At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying thetwofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C.Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisième, No. 33, RueDunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profoundsilence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently andexclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed theatmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certaintopics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period ofthe evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending themurder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our oldacquaintance, Monsieur G--, the Prefect of the Parisian police.