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.