“You mean that thunderacious sneezing you done?” Crockett said. “That was a window-rattler, for a certainty.” Then—after gazing about the room with a somewhat baffled expression—he turned back to me and asked, “How do you figure we ought to commence?”

“Given the state of utter confusion in which the newspapers are strewn across the floor,” I replied, “a systematic examination of Montague’s collection is plainly impossible. My suggestion, therefore, is this. Let each of us occupy one of the chairs at the dining table and, selecting a newspaper at random, carefully peruse its pages. Once finished, the reader will discard his paper beneath the table, thus ensuring that each man does not inadvertently re-examine an issue that has already been scrutinized by the other.”

“That makes good sense,” said Crockett. “And just what exactly are we supposed to be looking for?”

“Each of these publications,” said I, gesturing towards the newspapers that blanketed the floor, “should contain an article composed by Alexander Montague. Most of these writings will, of course, have no bearing whatsoever on the matter which concerns us. The ones we must look out for are, in the first place, those relating to any theatrical performances involving my late mother, Eliza Poe; second, those containing references to any of the individuals who have already fallen victim to the unknown killer; and, last but by no means least in importance, any that might illuminate the signification of the mysterious word, ‘Nevermore.’”

“All right,” said Crockett.

“Then let us proceed without delay,” I said.

After stooping to pick up the papers that lay nearest to our feet, Crockett and I settled ourselves on opposite sides of the dining table, and—carefully unfolding the brittle yellow pages—bent ourselves to our task.

For the following hour, we pursued this occupation with silent intensity, the quiet of the room broken only by the dry, crepitant rustle of the turning pages, and the occasional muttered complaint from my companion, who periodically avowed that he would “sooner be wrassling a passel of wildcats than wading through all this infernal writing.”

And indeed, the perusal of the crumbling yellowed pages, with their endless columns of badly faded print, was an exceedingly laborious task. Still, it was not (at least from my own point of view) entirely devoid of certain pleasures. I discovered that Montague, though far from the most fluent—adroit—or felicitous—of writers, had been a man of considerable cultivation, erudition, and taste. That the entire latter portion of his life had been passed in circumstances of such extreme, such oppressive squalor struck me as almost unbearably sad. Laying aside my paper, I emitted a deep and tremulous sigh.

At this sound, Crockett lowered his own paper and—gazing across the table with a sympathetic expression—declared: “I know just how you’re feeling, ol’ hoss. This here is monstrously tiresome work, and no mistake.”