When I entered our rooms, I found C. Auguste Dupin lounging in his fauteuil by the window. His eyes were on the paper in his hand, but he seemed to be gazing beyond it in abstracted thought.
"A death?" I asked, smiling, remembering the events of a few days previous.
"Non, mon ami, simply a puzzle, and a rather pretty one. It appears that one M. Tueur, in attempting to improve his Perl, has entrapped himself in a web of conflicting requirements from which he can not extricate himself."
"Better him than me," I observed. "How did this come about?"