Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.Seneca.At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofoldluxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, inhis little back library, or book-closet, au troisiême, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St.Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to anycasual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curlingeddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I wasmentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us atan earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mysteryattending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of acoincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our oldacquaintance, Monsieur G-, the Prefect of the Parisian police.