The works of Edgar Allan Poe; newly collected and edited, with a memoir, critical introductions, and notes, by Edmund Clarence Stedman and George Edward Woodberry; the illustrations by Albert Edward Sterner.

THE MAN OF THE CROWD

wretched inebriates still pressed in and out of the
flaunting entrance. With a half-shriek of joy the old
man forced a passage within, resumed at once his
original bearing, and stalked backward and forward,
without apparent object, among the throng. He had
not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush
to the doors gave token that the host was closing
them for the night. It was something even more
intense than despair that I then observed upon the
countenance of the singular being whom I had
watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in
his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced his steps
at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long
and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildest
amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in
which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun
arose while we proceeded and, when we had once
again reached that most thbnged mart of the populous
town, the street of the D — Hotel, it presented an
appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely
inferior to what I had seen on the evening before.
And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger.
But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and during the
day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street.
And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I
grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front
of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face.
He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk,
while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. "This old man," I said at length, "is the
type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be
alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in
vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor
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