Without further delay, we returned to our labors. For the following hour—or possibly even longer (for I did not take note of the time)—my companion and I perused one newspaper after another in perfect silence. I read—with eyes that grew increasingly bleary as the afternoon progressed—a seemingly endless succession of theatrical reviews, a few concerning such legendary performances as the elder Booth’s interpretation of Richard the Third, which created an unusual sensation at the Holliday Street Theatre on the evening of November 2, 1821, and Edmund Kean’s stirring portrayal of the doomed protagonist of Macbeth. The majority of Montague’s essays, however, dealt with actors and plays wholly (and no doubt justifiably) obscure: a Mr. George Boniface as Captain Bleinheim in Diamond in the Rough; a Miss Effie Germon as Sally Scraggs in Sketches of India; a Mr. Charles Matthews, Sr., as Bob Tyke in The Trip to Paris, and many others of this inconsequential ilk.

But in none of these articles did I discover even the slightest clue that might help us resolve the terrible mystery of the ominous word “Nevermore,” or shed light on the identity of the shadowy female assassin.

Gradually, the act of reading became very nearly impossible, partly owing to the sustained ocular exertion demanded by the task, and partly to the inexorable dwindling of the daylight filtering in through the window. Laying down my paper, I closed my aching eyes and gently massaged them with the tips of my fingers; while Crockett—taking note of my discomfort—attempted to ignite the lamp that stood at the center of the table. The oil reservoir proving utterly depleted, however, he extinguished his match and declared: “I reckon we might as well call it quits, ol’ hoss. The light in here don’t amount to shucks.”

“Indeed, the illumination afforded by the rapidly fading daylight is entirely inadequate to our needs,” I replied. “Moreover, while the tightly woven fabric of my handkerchief has succeeded in shielding me from the many pulmonary irritants suffusing the air, it has also rendered the simple act of respiration exceedingly strenuous.

“At the same time,” I added after a brief pause, “I am loath to abandon our efforts, while so much remains to be accomplished.”

“What do you reckon we ought to do?”

I ruminated on this question for several moments before replying: “Perhaps we can transport the remaining publications back to Amity Street, where I can continue to persue them in the more congenial environment of my study.”

Glancing dubiously at the floor, Crockett said: “There’s a monstrous sight of papers here, Poe. Why, just toting them all out to the carriage would be a mighty drearisome job”

“It would be difficult indeed,” I agreed. All at once, I was struck by a thought. “Do you not recall,” I asked, “how eager young Jesse and his friends were to assist us? Perhaps now is the time to avail ourselves of their offer”