 My first experience with a great logician by Jacques Foutral. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. My first experience with a great logician by Jacques Foutral. It was once my good fortune to meet in person Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph.D., LLD, FRS, MD, etc. The meeting came about through a singular happening, which was as mystifying as it was dangerous to me. He saved my life, in fact. And in process of hauling me back from eternity, the edge of that appalling mist which separates life and death, I had full opportunity of witnessing the workings of that marvelously keen, cold brain which has made him the most distinguished scientist and logician of his day. It was some time afterward, however, that Professor Van Dusen was identified in my mind with the thinking machine. I had dined at the hotel to tonic, taken a cigar from my pocket, lighted it, and started for a stroll across Boston Common. It was after eight o'clock on one of those clear nippy evenings of winter. I was near the center of the Common on one of the many little bipads which lead toward Beacon Hill when I became conscious of an acute pain in my chest, a sudden fluttering of my heart, and a constriction in my throat. The lights in the distance began to waver and grow dim, and perspiration broke out all over me from an inward gnawing agony which grew more intense each moment. I felt myself reeling. My cigar dropped from my fingers, and I clutched at a seat to steady myself. There was no one near me. I tried to call, then everything grew dark, and I sank down on the ground. My last recollection was of a figure approaching me. The last words I heard were a petulant, irritable, dear me. Then I was lost to consciousness. When I recovered consciousness I lay on a couch in a strange room. My eyes wandered weakly about and lingered with a certain childish interest on half a dozen spots which reflected glitteringly the light of an electric bulb set high up on one side. These bright spots I came to realize after a moment were metal parts of various instruments of a laboratory. For a time I lay helpless, listless, with trembling pulse and eardrums thumping. Then I heard steps approaching and someone bent over and peered into my face. It was a man, but such a man as I had never seen before. A great shock of straw-yellow hair tumbled about a broad, high forehead, a small wrinkled queeriless face, the face of an aged child, a pair of watery blue eyes squinting aggressively through thick spectacles, and a thin-lipped mouth as straight as the mark of a surgeon's knife, safe for the drooping corners. My impression, then, was that it was some sort of hallucination. I distorted vagary of a disordered brain, but gradually my vision cleared and the grip of slender fingers on my pulse made me realize the actuality of the apparition. How do you feel? A thin lip had opened just enough to let out the question. The tone was curt and belligerent, and the voice rasped unpleasantly. At the same time the squint eyes were focused on mine with a steady, piercing glare that made me uneasy. I tried to answer, but my tongue refused to move. The gaze continued for an instant, then the man, the thinking machine, turned away and prepared a particularly vile-smelling concoction which he poured into me. Then I was lost again. After a time—it might have been minutes or hours—I felt again the hand on my pulse, and again the thinking machine favored me with a glare. An hour later I was sitting up on the couch with unclouded brain and a heartbeat which was nearly normal. It was then I learned why Professor Van Dusen, an imminent man of the sciences, had been dubbed the thinking machine. I understood first hand how material muddles were so unfailingly dissipated by unadulterated infallible logic. Remember that I had gone into that room an inanimate thing, inert, unconscious, mentally and physically dead to all practical intents beyond the point where I might have babbled any elucidating fact, and remember too, please, that I didn't know had not the faintest idea what had happened to me beyond the fact that I had fallen unconscious. The thinking machine didn't ask questions, yet he supplied all the missing details, together with a host of personal, intimate things of which he could personally have had no knowledge. In other words, I was in a truce problem, and he solved me, with head tilted back against the cushion of the chair, and such a head, with eyes unwaveringly turned upward, and fingertips pressed idly together he sat there, a strange, grotesque little figure in the midst of his laboratory apparatus. Not for a moment did he display the slightest interest in me personally. It was all as if I had been written down on a slate to be wiped off when I was solved. Did this ever happen to you before? He asked abruptly. No, I replied. What was it? You were poisoned, he said. The poison was a deadly one, corrosive sublimate, or bichloride, or mercury. The shock was very severe. But you'll be all right in poison, I exclaimed, aghast. Who poisoned me? Why? You poisoned yourself, he replied, testily. It was your own carelessness. Nine out of ten persons handled poison as if it were candy, and you are like all the rest. But I couldn't have poisoned myself, I protested, why I've had no occasion to handle poisons, not for I don't know how long. I do know, he said. It was nearly a year ago when you handled this, but corrosive sublimate is always dangerous. The tone irritated me. The impassive arrogance of the little man inflamed my reeling brain, and I'm not sure that I did not shake my finger in his face. If I was poisoned, I declared with some heat. It was not my fault. Somebody gave it to me. Somebody tried to— You poisoned yourself, said the thinking machine again impatiently. You talk like a child. How do you know I poisoned myself? How do you know I ever handled a poison? And how do you know it was a year ago if I did? The thinking machine regarded me coldly for an instant, and then those strange eyes of his wandered upward again. I know those things, he said. Just as I know your name, address, and profession from cards I found in your pockets. Just as I know you smoke from half a dozen cigars on you. Just as I know that you're wearing those clothes for the first time this winter. Just as I know you lost your wife within a few months, that you kept house then, and that your house was infested with insects. I know, just as I know everything else, by the rules of inevitable logic. My head was whirling. I stared at him in blank astonishment. But how do you know those things, I insisted, in bewilderment. The average person of today, replied the scientist, knows nothing unless it is written down and thrust under his nose. I happen to be a physician. I saw you fall and went to you, my first thought being of heart trouble. Your pulse showed it was not that, and it was obviously not apoplexy. Now there was no visible reason why you should have collapsed like that. There had been no shot. There was no wound. Therefore poison. An examination confirmed this first hypothesis. Your symptoms showed that the poison was by chloride of mercury. I put you in a cab and brought you here. From the fact you were not dead, then I knew that your system had absorbed only a minute quantity of poison, a quantity so small that it demonstrated instantly that there had been no suicidal intent, and was indicated too that no one else had administered it. That was true. I knew. I didn't guess. I knew that the poisoning was accidental. How accidental? My first surmise, naturally, was that the poison had been absorbed through the mouth. I searched your pockets. The only thing I found that you would put in your mouth were the cigars. Were they poisoned? A test showed they were, all of them. With intent to kill? No. Not enough poison was used. Was the poison a part of a gum used to bind the cigar? Possible of course, but not probable. Then what? He lowered his eyes and squinted at me suddenly, aggressively. I shook my head, and as an afterthought I closed my gaping mouth. Perhaps you carried corrosive supplement in your pocket. I didn't find any, but perhaps you once carried it. I tore out the coat pocket in which I found the cigars, and subjected it to the test. At some time there had been corrosive supplement in the form of powder or crystals in the pocket, and in some manner, perhaps because of an imperfection in the package, a minute quantity was loose in your pocket. Here was an answer to every question, and more. Here was how the cigars were poisoned, and in combination with the tailor's tag inside your pocket a short history of your life. Briefly, it was like this. Once you had corrosive supplement in your pocket, for what purpose? First thought, to rid your home of insects. Second thought, if you were boarding, married or unmarried, the task of getting rid of the insects would have been left to the servant. This would possibly have been the case if you had been living at home. So I assumed for the instant that you were keeping house, and if keeping house you were married. You bought the poison for use in your own house. Now, without an effort, naturally I had you married and keeping house. Then what? The tailor's tag, with your name and the date your clothing was made, one year and three months ago. What is winter clothing? If you had worn it since the poison was loose in your pocket, the thing that happened to you tonight would have happened to you before. But it never happened before. Therefore I assumed that you had the poison early last spring, when insects began to be troublesome, and immediately after that you laid away the suit until this winter. I know you are wearing the suit for the first time this winter because, again, this thing has not happened before, and because two of the faint odor of mothballs. A band of crepe on your hat, the picture of a young woman in your watch, and the fact you are now living at your club, as your bill for last month shows, establish beyond doubt that you are a widower. It's perfectly miraculous, I exclaimed. Logic, logic, logic snapped the irritable little scientist. You are a lawyer, you ought to know the correlation of facts. You ought to know that two and two make four, not sometimes, but all the time. End of my first experience with the great logician. Evidence by Murray Linster. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Evidence by Murray Linster. It was hot. My pony jogged glistlessly along without interest or animation, while I was only concerned with the problem of getting to shade and water, but especially shade. The sun was hot enough to fry anyone's brains in his skull, and my saddle burned my hand if I touched it, where the sun struck it. There was a trickling stream of perspiration down either cheek and a third stream down my nose. From time to time I smudged the dust across my face in an attempt to stop the streams, but the action merely interrupted their course. It was in this peculiarly Texan atmosphere that I came upon Jimmy Calton. He was standing by the open hood of one of those mechanical miracles known as a tin Lizzie, holding a sooted spark plug and a cloth in one hand and attempting to clean it with the other. He was swearing the while, dispassionately, in a curious mingling of good Anglo-Saxon and Dolby Spanish. Hello, Jimmy," I said listlessly. He looked up and nodded. Say, you look hot, he observed. Come on and ride a ways with me. Lizzie here. I'll be running in a minute. And you can tie your pony on behind. Going anywhere in particular, I asked. Over to see the corner, he told me. Ol' Abe Martin got shocked the other day, and folks are saying Harry Temple done it. They got him locked up anyways. I dismounted stiffly and tied my pony to the rear of the machine, allowing him plenty of lead rope. Jimmy finished wiping the last of the spark plugs, apostrophizing the car in the meantime. You creak and growl and spark plug foul and blasted, hunk of tin he finished lyrically and put down the hood. He went to the crank and turned it half a dozen times. The engine caught, sputtered, and began to run with a pretentious roar. Jimmy hastily reached for the wheel and adjusted the spark and throttled and climbed in leisurely. With a grinding and a lurch we started off my pony following dossily behind. Yes, tin, tin, tin, said Jimmy, doing mysterious things with his feet. I have scorned you and I have flayed you, but by the guy who made you, you are better than a big car, hunk of tin. We slipped into the car's second and highest speed and began to run more smoothly. Jimmy looked behind to see that my pony was all right and began to roll a cigarette with his left hand, while expertly guiding the car around the numerous ruts and rocks in the roadway. I watched the process of cigarette rolling without interest. I can't seem to get the knack of that, I remarked, when he had finished and was licking the edge of the paper to hold it in place. Imitating, said Jimmy casually, there ain't any way that everybody can do. Nobody else I know rolls them like this. It's just easiest for me. You'll have to mess around till you find a way that fits your fingers. I'll smoke tailor-made, I said, rather than bothered with learning. It's like the new generation, said Jimmy severely. Jimmy, it may be said, is thirty, but affects the authority of a man of eighty. Wanting everything done by somebody else, or else by machinery. They even want the thinking done from. It's too hot to think down here. I took off my hat and wiped the moisture off the sweatband. Judging by the little bit of it people do, Jimmy remarked accurately. Most people agree with you. Most people look at thinking as something they was taught to do in schools and, as such, something to forget as soon as possible. From the folks that don't think about the spigotty revoltosos just across the border and are famed and surprised when the spigotties run off with some of the cattle, down to the folks that had rather buy cigarettes than bother thinking up a way to roll them one-handed for themselves. Everybody's just the same. Why, it wouldn't surprise me none at all if most folks told the truth just cause it's too much trouble to think up a lie. I accepted his rebuke in the matter of cigarettes, meekly, and said nothing. It's a fact, said Jimmy, with an air of mournful pity for a race fallen so low. I saw in a book the other day that the best lion is the lie that's near the truth. Ain't that ridiculous? That's just justifying laziness. If folks got the goods on you and you can't get away from the truth then it's all right to dilute the truth until it's harmless, but otherwise a good lie beats the almost truth nine ways from Sunday. Only it's a lot of trouble thinking up a good lie and fortifying it with accumulative evidence. Jimmy rolled those two words off his tongue with some satisfaction. Accumulative evidence like a good lie ought to have. He fell silent for a while, doing marvels of steering in the avoidance of obstacles and depressions in the really horrible road. And thinking, he said suddenly, presently. Folks don't like thinking. Anybody with any sense of no, Harry Temple wouldn't a shot old Abe Martin? Harry Temple has got a bank account in the Farmers and Ranchers Bank and it ain't in reason that he'd go and shoot anybody to steal their roll. Old Abe sold off six hundred steers and got the money form. He was old fashioned and didn't believe in banks, so he took the money home with him. And somebody went and shot him and took the roll. But Harry Temple, with a bank account at the Farmers and Ranchers Bank, it ain't reasonable that he'd go and shoot anybody for to steal their money. If he's any like I am, he's too busy wondering if somebody is going to steal his money to go steal in somebody else's. Jimmy said this last with an air of virtue that made me smile. Jimmy's much too good a poker player to be worried about his money. I know he owns one small ranch he never goes near, bought out of the proceeds of a colossal gain, still remembered along the border. But they think he did it, I asked. Show they do, Jimmy said scornfully. They's going around saying they know he did. That's Toro, of course, one of Jimmy's individualities as his habit of translating American slang into Dolby Spanish and using it in his conversation. What are you going to see the coroner for? Jimmy's holding an inquest, said Jimmy. I'm sort of going to horny and a little, I reckon. These folks are too lazy to do any thinking. If I see a chance I'm going to do some headwork for them. They is a mutton's place right ahead. We turned in the gate and swung up to the house. Half a dozen cars, most of them same make as Jimmy's. Clustered about the front and there were a dozen or more ponies tethered close by the porch, dozing in the baking heat. It was quite a pretentious place, built in the old-fashioned style of the days when a rancher was almost a baron in his own right. Two big barns and a huge table behind the house almost dwarfed the dwelling proper, and quite hid it from the rear. Jimmy eased his car in among the others, snapped the switch and alighted. Three or four of the men about the door nodded to him and told him the inquest had not started, but that it would begin shortly. Once he found that out, Jimmy plunged into an intricate and technical discussion of patented attachments for his machine, and I drifted off into the house. It was a very old house and built with old-fashioned disregard for space. I gathered, however, that the housekeeping done in it was but sketchy. Half a dozen of his riders made it their headquarters with old-aid Martin. They bunked there, and a cook prepared the meals for all of them. There was a long table with a checked red tablecloth on it. The room was empty now except for buzz and flies, where they had their meals. On the day of the shooting I learned the men had all been gone away on their duties, and the cook had gone into town for supplies, so Abe Martin had been alone. Presently I went out to look at the stables. They were huge, but not much used. Three or four ponies were in their stalls, and several more stalls seemed to be used from time to time, but most of them were without signs of recent use. There had been a time when the place was the headquarters of a busy ranch, but since the time of fences the activity had lessened until only Abe Martin, his half-dozen riders, and the cook lived there. It was curious to see the dwelling-place, large in itself, dwarfed by its outbuildings. A stir in the house called me inside. The inquest was evidently to be more or less of an informal affair, but there was nonetheless a determined and business-like air behind it all. Those men meant to get at the bottom of the matter. The coroner seemed to be a conscientious individual who took the evidence of the first witness with great exactitude, though he knew perfectly well beforehand just what the testimony would be. The whole inquiry, as a matter of fact, promised to be cut and dried in spite of Jimmy's announced intention of horning in. The first witness was the cook who had discovered the body. He had come back from town, entered the house, and discovered his employer dead on the floor of the hall. He had been shocked through the heart. A rider whom the cook had hastily summoned corroborated his testimony and added that the body was cold when he was called, proving that death had occurred some time before. The evidence shows, said the coroner casually, that Abe was shocked when there wasn't nobody else in the house but him and the murderer. The cashier the farmers and ranchers' bank ain't here, but he is give me the information that Abe had over four thousand dollars on him when he was killed. That's gone. Evidently he was shocked for his money. It's part of the duties of a coroner's jury to uncover any evidence that will help in solving the problem of who the murderer might be. Miss Joe Harkness will take the stand. There was a movement of interest in the small crowd packed into the one room. I had managed to get beside Jimmy Calton, and his face became extraordinarily mild and gentle. It hinted at some expectation of excitement if I knew Jimmy. Everyone had heard Harkness's story before so it was simply a recapitulation. I ain't got a thing to say, announced Harkness bluntly, except that I seen Harry Temple come out of this here house about three o'clock, just after Abe Martin was shot. I was having trouble with my spark plugs down the road of ways when I seen Harry. He come out of the kitchen door, looked all round as if he was looking to see if anybody seen him, and then he went down toward the stables. He went inside there, then he come out of that and went over to the quarters and got a drink at the pump by the door. I was wondering what he was doing, but it looks to me like he was making sure there wasn't nobody round that could have told that he'd been around. And there's one more thing. When he come out of the house, he come out of the kitchen door. He was putting something in his breast pocket. I glanced at Jimmy Calton. He was looking at Harkness with a gentle, placid smile. His face did not change when Harry Temple stood up, pale beneath his tan. Everything Harkness says is so, said Harry Temple, determinedly. Every single word, only I didn't shoot old Abe. I come out here to see him about selling him some yearlings. He wasn't here, so I went in the kitchen to see if I couldn't leave word with a cook. The cook was missing too, but I thought I heard somebody moving around somewhere, and I went just where Harkness said, and just in the order he said. He must have seen me first when I come out of the kitchen. When I couldn't find nobody, I cranked up and laughed. Harkness stood up. I hate to contradict Harry, he said sharply, but he's made a mistake. He didn't crank up and leave. He was driving somebody else's car and had a self-starter on it. Harry Temple flushed slightly. That's a fact, he acknowledged. I had forgotten that. I was driving a car they lent me at the garage. I'd left my own there to have some repairs made. A course said Harkness sarcastically. Nobody suspects that you was driving a strange car with strange tires so they couldn't prove nothing on you by the tracks. Jimmy put a question in a gentle voice. There's another question, he said softly. What was Harry putting in his pocket when Harkness saw him coming out of the house? I don't remember putting anything in my pocket, said Temple, beginning to be worried. It was probably my handkerchief. There was a moment's silence. One or two of the men in the room stirred uneasily. Jimmy Calton smiled sweetly to himself. Missed a corner, he said slowly. May I make an observation or two? It looks like somebody ought to point out two or three facts. Go ahead, Jimmy, said the coroner. It seemed to be bothering him that so much seemed to point to the guilt of Harry Temple. Temple did seem to be quite a decent sort and the coroner evidently hated to bring out so much to his discredit without anything to counteract the impression thus made. Knowing Jimmy, he knew Jimmy would not interfere unless he thought things were going the wrong way. And that meant in this case that he had something to say in Temple's favor. Missed a corner and gentlemen, said Jimmy formally. It don't seem hardly fit to bring out all this here evidence against a man without any evidence the other way. I want to point out two things about this year's case. The first is that Harry Temple has got money in the bank, and the second is that he never disputed a single thing Hockness said about him. You know, and I know, that a man with money in the bank ain't going around doing highway robbery and murder he can't afford to. We just think about that a while. And here's something else to think about. Did you notice that Harry Temple said right off that he'd done just what Hockness said? Now, if he'd shot old Abe Martin, you know he'd have tried to make some of that stuff sound just a little less incriminating. He'd have said he didn't go in the house just to the door knocked, and he'd have tried to weaken everything Hockness said just that way. But he didn't. He's telling the truth so hard he can't seem to see it's put in a rope around his neck in spite of his being just as innocent as he says. As for his putting something in his brass pocket, nobody puts money there, and especially stolen money, but most everybody puts the handkerchief there. But that ain't evidence, said the coroner, disappointedly. I thought you had some facts to give us. I'd give you one fact, Jimmy offered. Harry Temple didn't shoot Abe Martin. Look here, Hockness himself don't believe he did. Do you, he demanded, turning to that person. Hockness sat stolidly in his chair. You heard what I said, he grunted. You heard what I seen him do. Sure I'd do, Jimmy admitted readily, but you know he didn't shoot Abe. Jimmy seemed to be making a fool of himself. I tugged at his sleeve for him to sit down, but he paid no attention. What do you mean, demanded Hockness, suspiciously? Nothing whatever, said Jimmy, with a gentleness I suddenly recognized as dangerous. Nothing whatever, except what I said. You know, Harry Temple didn't shoot Abe. You mean to tell me I'm lying, snapped Hockness angrily? No, said Jimmy, in a cool and drawl. Nothing so harmless. I'm accusing you of something damn psyched more dangerous than lying. I'm accusing you of telling the truth, the exact truth. There was a puzzled pause. I noticed, however, that Hockness was watching Jimmy, with a curious alertness. It's always more dangerous to tell the truth in a case like this, Hockness, said Jimmy, still in that gentle drawl. You told the absolute truth about what you saw Harry do, and that's the most dangerous thing you could have told, because there ain't but one man could have told that. Mr. Coena, if you look out of the window, you'll see just where Harry Temple walked down the kitchen steps, just where he went back to the stables, just where he went into the big barn, and just where he got a drink. And then, if you look, you'll see where he stopped his car, so Hockness could see that it had a self-starter on it instead of a crank. I saw a light break on the coroner's face, as he looked from place to place in the yard behind the house. He faced about, just as Jimmy deliberately pulled a revolver out of his pocket. Hockness told the truth, said Jimmy softly. He told the absolute truth. But there ain't but one place you can see all them things from. With all them bonds outside, there ain't but one place you can see the door of the stables, and the big barn, and the pump by the quarters, and the kitchen door all at once. And there wasn't but one man in the world who could have seen Harry Temple do all of them things, because there wasn't but one man in that place. The only place you can see all them places from is this here room, and the only man in the house when Harry Temple did them things was the man who'd shot Abe Martin and hadn't had time to get away when Harry Temple come driving in. Hockness, Jimmy's voice was suddenly like steel, if you pull that gun on me I'll blow a hole right through the place your brains ought to be. End of evidence. The Adventure of the Diamond Necklace by G.F. Forrest. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Carolyn Francis. The Adventure of the Diamond Necklace by G.F. Forrest. As I pushed open the door, I was greeted by the strains of a ravishing melody. Warlock Bones was playing dreamily on the accordion, and his keen, clear-cut face was almost hidden from view by the dense smoke-rease, which curled upwards from an exceedingly fine briar wood pipe. As soon as he saw me, he drew a final choking sob from the instrument, and rose to his feet with a smile of welcome. Ah, good morning, Gosswell, he said cheerily. But why do you press your trousers under the bed? It was true, quite true. This extraordinary observer, the terror of every cowering criminal, the greatest thinker that the world has ever known, had ruthlessly laid bare the secret of my life. Ah, it was true. But how do you know? I asked in a stupor of amazement. He smiled at my discomforture. I have made a special study of trousers, he answered, and of beds. I am rarely deceived, but setting that knowledge for the moment on one side, have you forgotten the few days I spent with you three months ago? I saw you do it then. He could never cease to astound me this link-side sleuth of crime. I could never master the marvelous simplicity of his methods. I could only wonder and admire, a privilege for which I can never be sufficiently grateful. I seated myself on the floor, and embracing his left knee with both my arms, in an ecstasy of passionate adoration gazed up inquiringly into his intellectual countenance. He rolled up his sleeve and, exposing his thin, nervous arm, injected half a pint of prucit acid with incredible rapidity. This operation finished, he glanced at the clock. In twenty-three or twenty-four minutes, he observed, a man will probably call to see me. He has a wife, two children, and three false teeth, one of which will very shortly have to be renewed. He is a successful stockbroker of about forty-seven, wears jagers, and is an enthusiastic patron of missing word competitions. How do you know all this? I interrupted breathlessly, tapping his tibia with fond impatience. One smiled his inscrutable smile. He will come, he continued, to ask my advice about some jewels which were stolen from his house at Richmond last Thursday week. Among them was a diamond necklace of quite exceptional value. Explain! I cried in rapturous admiration. Please explain! My dear Gauzewell, he laughed, you are really very dense. Will you never learn my methods? The man is a personal friend of mine. I met him yesterday in the city, and he asked to come and talk over his loss with me this morning. Voila, too! Deduction my good Gauzewell, mere deduction. But the jewels! Are the police on the track? Very much off it, really. Our police are the various bunglers. They have already arrested twenty-seven perfectly harmless and unoffending persons, including a dowryd duchess, who is still prostrate with the shock. And unless I am very much mistaken, they will arrest my friend's wife this afternoon. She was in Moscow at the time of the robbery, but that, of course, is of little consequence to these amiable dolds. And have you any clues as to the whereabouts of the jewels? A fairly good one, he answered. So good, in fact, that I can, at this present moment, lay my hands upon them. It is a very simple case, one of the simplest I have ever had to deal with, and yet, in its way, a strange one, presenting several difficulties to the average observer. The motive of the robbery is a little puzzling. The thief appears to have been actuated not by the ordinary greed of gain, so much as by an intense love of self-advertisement. I can hardly imagine, I said with some surprise, a burglar? Qua burglar? Wishing to advertise his exploits to the world? True, Goswell, you show your usual common sense, but you have not the imagination, without which a detective can do nothing. Your position is that of those energetic, if somewhat beef-witted enthusiasts, the police. They are frankly puzzled by the whole affair. To me, personally, the case is as clear as daylight. That I can understand, I murmured with a reverent pat of his shin. The actual thief, he continued, for various reasons I am unwilling to produce. But upon the jewels, as I said just now, I can lay my hand at any moment. Look here! He disentangled himself from my embrace, and walked to a pat and safe in a corner of the room. From this he extracted a large jewel case, and, opening it, disclosed a set of the most superb diamonds. In the midst a magnificent necklace winked and flashed in the wintry sunlight. The sight took my breath away, and for a time I groveled in speechless admiration before him. But—but how! I stampered at last, and stopped, for he was reading my confusion with evident amusement. I stole them, said Warlock Bones, and of The Adventure of the Diamond Necklace. The Perloined Letter by Edgar Allen Poe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by James Christopher, JXChristopher at yahoo.com. Nilsapienta odiosus ecumenonimo, Seneca. At Paris, just after dark, wingusty evening in the autumn of 18, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a mirsham, in company with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little-back library or book closet, Autrasse-Mae, number 33, Rue-Denau, Farberg, Saint-Germain. For one hour, at least, we had maintained a profound silence, while each to any casual observer might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppress the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening. I mean the affair of the Rue-Morgue and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rojet. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence when the door of our apartment was thrown open and emitted our old acquaintance, Monser G., the Prefect of the Parisian Police. We gave him a hearty welcome, for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now rose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again without doing so. Upon G. saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble. If it is of any point requiring reflection, observed Dupin, as he forebored to incandle the wick, we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark. "'That is another of your odd notions,' said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything odd that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of oddities. "'Very true,' said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him a comfortable chair. "'And what is the difficulty now?' I asked, nothing more in the assassination way, I hope. "'Oh, no, nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves. But then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd. "'Simple and odd,' said Dupin. "'Why, yes. And not exactly that either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzle because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether.' "'Perhaps it is a very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault,' said my friend. "'What nonsense you do talk?' replied the Prefect, laughing heartily. "'Perhaps a mystery is a little too plain,' said Dupin. "'Oh, good heavens, who ever heard of such an idea?' "'A little too self-evident.' "'Ha, ha, ho, ho, ho,' roared our visitor, profoundly amused. "'Oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet.' "'And what, after all, is the matter at hand?' I asked. "'Well, I will tell you,' replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady and contemplative puff, and settled himself into the chair. "'I will tell you in a few words, but before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to any one.' "'Proceed,' said I. "'Or not,' said Dupin. "'Well, then, I have received personal information from a very high quarter that a certain document of the last importance has been perloined from the royal apartments. The individual who perloined it is known. This is beyond a doubt. He was seen to take it. It is known also that it still remains in his possession. "'How is this known?' asked Dupin. "'It is clearly inferred,' replied the Prefect, from the nature of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's possession. That is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it. "'Be a little more explicit,' I said. "'Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power and a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable. The Prefect was fond of a can't of diplomacy. "'Still, I do not quite understand,' said Dupin. "'No? Well, the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station, and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopardized. But this ascendancy, I interposed, would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare?' "'The thief,' said G., is the minister D., who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in question, a letter, to be frank, had been received by the personage rob while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it into a door, she was forced to place it open as it was upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost and the contents thus unexposed. The letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the minister D. His links-eye immediately perceives the paper, recognizes the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transaction, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question. He opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in a close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses for some fifteen minutes upon the public affairs. At length and taking leave he takes also from the table the letter to which he has no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but of course dared not call attention to the act in the presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped, leaving his own letter, one of no importance, upon the table. Here, then, said Dependome, you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendancy complete, the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Yes, replied the prefect, and the power thus attained has, for some months, been wielded for political purposes to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced every day of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me. Then whom, said Dependome, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired or even imagined? You flatter me, replied the prefect, but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained. It is clear, said I, as you observe, that the letter is still in possession of the minister, since it is this possession and not any employment of the letter which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs. True, said Gee, and upon this conviction I proceed. My first care was to make a thorough search of the minister's hotel. And here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our design. But, said I, you are quite off-fet in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before. Oh yes, and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night. These servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and being chiefly neapolitans are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed during the greater part of which I have not been engaged personally in ransacking the D Hotel. My honor is interested, and to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that a paper can be concealed. But is it not possible, I suggested, that although the letter may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestioningly is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises? This is barely possible, said Dupin. The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially those entrants in which D is known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the document its susceptibility of being produced at a moment's notice, a point of nearly equal importance with its possession. It's susceptibility of being produced, said I. That is to say, of being destroyed, said Dupin. True, I observed, the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider that as out of the question. Entirely, said the Prefect, he has been twice way-laid as if by foot-pads, and his person rigorously search under my own inspection. You might have spared yourself this trouble, said Dupin. D, I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these way-lings as a matter of course. Not altogether a fool, said G, but then he's a poet, which I take to be only one removed from a fool. True, said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his mirsham, although I have been guilty of a certain dog-girl myself. Suppose you detail, said I, the particulars of your search. Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire building room by room, devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined first the furniture of each apartment. We opened every possible drawer, and I presume you know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any man as adult who permits a secret drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of bulk, of space, to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After the cabinets we took chairs. The cushions we probe with fine, long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we removed tops. Why so? Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article. Then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed-post are employed in the same way. But could not the cavity be detected by sounding, I asked? By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise. But you could not have removed. You could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mentioned. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting needle. And in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all the chairs. Certainly not. But we did better. We examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and indeed the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance, we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder to the gluing, any unusual gapping in the joints, would have suffice to ensure detection. I presume you look to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probe the beds and the bed clothes as well as the curtains and carpets. That, of course. And when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments which we numbered, so that none might be missed. Then we scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining with the microscope as before. The two houses adjoining, I explained. You must have had a great deal of trouble. We had, but the reward offered is prodigious. You include the grounds about the houses. All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks and found it undisturbed. You looked among these papers, of course, and into the books of the library. Certainly. We opened every package in parcel. We not only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake according to the fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book cover, with the most accurate measurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed longitudinally with the needles. You explored the floors beneath the carpets? Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet and examined the boards with the microscope. And the paper on the walls? Yes. You looked into the cellars? We did. Then, I said, you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is not upon the premises as you suppose. I fear you are right there, said the prefect. And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do? To make a thorough research of the premises. That is absolutely needless, replied G. I am not more sure than I breathe and I am that letter is not at the hotel. I have no better advice to give you, said Dupin. You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter. Oh, yes. And here, the prefect, producing a memorandum book, proceeded to read aloud of my new account of the internal and especially of the external appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I have ever known the good gentleman before. In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe in a chair, and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length, I said, well, but, gee, what of the perloined letter? I presume you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the minister. Confound him, say I, yes. I made the re-examination, however, as Dupin suggested. But it was all labor lost. As I knew it would be. How much was the reward offered, did you say? Asked Dupin. Why, a very great deal. A very liberal reward. I don't like to say how much precisely. But one thing I will say. That I wouldn't mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to anyone who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day. And the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done. Why, yes, said Dupin drawingly, between the whiffs of his arm. I really think, gee, you have not exerted yourself to the utmost in this manner. You might do a little more, I think, eh? How? In what way? Why, you might employ counsel in the matter, eh? Do you remember the story they tell of Abernathy? No, hang Abernathy. To be sure, hang him and welcome. But once upon a time a certain rich miser conceived the design of sponging upon this Abernathy for a medical opinion. Getting up for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the physician as that of an ordinary individual. We will suppose, said the miser, that his symptoms are such and such. Now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take? Take, said Abernathy, why, take advice to be sure. But, said the prefect a little discomposed, I am perfectly willing to take advice and pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to anyone who would aid me in the matter. In that case, replied Dupin, opening a drawer and producing a checkbook, you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter. I was astonished. The prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth and eyes at steam staring from their sockets. Then, apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and deposited in his pocketbook. Then unlocking an escroachois, took thence a letter and gave it to the prefect. This functionary graspet in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check. When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations. The Parisian police, he said, are exceedingly able in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duty seemed chiefly to demand. Thus, when G. detailed to us his motive searching the premises at the Hotel D., I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation, so far as his labor is extended. So far as his labor is extended, said I. Yes, said Dupin. The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it. I merely laughed, but he seemed quite serious in all that he said. The measures, then, he continued, were good in their kind, and well executed. Their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the prefect, a sort of procrustian bed, to which he forcibly adopts his designs. And he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand. And many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one of about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of even and odd attracted universal admiration. This game is simple and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hands a number of these toys and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one. If wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course, he has some principle of guessing, and this lay in mere observation and ad-measurement of the astuteness of his opponents. For example, an errant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his closed hands, asked, are they even or odd? Our schoolboy replies odd and loses. But upon the second trial he wins. For then he says to himself, the simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second. I will therefore guess odd. He guesses odd and wins. Now with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus. This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and in the second he will propose to himself upon the first impulse a simple variation from even to odd as did the first simpleton. But then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even. He guesses even and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellow is termed lucky, what, in its last analysis, is it? It is merely, I said, an identification of the reasoner's intellect without of his opponent. It is said to Penn, and upon inquiring of the boy by what means he affected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received an answer as follows. When I wished to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashioned the expression of my face as accurately as possible in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression. This response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to Rosh Fakoh, to Labugiv, to Machiavelli, and to Campagnela. And the identification, I said, of the reasoner's intellect without of his opponent, depends, if I understand you are right, upon the accuracy from which the opponent's intellect is at measure. For its practical value it depends upon this, replied to Penn, and the prefect and his cohorts fail so frequently first by default of this identification, and secondly, by ill-ed measurement, or rather through not-ed measurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of ingenuity, and in searching for anything hidden, avert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much, that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass. But when the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation of principle in their investigations. At best, when urged by some unusual emergency, by some extraordinary reward, they extander, exaggerate their old modes of practice without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D, has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all this boring and probing and sounding and scrutinizing with the microscope and dividing the surface of the building into registered square inches? What is it but an exaggeration of the application of one principle, or a set of principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity to which the prefect in the long routine of his day has been accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter? Not exactly in a gimlet hole board than a chair leg, but at least in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought, which would urge a man to secret a letter in a gimlet hole board than a chair leg? And do you not see also that such researche nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects? For in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed, a disposal of it in this researche manner, is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed. And thus its discovery depends not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers, and where the cases of importance, or what amounts to the same thing in the political eyes when the reward is of magnitude, the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that had the Perloin letter been hidden anywhere within the limits of the Prefect's examination, in other words, had the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect, its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified, and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets. This the Prefect feels, and he is merely guilty of a non-distributeo-mediae, and thence inferring that all poets are fools. But is this really the poet, I asked? There are two brothers I know, and both have attained reputation in letters. The minister, I believe, has written learnedly on differential calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet. You were mistaken. I know him well. He is both. As poet and mathematician he would reason well. As mere mathematician he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect. You surprise me, I said, by these opinions which have been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set it not the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence. Il aya periaire, replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, Coutout-id publique, tu conversion recouteste un sortis, car elle a convenu, a pregon nombre. The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy of better cause, for example, they have insinuated the term analysis into application to algebra. The French are the originators of this particular deception. But if a term is of any importance, if words derive any value from applicability, then analysis conveys algebra about as much as in Latin, ambitis implies ambition, religio, religion, or hominé's honest eye, a set of honorable men. You have a quarrel in hand, I see, said I, with some of the algebraeus of Paris, but proceed. I dispute the availability, and thus the value of that reason which is cultivated in any a special form other than abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason induced by mathematical study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity. Mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation of form and quantity is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science, it is usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry, also, the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive, it fails. For two motives, each of a given value have not necessarily a value united equal to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician argues, from his finite truths through habit, as if they were of absolutely general applicability, as the world, indeed, imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned mythology, mentions an analogous source of error when he says that, although the pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually and make inferences from them as existing realities. With the algebraist, however, who are pagans themselves, the pagan fables are believed, and inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory as through an unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered a mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of faith that x2 plus px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x2 plus px is not altogether equal to q, and having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down. I mean to say, continued dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, that if the minister had been no more than a mathematician, the prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I know him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity with reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold and treagant. Such a man, I considered, would not fail to be aware of the ordinary political modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate, and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate, the waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the prefect as certain aids to his success, I regard only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus, the sooner to impress them with a conviction to which G, in fact, didn't finally arrive, the conviction that the letter was not upon the premises. I felt also that the whole train of thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of political action in searches for articles concealed, I felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the minister. It would imperatively lead him to dispense with all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as to not see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the prefect. I saw, and find, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of to being so very self-evident. Yes, said I, I remember his marryment well. I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions. The material world, continued Dupin, abounds with very strict analogies to the immaterial, and thus some color of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma that metaphor or simile may be made to strengthen an argument as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis inertia, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is commensurate with its difficulty than it is in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again, have you ever noticed which of the street signs over the shop doors are the most attractive of attention? I have never given the matter a thought, I said. There is a game of puzzles, he resumed, which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word, the name of town, river, state, or empire, any word in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice of the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names, but the adept selects such words as stretch in large characters from one end of the chart to the other. These like the over largely lettered signs in the placards of the street escape observation by dent to be excessively obvious, and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral in apprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusive and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the prefect. He never once thought it probable or possible that the minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world by way of best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it. But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing and discriminating ingenuity of D, upon the fact that the document must have always been at hand, if he intended to use it for good purpose, and upon the decisive evidence obtained by the prefect that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary search, the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all. Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morning quite by accident at the ministerial hotel. I found D at home, yawning, lounging and dawdling as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of An-Wi. He is perhaps the most really energetic human being now alive, but that is only when nobody sees him. To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host. I paid a special attention to a large writing table near which he sat, and upon which lay, confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion. At length my eyes, and going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card rack of pasteboard that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantelpiece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two across the middle, as if a design in the first instance to tear it entirely up as worthless had been altered or stayed in the second. It had a large black seal bearing the D. cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed in a diminutive female hand to D., the minister himself. It was thrust carelessly and even, as it seemed, contemptuously into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack. No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it to be that of which I searched. To be sure it was, to all appearance, radically different from the one of which the prefect had read a so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D. cipher. There it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S. family. Here the address to the minister, diminutive and feminine, there the superscription to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided. The size alone formed a point of correspondence. But then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive, the dirt, the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D, and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of a document. These things, together with the hyper-of-trusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived, these things I say were strongly corroborative of suspicion, and one who came with the intention to suspect. I protracted my visit as long as possible, and while I maintain a most animated discussion with the minister upon a topic which I knew well to have never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack, and also fell at length upon a discovery which said at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chaff than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reverse direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned as a glove inside out, redirected and resealed. I bade the minister good morning and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table. The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed quite eagerly the conversation of the preceding day. While this engaged, however, a loud report as if of a pistol was heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams and the shoutings of a terrified mob, Dee rushed to the casement, threw it open and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket and replaced it by a facsimile, so far as regards externals, which I carefully prepared at my lodgings, imitating the Dee cipher very readily by means of a seal formed of bread. The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, Dee came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay. But what purpose had you, I asked, in replacing the letter by a facsimile? Would it have not been better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly and departed? Dee, replied Dupin, is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendance devoted to his interest. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the minister has had her in his power. She now has him in hers, since, being unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself at once to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitant than awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilist de Kensis of Ernie, but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalini said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the present instance I had no sympathy, at least no pity, for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know the precise nature of his thoughts when, being defied by her whom the prefect terms a certain personage, he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack. How? Did you put anything particular in it? Why, it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank. That would have been insulting. D, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good humorally, that I should remember. So as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted with my manuscript, and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words, the San Sifunest, Sindanin Datri, Adin De Thieste. They are to be found in Craybions Datri. End of The Perloined Letter by Edgar Allan Poe. This recording by James Christopher, JXChristopheratYahu.com. The Nameless Man by Rodriguez Atalinghi. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda McDaniel. The Nameless Man by Rodriguez Atalinghi. Mr. Barnes was sitting in his private room with nothing of special importance to occupy his thoughts when his office boy announced a visitor. What name? asked Mr. Barnes. None was the reply. You mean, said the detective, that the man did not give you his name. He must have one, of course. Show him in. A minute later, the stranger entered and bowing courteously began the conversation at once. Mr. Barnes, the famous detective, I believe, said he. My name is Barnes, replied the detective. May I have the pleasure of knowing yours? I sincerely hope so, continued the stranger. The fact is, I suppose I have forgotten it. Forgotten your name? Mr. Barnes sent it an interesting case and became doubly attentive. Yes, said the visitor, that is precisely my singular predicament. I seem to have lost my identity. That is the object of my call. I wish to discover who I am. As I evidently am a full-grown man, I can certainly claim that I have a past history. But to me, that past is entirely a blank. I awoke this morning in this condition, yet apparently in possession of all my faculties, so much so that I at once saw the advisability of consulting a first-class detective, and upon inquiry I was directed to you. Your case is interesting from my point of view, I mean. To you, of course, it must seem unfortunate. Yet it is not unparalleled. There have been many such cases recorded, and for your temporary relief, I may say that sooner or later, complete restoration of memory usually occurs. But now, let us try to unravel your mystery as soon as possible, that you may suffer as little inconvenience as there need be. I would like to ask you a few questions. As many as you like, and I will do my best to answer. Do you think that you are a New Yorker? I have not the least idea whether I am or not. You say you were advised to consult me by home, the clerk at the Waldorf Hotel where I slept last night. But of course he gave you my address. Did you find it necessary to ask him how to find my office? Well, no, I did not. That seems strange, does it not? I certainly had no difficulty in coming here. I suppose that must be a significant fact, Mr. Barnes. It tends to show that you have been familiar with New York, but we must still find out whether you live here or not. How did you register at the hotel? MJG Remington City. You are sure that Remington is not your name? Quite sure. After breakfast this morning, I was passing through the lobby when the clerk called me twice by that name. Finally, one of the hall boys touched me on the shoulder and explained that I was wanted at the desk. I was very much confused to find myself called Mr. Remington, a name which is certainly not my own. Before I fully realized my position, I said to the clerk, Why do you call me Remington? And he replied, Because you registered under that name. I tried to pass it off, but I am sure that the clerk looks upon me as a suspicious character. What baggage have you with you at the hotel? None, not even a satchel. May there not be something in your pockets that would help us? Letters, for example. I am sorry to say that I have made a search in that direction but found nothing. Luckily, I did have a pocketbook, though. Much money in it? In the neighborhood of five hundred dollars. Mr. Barnes turned to his table and made a few notes on a pad of paper. While he was so engaged, his visitor took out a fine gold watch, and after a glance at the face was about to return it to his pocket, when Mr. Barnes wheeled around in his chair and said, That is a handsome watch you have there, of a curious pattern too. I am rather interested in old watches. The stranger seemed confused for an instant and quickly put up his watch, saying, There is nothing remarkable about it, merely an old family relic. I value it more for that than anything else. But about my case, Mr. Barnes, how long do you think it will take to restore my identity to me? It is rather awkward to go about under a false name. I should think so, said the detective. I will do my best. No clue to work upon, so that it is impossible to say what my success will be. Still, I think forty-eight hours should suffice. At least in that time I ought to make some discoveries for you. Suppose you call again on the day after tomorrow at noon precisely. Will that suit you? Very well indeed. If you can tell me who I am at that time, I shall be more than convinced that you are a great detective, as I have been told. He arose and prepared to go, and upon that instant Mr. Barnes touched a button under his table with his foot, which caused a bell to ring in a distant part of the building, no sound of which penetrated the private office. Thus, anyone could visit Mr. Barnes in his den, and might leave unsuspicious of the fact that a spy would be awaiting him out in the street, who would shadow him persistently day and night until recall by his chief. After given the signal, Mr. Barnes held his strange visitor in conversation a few minutes longer to allow his spy opportunity to get to his post. How will you pass the time away, Mr. Remington? said he. We may as well call you by that name until I find your true one. Yes, I suppose so. As to what I shall do during the next forty-eight hours, why, I think I may as well devote myself to seeing the sights. It is a remarkably pleasant day for a stroll, and I think I will visit your beautiful central park. A capital idea. By all means, I would advise occupation of that kind. It would be best not to do any business until your memory is restored to you. Business? Why, of course, I can do no business. No, if you were to order any goods, for example, under the name of Remington, later on when you resumed your proper identity, you might be arrested as an imposter. By George I had not thought of that. My position is more serious than I had realized. I thank you for the warning. Sightseeing will assuredly be my safest plan for the next two days. I think so. All of the time agreed upon and hoped for the best. If I should need you before then, I will send to your hotel. Saying good morning, Mr. Barnes turned to his desk again, and as the stranger looked at him before stepping out of the room, the detective seemed engrossed in some papers before him. Yet scarcely had the door closed upon the retreating form of his recent visitor when Mr. Barnes looked up with an air of expectancy. A moment later, a very tiny bell in a drawer of his desk rang, indicating that the man had left the building, the signal having been sent to him by one of his employees, whose business it was to watch all departures and notify his chief. A few moments later, Mr. Barnes himself emerged, clad in an entirely different suit of clothing and with such an alteration in the color of his hair that more than a casual glance would have been required to recognize him. When he reached the street, the stranger was nowhere in sight, but Mr. Barnes went to a doorway opposite, and there he found, written in blue pencil, the word up, whereupon he walked rapidly uptown as far as the next corner, where once more he examined a doorpost upon which he found the word right, which indicated the way the man ahead of him had turned. Beyond this he could expect no signals, for the spy shadowing the stranger did not know positively that his chief would take part in the game. The two signals which he had written on the doors were merely a part of a routine and intended to aid Mr. Barnes should he follow, but if he did so he would be expected to be in sight of the spy by the time the second signal were reached, and so it proved in this instance. For as Mr. Barnes turned the corner to the right, he easily discerned his man about two blocks ahead, and presently was near enough to see Remington also. The pursuit continued until Mr. Barnes was surprised to see him enter the park, thus carrying out his intention as stated in his interview with the detective. Entering at the Fifth Avenue gate, he made his way towards the menagerie, and here a curious incident occurred. The stranger had mingled with the crowd in the monkey house and was enjoying the antics of the mischievous little animals when Mr. Barnes, getting close behind him, deftly removed a pocket-hanker-chiff from the tail of his coat and swiftly transferred it to his arm. On the day following, shortly before noon, Mr. Barnes walked quickly into the reading room of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. In one corner there is a handsome mahogany cabinet containing three compartments, each of which is entered through double doors, having glass panels in the upper half. All these panels are draped yellow silk curtains, and in the center of each appears a white porcelain numeral. These compartments are used as public telephone stations. The applicant being shut in so as to be free from the noise of the outer room. Mr. Barnes spoke to the girl in charge, and then passed into the compartment numbered V. Less than five minutes later Mr. Leroy Mitchell came into the reading room. His keen eyes peered about him, scanning the countenances of those busy with the papers or writing, and then he gave the telephone girl a number and went into the compartment numbered one. About ten minutes elapsed before Mr. Mitchell came out again, and having paid the toll he left the hotel. When Mr. Barnes emerged there was an expression of extreme satisfaction upon his face. Without lingering he also went out, but instead of following Mr. Mitchell through the main lobby to Broadway, he crossed the reading room and reached 23rd Street through the side door. Thence he proceeded to the station of the elevated railroad and went uptown. Twenty minutes later he was ringing the bell of Mr. Mitchell's residence. The butler, who answered his summons, informed him that his master was not at home. He usually comes into lunch, and, however, does he not, asked the detective, Yes, sir, responded the boy, Is Mrs. Mitchell at home? No, sir. Miss Rose? Yes, sir. Ah! Then I'll wait. Take my card to her. Mr. Barnes passed into the luxurious drawing-room and was soon joined by Rose, Mr. Mitchell's adopted daughter. I'm sorry, Papa is not at home, Mr. Barnes, said the little lady, but he will surely be into luncheon if you will wait. Yes, thank you, I think I will. It is quite a trip up, and being here I may as well stop a while and see your father, though the matter is not of any great importance. Some interesting case, Mr. Barnes? If so, do tell me about it. You know I am almost as much interested in your cases as Papa is. Yes, I know you are, and my vanity is flattered, but I am sorry to say I have nothing on hand at present worth relating. My errand is a very simple one. Your father was saying a few days ago that he was thinking of buying a bicycle, and yesterday by accident I came across a machine of an entirely new make, which seems to me superior to anything yet produced. I thought he might be interested to see it, before deciding what kind to buy. I'm afraid you are too late, Mr. Barnes, Papa has bought a bicycle already. Indeed, what style did he choose? I really do not know, but it is down in the lower hall if you care to look at it. It's hardly worthwhile, Miss Rose, after all I have no interest in the new model, and if your father has found something that he likes, I won't even mention the other to him. It might only make him regret his bargain. Still, on second thought, I will go down with you if you will take me into the dining room and show me the head of that moose which your father had been bragging about killing. I believe it has come back from the taxidermis. Oh yes, he is just a monster. Come on! They went down to the dining room, and Mr. Barnes expressed great admiration about the moose's head and praised Mr. Mitchell's skill as a marksman, but he had taken a moment to scrutinize the bicycle which stood in the hallway while Rose was opening the blinds in the dining room. Then they returned to the drawing room, and after a little more conversation Mr. Barnes departed, saying that he could not wait any longer, but he charged Rose to tell her father that he particularly desired him to call it noon on the following day. Finally at the time appointed, Remington walked into the office of Mr. Barnes and was announced. The detective was in his private room. Mr. Leroy Mitchell had been admitted but a few moments before. Asked Mr. Remington in, said Mr. Barnes to his boy, and when that gentleman entered before he could show surprise to find a third party present, the detective said, Mr. Mitchell, this is the gentleman whom I wished you to meet. Permit me to introduce to you Mr. Mortimer J. Goldie, better known to the sporting fraternity as G. J. Mortimer, the champion short-distance bicycle rider who recently rode a mile in the phenomenal time of 1.56 on a quarter-mile track. As Mr. Barnes spoke, he gazed from one to the other of his companions with a half-quisical and wholly pleased expression on his face. Mr. Mitchell appeared much interested, but the newcomer was evidently greatly astonished. He looked blankly at Mr. Barnes a moment, then dropped into a chair with a query. How, in the name of conscience, did you find that out? That much was not very difficult, replied the detective. I can tell you more. Indeed, I can supply your whole past history, provided your memory has been sufficiently restored for you to recognize my facts as true. Mr. Barnes looked at Mr. Mitchell and winked one eye in a most suggestive manner, at which that gentleman burst out into a hearty laughter, finally saying, We may as well admit that we are beaten, Goldie. Mr. Barnes has been too much for us. But I want to know how he has done it, persisted Mr. Goldie. I have no doubt that Mr. Barnes will satisfy you. Indeed, I am as curious as you are to know by what means he has arrived at his quick solution of the problem which we set him. I will enlighten you as to detective methods with pleasure, said Mr. Barnes. Let me begin with the visit made to me by this gentleman two days ago. At the very outset his statement aroused my suspicion, although I did my best not to let him think so. He announced to me that he had lost his identity and I promptly told him that his case was not uncommon. I said that in order that we might feel sure I did not doubt his tale. But truly his case, if he were telling the truth, was absolutely unique. Men have lost recollection of their past and even have forgotten their names. But I never before heard of a man who had forgotten his name and at the same time knew that he had done so. A capital point, Mr. Barnes, said Mr. Mitchell, you were certainly shrewd to suspect fraud so early. Cannot say that I suspected fraud so soon, but the story was so unlikely that I could not believe it immediately. I therefore was what I might call analytically attentive during the rest of the interview. The next point worth noting, which came out, was that although he had forgotten himself, he had not forgotten New York, for he admitted having come to me without special guidance. I remember that, interrupted Mr. Goldie, and I think I even said to you at the time that it was significant. And I told you that at least it showed that you had been familiar with New York. This was better proven when you said that you would spend the day in Central Park, and when, after leaving here, you had no difficulty to find your way thither. Do you mean to say that you had me followed? I made sure that no one was after me. Well, yes, you were followed, said Mr. Barnes, with a smile. I had a spy after you, and I followed you as far as the park myself, but let me come to the other points in your interview and my deductions. You told me that you had registered as MJG Remington. This helped me considerably, as you shall see presently. A few minutes later, you took out your watch, and in that little mirror over my desk, which I use occasionally when I turn my back upon a visitor, I noted that there was an inscription on the outside of the case. I turned and asked you something about the watch when you hastily returned it to your pocket with the remark that it was an old family relic. Now, can you explain how you could have known that, supposing that you had forgotten who you were? Neatly caught Goldie, laughed Mr. Mitchell. You certainly made a mess of it there. It was an asinine slip, said Mr. Goldie, laughing also. Now then, continued Mr. Barnes, you readily see that I had good reason for believing that you had not forgotten your name. On the contrary, I was positive that your name was a part of the inscription on the watch. What then could be your purpose in pretending otherwise? I did not discover that for some time. However, I decided to go ahead and find you out if I could. Next, I noted two things. Your coat opened once so that I saw, pinned to your vest, a bicycle badge, which I recognized as the emblem of the League of American Wheelmen. Oh, oh, cried Mr. Mitchell, shame on you Goldie for a blunderer. I had entirely forgotten the badge, said Mr. Goldie. I also observed, the detective went on, little indentations on the sole of your shoe as you had your legs crossed, which satisfied me that you were a writer even before I observed the badge. Now then, we come to the name and the significance thereof. Had you really lost your memory, the choosing of a name when you registered at the hotel would have been a haphazard matter of no importance to me. But as soon as I decided that you were imposing upon me, I knew that your choice of a name had been a deliberate act of the mind, one from which deductions could be drawn. Ah, now we come to the interesting part, said Mr. Mitchell. I love to follow a detective when he uses his brains. The name as registered, and I examine the registry myself to make sure, was odd. Three initials are unusual. A man without memory, and therefore not quite sound mentally, would hardly have chosen so many. Then why had it been done in this instance? What more natural than that these initials represented the true name? In assuming an alias, it is the most common method to transpose the real name in some way. At least it was a working hypothesis. Then the last name might be very significant, Remington. The Remington's make guns, sewing machines, typewriters, and bicycles. Now, this man was a bicycle rider, I was sure. If he chose his own initials as part of the alias, it was possible that he selected Remington because it was familiar to him. I even imagined that he might be an agent for Remington bicycles, and I had arrived at that point during our interview when I advised him not to buy anything until his identity was restored. But I was sure of my quarry when I stole a handkerchief from him at the park and found the initials MJG upon the same. Marked, Lenin, on your person, exclaimed Mr. Mitchell, worse and worse, will never make a successful criminal of you, Goldie. Perhaps not, I shan't cry over it. I thought, sure of my success by this time, continue, Mr. Barnes, yet at the very next step I was balked. I looked over a list of LAW members and could not find a name to fit my initials, which shows, as you will see presently, that as I may say, too many clues spoil the broth. Without the handkerchief I could have done better. Next I secured a catalogue of the Remingtons, which gave a list of their authorized agents, and again I failed. Returning to my office, I received information from my spy, sent in by messenger, which promised to open away for me. He had followed you about, Mr. Goldie, and I must say you played your part very well, so far as avoiding acquaintances is concerned. But at last you went to a public telephone and called up someone. My man saw the importance of discovering to whom you had spoken and bribed the telephone attendant to give him the information. All that he learned, however, was that you had spoken to the public station at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. My spy thought that this was inconsequent, but it proved to me at once that there was collusion and that your man must have been at the other station by previous appointment. As that was at noon a few minutes before the same hour on the following day, that is to say yesterday, I went to the Fifth Avenue Hotel telephone and secreted myself in the middle compartment, hoping to hear what your partner might say to you. I failed in this as the boxes were too well made to permit sound to pass from one to the other. But imagine my gratification to see Mr. Mitchell himself go into the box. And why, asked Mr. Mitchell. Well, as soon as I saw you, I comprehended the whole scheme. It was you who had concocted the little diversion to test my ability. Thus at last I understood the reason for the pretended loss of identity. With the knowledge that you were in it, I was more than ever determined to get at the facts. Knowing that you were out, I hastened to your house, hoping for a chat with Little Miss Rose as the most likely member of your family to get information from. Oh, fine, Mr. Barnes, said Mr. Mitchell, to play upon the innocence of childhood, I am ashamed of you. All's fair, et cetera. Well, I succeeded. I found Mr. Goldie's bicycle in your hallway, and as I suspected, twas a rimmington. I took the number and hurried down to the agency where I readily discovered that wheel number 5086 is written by G.J. Mortimer, one of their regular racing team. I also learned that Mortimer's private name is Mortimer J. Goldie. I was much pleased at this because it showed how good my reasoning had been about the alias. For you observed that the racing name is merely a transposition of the family name. The watch, of course, is a prize, and the inscription would have proved that you were imposing upon me, Mr. Goldie, had you permitted me to see it. Of course, that is why I put it back in my pocket. I said just now, said Mr. Barnes, that without the stolen handkerchief, I would have done better. Having it, when I looked over the LAW list, I went through the Gs only. Without it, I should have looked through the Gs, Js, and Ms, not knowing how the letters may have been transposed. In that case, I should have found G.J. Mortimer, and the initials would have proved that I was on the right track. You have done well, Mr. Barnes, said Mr. Mitchell. I asked Goldie to play the part of a nameless man for a few days to have some fun with you, but you have had fun with us, it seems. Though I am conceited enough to say that had it been possible for me to play the principal part, you would not have pierced my identity so soon. Oh, I don't know, said Mr. Barnes, we are both of us a little egotistical, I fear. Undoubtedly. Still, if I ever set another trap for you, I will assign myself the chief role. Nothing would please me better, said Mr. Barnes, but, gentlemen, as you have lost in this little game, it seems to me that someone owes me a dinner, at least. I'll stand the expense with pleasure, said Mr. Mitchell. Not at all, interrupted Mr. Goldie. It was through my blundering that we lost, and I'll pay the piper. Settle it between you, cried Mr. Barnes, but let us walk on, I am getting hungry. Whereupon they adjourned to Delmonico's. End of The Nameless Man, recorded for LibriVox.org by Linda McDaniel, Atlanta, Georgia.