I had been vaguely aware, since being apprised of the missing man’s identity, that his cognomen possessed a strangely familiar ring. Try as I might, however, I could not conceive of the circumstances under which I might have previously encountered it. In an attempt to prod my memory, I now began to repeat his name silently as I bent my steps homeward—Alexander Montague, Alexander Montague. But to no avail.

So engrossed was I in this effort that I had been paying scant attention to my surroundings. All at once, a piercing breeze—infused with a pungent blend of maritime aromas—drifted from the harbor; and I realized with a start that I was passing close to the abject neighborhood where, just one week earlier, Colonel Crockett had engaged in his memorable battle with the redoubtable Hans Neuendorf.

This recollection induced a tremor of dread that coursed through every particle of my being. The unparalleled events of the past several days, beginning with my arrival at the house of Asher, had driven all thoughts of Neuendorf from my mind. Now, the vivid recollection of that fierce and implacable ruffian—and of the dire threats that he had reportedly levelled against my person—came rushing back upon my consciousness. My heart quailed—my limbs grew cold—my bosom heaved with the sudden onset of insufferable anxiety!

By now, darkness had fallen. The streets—which had been teeming with wayfarers just several hours earlier—were largely devoid of human presence. Accelerating my pace, I plunged headlong down the deserted thoroughfares—the devious by-ways, the narrow, crooked lanes. All at once, as I rounded a corner, I was seized by an absolute—and wholly alarming—conviction: I was being followed!

Readers of an inherently skeptical bent may suspect that this belief was merely a product of my intensely agitated state of mind—of the profound apprehension induced within me by my sudden recollection of the menacing ruffian who had promised, according to Crockett, to “use my skin for a razor strop.” Certainly, such tricks of fancy are among the most commonly known of all phenomena of a merely delusional nature. In the present instance, however, nothing could be further from the case. So powerful—so palpable—was my sense of being stalked that it could only have sprung from those innate and primitive instincts which continue to operate deep within the souls of even the most highly civilized of modern men—instincts designed by a protective Nature to alert us to the presence of imminent, mortal peril!

A single backwards glance would have sufficed to confirm—or refute—my conviction. But I did not dare to slacken my pace, even for the instant that such an action would have required. Onward I rushed, making at full speed for Amity Street, while my unseen pursuer followed upon my heels—so close as to cause the hairs on the nape of my neck to bristle with terror!