He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in
      French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were
      still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin. “Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called
      about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the
      possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very
      valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”

      The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of
      some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:

      “I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five
      years old. Have you got him here?”

      “Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a
      livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the
      morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”

      “To be sure I am, sir.”

      “I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin. “I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing,
      sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a
      reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any thing in
      reason.”

      “Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think!—what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward
      shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your
      power about these murders in the Rue Morgue.”

      Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it and
      put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom
      and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table. The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with
      suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel, but
      the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently,
      and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I
      pitied him from the bottom of my heart. “My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming
      yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm
      whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a
      Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know
      that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It
      will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure
      implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know
      that I have had means of information about this matter—means of
      which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing,
      certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty
      of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have
      nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the
      other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess
      all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with
      that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”

      The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great
      measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original
      boldness of bearing was all gone. “So help me God!” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell
      you all I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to
      believe one half I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still,
      I _am_ innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”

      What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a
      voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed
      one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an
      excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the
      Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own
      exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the
      intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at
      length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in
      Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant
      curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until
      such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received
      from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell
      it. Returning home from some sailors’ frolic the night, or rather in
      the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own
      bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where
      it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand,
      and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass,
      attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt
      previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession
      of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man,
      for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been
      accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest
      moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon
      sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of
      the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,
      unfortunately open, into the street. The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,
      occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its
      pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then
      again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long
      time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three
      o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of
      the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light
      gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in
      the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it
      perceived the lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable
      agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against
      the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the
      headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The
      shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as it entered
      the room. The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He
      had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could
      scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except
      by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the
      other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might
      do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to
      follow the fugitive.