In Richmond it was asked by the chums of his youth as they sat under their comfortable vines and fig-trees, or stopped each other on a corner for a few moments’ social chat, or—­catching some one of the rumors that were afloat concerning the gifted companion of their golden days—­looked up from their desks in office or counting-house to ask each other the question.  Their faces were keen with interest for their admiration and affection for The Dreamer had been sincere; yet it was not strong enough after the lapse of years to make any one of them lay down work and go forth to seek a solution of the mystery.  Such an errand not one of them felt to be his business.  A quixotic errand it would indeed have been considered and one which, if half the rumors were true, might have necessitated a journey to the ends of the earth, to prove but a fool’s errand after all.

The oft-repeated question was one with which John Allan little concerned himself.  A robust son and heir had come in his late middle age to fill all his thoughts with new interest and plans for the present and the future.  The patter of little feet of his own child on the stairs and halls of his home, drowned the ghostly memories of other and less welcome footfalls that had once echoed there.

He too, had heard rumors of the adventures and the misadventures of Edgar Poe, but he did not consider it his business, as it was certainly not his pleasure, to investigate them.

In Baltimore too, the question was asked by the kinsfolk whose acquaintance Edgar had made during his visit there.  But they had never held themselves in the least responsible for this eccentric son of their brother David, the actor—­the black sheep of the family.  Surely it was none of their business to follow him upon any chase his foolish fancy might lead him.

But still, when the rumors that were rife reached their ears, it was with no small degree of curiosity that they asked each other the question:  Where was Edgar Poe?—­What had become of him?—­Had he, as some believed, met death upon the high seas or in a foreign land?—­Was he the real hero of stories of adventure which floated across the ocean from Russia—­from France—­from Greece?

He had certainly contemplated going abroad—­the Superintendent of West Point Academy had had a letter from him sometime after he left there, declaring his intention of seeking an appointment in the Polish army.  Had he gone, or was he, as some would have it, going in and out among them, there in Baltimore, but unknown and unrecognized—­his identity hidden under assumed name and ingenious disguise?

Who could tell?

The wonder of it was not in the existence of the unanswered question—­of the mystery—­but that the question could remain unanswered—­the mystery remain unsolved—­and no attempt be made to lift the veil.  That a young man, a gentleman, of prominent connections, of handsome features and distinguished bearing and address, of rare mental gifts and cultivation, and of magnetic personality, could disappear from the face of the earth—­could, almost before the very eyes of his fellows, step from the glare of the world in which he moved into the abyss of absolute obscurity or impenetrable mystery, and create no stir—­that no one should deem it his or her business to seek or to find an answer to the question, a reading of the riddle.