He sighed, regarded his drink, then raised it, and finished it.

"There is," he began slowly, "a confusion of identity, certainly. Yes, you are confused with Edgar Poe, in such a way as two human beings have rarely been confused in all the history of the word. But—I repeat—there is no confusion in the minds of those from whom I saved you tonight, and who will certainly seek your death again. No. It is certainly Edgar Perry they want dead."

"Why?" I asked. "I don't even know them."

He drew a deep breath, sighed again, refilled his own tiny glass.

"Do you know, sir, where you are?" he asked, after a time. "The question is not rhetorical—and I do not mean it in the sense that you are in my cabin or aboard my ship. Pray, think in larger terms than that."

I stared, studying him, I suppose, trying to decide what he was getting at. But I felt too buffeted by events to be particularly creative. So, "Charleston Harbor?" I suggested, to keep up my end of the conversation.

"True. Quite true," he replied. "But is this, indeed, the Charleston harbor with which you are familiar?

Have you seen nothing, during the past few hours, to suggest that this is a Charleston harbor which you have never seen before?"

I saw again those wooded bluffs at sunset, and I recalled that strange golden beetle, hopefully still in my pocket. I reached inside and felt around. Yes. The leaf was still there. I withdrew it.

"I've something here," I began, as I unwrapped it.

The golden beetle was still present. It moved slowly upon the leaf which I placed atop an adjacent table.

Ellison donned a pair of spectacles and studied it for several moments. Then, "A beautiful specimen of scarabeus capus hominus," he remarked, "but not, I think, that unusual. You find it truly remarkable, however?"