“It is a mistake to suppose that some specific thing must be the cause of an action, or a train of thought,” resumed the other, from the comfortable depths of his chair.  “Sometimes thousands of things go to the making of a single thought, countless others to the doing of a single deed.  And yet again, a thing entirely unassociated with a result may be the beginning of the result, so to speak.  For example, a volume of Henry James which I was reading last night might be the cause of my turning to the literature of assassination this morning; your friendly visit may result in my coming in contact with a murder that will make any of these,” with a nod toward the scattered volumes, “seem tame.”

Pendleton threw away his cigarette and proceeded to roll another.

“It is my earnest desire to remain upon friendly terms with you, Kirk,” stated he, with a smile.  “Therefore, I will make no comment except to say that your last reflection was entirely uncalled for.”

Lighting the cigarette, he turned the tall leaves of the beautiful volume upon his knee.

“This edition is quite perfection,” he remarked admiringly.  “And I’m sorry that I was not asked to subscribe.  However,” and Pendleton glanced humorously at his friend, “I don’t suppose its beauty is what attracts you to-day.  It is because certain pages are spread with the records of crime.  I notice that this volume holds both ’The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ and the ‘Mystery of Marie Roget.’”

“Right,” smiled Ashton-Kirk.  “I admit I was browsing among the details of those two masterpieces when you came in.  A great fellow, Poe.  His peculiar imagination gave him a marvelous grasp of criminal possibilities.”

Ashton-Kirk took up the “Confessions of an English Opium-Eater” and turned the leaves until he came to “Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts.”

“In some things I have detected an odd similarity in the work of De Quincey and Poe.  Mind you, I say in some things.  As to what entered into the structure of an admirably conceived murder they were as far apart as the poles.  The ideals of the ’Society of Connoisseurs in Murder’ must have excited in Poe nothing but contempt.  A coarse butchery—­a wholesale slaughter was received by this association with raptures; a pale-eyed, orange-haired blunderer, with a ship carpenter’s mallet hidden under his coat, was hailed as an artist.

“You don’t find Poe wasting time on uncouth monsters who roar like tigers, bang doors and smear whole rooms with blood.  His assassins had a joy in planning their exploits as well as in the execution of them.  They were intelligent, secret, sure.  And in every case they accomplished their work and escaped detection.”

“You must not forget, however,” complained Pendleton, “that De Quincey’s assassin, John Williams, was a real person, and his killings actual occurrences.  Poe’s workmen were creatures of his imagination, their crimes, with the possible exception of ‘Marie Roget,’ were purely fanciful.  The creator of the doer and the deed had a clear field; and in that, perhaps, lies the superiority of Poe.”