At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxuryof meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little backlibrary, or book-closet, au troisi me, No. 33, Rue Dun t, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least wehad maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intentlyand exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke...