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.

Again Mr. Kennedy's voice rang out:

"Any one of your stories, Mr. Poe--we leave it to you."

Everybody was seated now, with eyes fixed on the poet. Harry, overcome
and still dazed, pressed close to Richard, who, bending forward, had put
his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand. Clayton wheeled up a big
chair and placed it back some little distance so that he could get a
better view of the man. Seymour, Latrobe, and the others canted their
seats to face the speaker squarely. All felt that Kennedy's tact had
saved the situation and restored the equilibrium. It was the poet now
who stood