This apology, delivered in a tone of heartfelt contrition, demanded a commensurately gracious reply. Accordingly, I gave a little bow and declared: “Captain Russell, please do not castigate yourself unnecessarily. All of us, even those endowed with unusual powers of discernment, are liable, on certain occasions, to be mistaken in their assumptions. Indeed,” I continued, exhaling a heavy sigh, “I myself—as it now appears—have been guilty of just such an error.”

“How so?” Russell asked, lifting his eyebrows inquiringly.

“For reasons that, at the present moment, are far too complicated to delineate, I had come to suspect that the victims of these dreadful crimes were all affiliated with the theatrical realm. But this appears not to have been the case with the present victim, who was employed—not in any capacity related to the stage—but as a museum caretaker”

“But poor Hutchins was involved with the dramatic arts!” exclaimed Mr. Peale.

“What!” I cried, turning towards the speaker with a look of undisguised amazement.

“Many years ago,” Mr. Peale continued, “long before he entered my employ, he trod the boards under the stage name of Thorowgood J. Kemble.”

At the mere pronouncement of this singular cognomen, I immediately recalled having encountered it that very afternoon while perusing Alexander Montague’s old theatrical reviews, a number of which had praised the dramatic performances of this minor, if much-admired, player, who had excelled in such subsidiary roles as Shakespeare’s Bottom, Webster’s Ambitioso, and Jonson’s Sir Politic Wouldbe.

“Well, boil me for a sea-horse if ol’Poe ain’t hit the mark again,” exclaimed Crockett, delivering an enthusiastic smack to my shoulder, which—owing primarily to the sheer unexpectedness of this gesture, as well as to the exceedingly irregular surface of the cellar floor—caused my knees to buckle slightly. I quickly regained my equilibrium, however, and turned to face Captain Russell.

It was evident from the dark look suffusing the latter’s visage that he did not share the frontiersman’s appreciatory view of my achievement. “Mr. Poe,” said he with a frown, “I am deeply chagrined to find that—despite your promise to the contrary—you have concealed another piece of knowledge from me. You have said nothing to me about these suspicions regarding the theatre.”

“In my own defense,” I replied, “I can say only that—my suspicions being of such an indefinite nature—I deemed it best to withhold them until I had managed to arrive at a positive conclusion.”

“And have you succeeded in doing so?” demanded Russell.

“At present—no,” I conceded with a dispirited sigh.

“I see,” Russell said, stroking his luxuriant moustache while he continued to regard me narrowly. “But you are persuaded that these heinous crimes are in some way connected to the theatrical profession?”

“That is correct,” I replied.