to Muddy and informed her that, along with Colonel Crockett, I was involved in an undertaking that would keep me occupied until dinnertime at the very earliest—and, quite possibly, even later.

Then—after bestowing a fond farewell kiss upon the brow of each of my darling ones—I rejoined my companion, who had already repaired to the street and taken his place in the driver’s seat of his borrowed chaise.

Twenty minutes later—after a trip during which my companion drew the usual measure of excited recognition from his adoring public—we arrived at our destination. It was a surpassingly lovely spring day. In contrast to the climatic conditions prevailing at the time of my first visit to Montague’s dwelling—when the skies had been ashen and sober—the weather was exceedingly balmy and bright. Far from mitigating the dismal atmosphere suffusing the neighborhood, however, the brilliant sunshine only served to exacerbate the pervasive sense of bleakness.