In the second letter from Poe, the writer asked Dr. Snodgrass to place a favorable notice of Poe's work in a magazine then being edited by Neilson Poe, hoping that the latter would oblige him as his cousin. The attempt seems to have failed, and Poe wrote back in disgust. "I felt that N. Poe would not insert the article," he said. "In your private ear, I believe him to be the bitterest enemy I have in the world."

I rushed to share this. "Neilson Poe, monsieur! Edgar Poe calls him his bitterest enemy… Didn't I guess at his position in all this!"

Our time being too short to discuss each item, Duponte directed me to quickly copy into my memorandum book all items about Poe that seemed important to me and, for that matter, he said after thinking it over, items that seemed unimportant to me as well. I duly noted the date of Poe's letter about Neilson: October 7, 1839-exactly ten years to the day before Poe's death!

"He is the more despicable in this," wrote Poe of Neilson, "since he makes loud professions of friendship." And did Neilson not profess the same fables, when I met him? We were not only cousins, but friends, Mr. Clark. Neilson Poe, with his heart beating for his own literary fame, his hand holding a wife who was sister and near copy to Edgar's-had he wanted the life of the very man he so outwardly denigrated?

This was not all I found in letters from Poe to Snodgrass about his Baltimore relatives. Poe had declared Henry Herring (the first Poe relation to arrive at Ryan's) "a man of unprincipled character."

Duponte paused in the midst of opening every possible drawer in the room.

"Survey the streets from the other side of the house, Monsieur Clark. Watch out for Dr. Snodgrass's carriage. When he arrives, we must leave immediately, and ensure the Irish chambermaid says nothing of our visit."

I studied Duponte's face for any hint at how we would accomplish the second objective. I walked to a chamber at the front of the house. Looking from the window, I found that a carriage was passing nearby, but after it seemed to check its speed briefly, the horses continued down High Street. Turning back toward the study, I found myself facing Bonjour, leaning upon the hearth so that her black dress and apron radiated with the flame of the fire.

"All right, mister? Anything that I can help you with while you wait for Master Snodgrass?" she asked, in imitation of the downstairs chambermaid's voice, and loud enough that she might hear. In a quieter tone, she commented, "You see now that your friend is only a vulture on my master's investigation."

"I am quite well here, miss, thank you, only looking out at these dreadful rain clouds," I said in my loud voice, and then quietly: "Auguste Duponte imitates no man. He shall resolve this in a manner deserving of Monsieur Poe. He can help you, too, if you wish, more than that thief, mademoiselle, your so-called husband and master."

Bonjour, forgetting the necessities of her charade, slammed the door closed. "I think not! Duponte is a thief of true measure, Monsieur Clark-he steals people's thoughts, their faults. The Baron is a great man because he is himself in all things. The most freedom I can have is by being with him."

"You believe that by ensuring the Baron's victory here you will have repaid the debt you owe him for releasing you from prison, and will be free from this marriage he has compelled."

Bonjour threw her head back in amusement. "Well! You are firing into the wrong flock. I'd suggest you not judge me by mathematical analysis. You are becoming too much like your companion."

"Monsieur Clark!" Duponte called hoarsely from the study.

I shifted my weight anxiously from one foot to the other.

Bonjour moved closer and studied me. "You do not have a wife, Monsieur Clark?"

My thoughts darkened. "I will," I replied without confidence. "And I will treat her well and ensure our mutual happiness."

"Monsieur, the French girl possesses no freedom. In America a girl is free and honored for her independence until she is married. In France, the tables are turned. She is only free once she marries-and then with a freedom never to be imagined. A wife can even have as many lovers as her husband."

"Mademoiselle!"

"Sometimes, a man in Paris is far more jealous of his mistress than his wife, and a woman more true to her lover than her husband."

"But why remain a thief for him, mademoiselle?"

"In Paris you must get what you want from others by hook or crook, or others will get what they want from you first." She paused. "Your master is calling, monsieur."

I started for the door. Bonjour lingered a moment before stepping aside with a mocking curtsy. As I re-entered the study, Duponte said, "Monsieur, here is the note that perhaps tells us more than anything else, the one you heard read in part at the harbor. Write every word and every comma in your memorandum book. And quickly: I believe I hear the wheels of another carriage coming up the path. Write then: ‘Dear Sir, There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan's…'"

Upon the completion of our transcriptions, Bonjour led us downstairs rapidly.

"There is a back entrance?" I whispered.

"Dr. Snodgrass is just in the carriage house." We all turned around. It was the downstairs girl, who had appeared among us suddenly. "The Duke shan't leave now?"

"I'm afraid my schedule has become conflicted," said Duponte. "I shall have to see Dr. Snodgrass another time."

"I shall be certain to tell him you were here, then," she replied dryly, "and sitting in his study alone among his private things for nearly half of an hour."

Duponte and I froze at this warning, and I glanced over questioningly at Bonjour, who would no doubt be implicated as well.

Bonjour stared at her fellow domestic almost dreamily. When I turned back to Duponte, I saw he had entered into a private conversation with the Irish girl, whispering somberly to her. At the end of his comments, she nodded slightly, a faint crimson blush splashed on her cheeks.

"The other door, then?" I asked, noticing that she and Duponte seemed to have reached some accord.

"This way," said the maid, motioning to us. We crossed through the rear hall even as we could hear the boots of Dr. Snodgrass on the steps to the street door. As we climbed down to the pathway, Duponte turned back and touched his hat to the two ladies in farewell. "Bonjour," he said.

"Monsieur, how did you persuade the doctor's chambermaid to cooperate so Bonjour would not be caught?" I asked as we walked up the street.

"First, you are on the wrong scent. It was not for Bonjour's sake, as you assume. Second, I explained to the chambermaid that, in all honesty, we were not in fact leaving for another appointment."

"Indeed? You told her the truth then," I said with surprise.

"I explained that her interest, or infatuation, with you was highly inappropriate, and I wished to leave discreetly and quietly before her employer returned and might notice it first-hand."

"Infatuation with me?" I repeated. "Wherever did such an idea come from, monsieur? Had she said something I did not hear?"

"No, but she certainly contemplated it upon my mention and, thinking something must have shown to that effect in her expression, she thought it must indeed be true. She will remain quiet about our visit, I assure you."

"Monsieur Duponte! I cannot begin to understand this tactic!"

"You are the model of the handsome young man," he replied, then added, "at least by Baltimore standards. That you are hardly aware of it only allows it to enter more decidedly in the eyes of a young female. Certainly the chambermaid noted this upon our entrance; indeed, her eyes flitted, as it were, immediately. Even if she did not consider it directly-until I mentioned it."