The door opened silently, and Todd, trembling all over, laid his hand on his master’s shoulder, cutting short his dissertation.

“Marse George, please sah, can I speak to you a minute?” The boy looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

“Speak to me!  Why haven’t you taken my message, Todd?”

“Yes, sah—­dat is—­can’t ye step in de hall a minute, Marse George—­now—­right away?”

“The hall!—­what for?—­is there anything the matter?”

St. George pushed back his chair and followed Todd from the room:  something had gone wrong—­something demanding instant attention or Todd wouldn’t be scared out of his wits.  Those nearest him, who had overheard Todd’s whispered words, halted in their talk in the hope of getting some clew to the situation; others, further away, kept on, unconscious that anything unusual had taken place.

Several minutes passed.

Again the door swung wide, and a man deathly pale, erect, faultlessly dressed in a full suit of black, the coat buttoned close to his chin, his cavernous eyes burning like coals of fire, entered on St. George’s arm and advanced toward the group.

Every guest was on his feet in an instant.

“We have him at last!” cried St. George in his cheeriest voice.  “A little late, but doubly welcome.  Mr. Poe, gentlemen.”

Kennedy was the first to extend his hand, Horn crowding close, the others waiting their turn.

Poe straightened his body, focussed his eyes on Kennedy, shook his extended hand gravely, but without the slightest sign of recognition, and repeated the same cold greeting to each guest in the room.  He spoke no word—­did not open his lips—­only the mechanical movement of his outstretched hand—­a movement so formal that it stifled all exclamations of praise on the part of the guests, or even of welcome.  It was as if he had grasped the hands of strangers beside an open grave.

Then the cold, horrible truth flashed upon them: 

Edgar Allan Poe was dead drunk!

The silence that followed was appalling—­an expectant silence like that which precedes the explosion of a bomb.  Kennedy, who had known him the longest and best, and who knew that if his mind could once be set working he would recover his tongue and wits, having seen him before in a similar crisis, stepped nearer and laid both hands on Poe’s shoulders.  Get Poe to talking and he would be himself again; let him once be seated, and ten chances to one he would fall asleep at the table.

“No, don’t sit down, Mr. Poe—­not yet.  Give us that great story of yours—­the one you told at my house that night—­we have never forgotten it.  Gentlemen, all take your seats—­I promise you one of the great treats of your lives.”

Poe stood for an instant undecided, the light of the candles illumining his black hair, pallid face, and haggard features; fixed his eyes on Todd and Malachi, as if trying to account for their presence, and stood wavering, his deep, restless eyes gleaming like slumbering coals flashing points of hot light.