Poe.

I wondered at first if Harley's frequent references to the eccentric
American genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, were
responsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight
one existed. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me of
the fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps, in my
curiosity, I stared rather rudely.

"You will pardon me, sir," said the stranger, and I was startled to
note that he spoke with a faint American accent, "but are you a
literary man?"

As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by no
means drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civilly
enough.

"Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,"
I replied, lightly.

"You are not a fiction writer?"

"I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir."

The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky.
"Nevertheless," he said, and raised his finger solemnly, "you were
thinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!"

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. "You
clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to