In consideration of the readers sensibilities, I shall withhold a description of the ghastly—the hideous—the utterly unspeakable—sight which smote my eyes at that instant. Suffice it to say that I found myself staring at the remains of an elderly gentleman, whose body—in order to make it fit within the narrow confines of the cask—had been subjected to the most fearful mutilation and dismemberment. Gasping in horror, I staggered backward from this awful spectacle; while Crockett—who had stepped up to the cask so as to view its contents for himself—loudly exclaimed: “Why I’ll be shot if that ain’t the horriblest outrage I ever struck!”

For several moments, dizziness overwhelmed me. Closing my eyes, I leaned my weight against a large, iron-bound crate, clutching at one edge for support. At length, the vertiginous sensation subsided. Upon re-opening my eyes, I saw that Captain Russell was regarding me narrowly.

“This atrocity,” I said hoarsely, “can only be the handiwork of the fiend we are pursuing.”

“Of that there can be no question,” Russell answered, “for the killer has left his customary signature.” Then, turning to Officer Carlton, he commanded: “Show him.”

In response to this directive, the young police officer dropped to one knee and held his lantern dose to the cask. The light revealed the enigmatic word “Nevermore,” crudely inscribed across the middle portion of the cask in daubs of dried blood that possessed the texture and appearance of thickly applied, rust-brown paint.

“The murder weapon was discovered there,” said Russell, pointing to a place on the floor several feet away. Following his gesture, I saw an antique headsmans ax lying on the ground, its formidable, razoredged blade darkly stained with gore.

“It is a precise replica of the one used in the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots,” remarked the gray-haired gentleman who stood at Russell’s side. “One of several hundred items in our collection of rare, historical armaments.”

Turning my gaze upon this speaker, I scrutinized him narrowly for several moments. His features seemed strangely familiar, although I felt absolutely certain that I had never before set eyes on him. He was a middle-aged man of singularly distinguished mien, with a countenance remarkable for its harmonious admixture of masculine force and feminine sensitivity. His eyes were bright and penetrating to the highest degree; his forehead pale and lofty; his nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril surpassing similar formations. His chin was prominent, cleanly chiselled, and remarkably square, bespeaking both physical vigor and moral fortitude. In striking contrast to the manifest strength of his jawline, however, was the surpassing delicacy of his mouth, whose soft, almost voluptuous shape suggested that contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian.