The Devil's Scribe Read Free

alarming. I feared I’d hurt him to the marrow. When I finally was able to look up at him, I saw that, rather than being angry with me, Edgar was amused, his grave mouth now upturned in a state of barely suppressed humor.
    “I see I’ve misunderstood,” I said archly.
    “I apologize if I’ve hurt your feelings,” he rushed to assure me. “But no, romance never was my intention, Lanore. It isn’t that you aren’t a lovely woman—but I think you’re aware of that already,” he added, offering his smile again. “I see that, having misled you so ungallantly, it’s time to come clean. The reason I’ve fastened myself to you in such an unforgivable manner is because . . .” He hesitated one more time, as though hoping for divine intervention, but when we remained uninterrupted, he continued. “. . . I sense you have a story to tell. There must be a reason you’ve come all this way, alone, after the travels you’ve related to me of the Araby states and the mysterious East . . . and yet you won’t give up a word, and that has made me all the more curious.” He narrowed his eyes on me, and suddenly his benign face became serious, even sinister. “I came all this way to hear your story, Lanore: what must I do to get you to tell it to me?”
    He took me completely by surprise. It never occurred to me that a man would pay so much attention to a woman except to get her into his bed. At the same time, I was relieved to hear that all he wanted was a story—even though I couldn’t tell him this story. I couldn’t share this secret with anyone. Which is precisely why the prospect of finally telling someone, especially a stranger, was tantalizing.
    Edgar must’ve had the power of the devil in order to change his countenance so drastically. His dark eyes fastened on me. “You have a great secret inside you, Lanore, and that’s irresistible to a man like me, a lover of puzzles and secrets. I tried plying you with wine to loosen your tongue, then opium, without success. Can you not see how badly I want to hear your story?
    “Think about it: I was only in Baltimore for a meeting, a bit of business, and was supposed to head back home that same evening to New York, to my wife—yes, I lied to you when I said I was a widower. I’ve a wife, and I’ve left her waiting without a clue as to what’s happened to me. What’s more, she’s very sick and it troubles me greatly to have told such a lie to you, as though I might be tempting fate to take her away from me; but I have been helpless in the face of this secret of yours. That is how dearly I wish to hear your story. So I hope, Lanore, after all I’ve sacrificed, that you won’t deprive me of it.”
    He wouldn’t let me escape his stark stare. And I began to ask myself where the harm was in telling him. He was a heavy drinker, and should he attempt to tell my story to someone else, he wouldn’t be believed. He might not even believe what I had to say: mine was an impossible tale.
    I waited to see if he would get impatient and give up, but he continued to stare at me, over dinner, over wine, over coffee. . . . When I stood up, he knew that I had relented. He helped me into my coat, shaking with anticipation, though I was the one who should’ve been trembling.

    Owing to the hour, the streets were empty and most of the houses dark. We started in a hackney cab, and I had the driver take us on a long ride through several neighborhoods, so that Edgar might become disoriented and be unable to find the house without me later. Then, on foot, we walked up one street and down another without a word to each other, me in the lead with Edgar following. I tried to move as noiselessly as possible so that the sound of our footfalls wouldn’t wake anyone. Edgar was as quiet as a ghost behind me.
    Finally, when I felt Edgar was confused enough, I led him to my destination: the old mansion where I had lived twenty years earlier. Although every window was dark, it was obvious that