"'every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be

concealed"' (211). He then proceeds to describe the systematic, almost mathematical,

fashion in which his agents have explored the interior of Minister D-'s apartment,

rummaging through every potential hiding space, believing that "'to a properly trained

police-agent, such a thing as a 'secret' drawer is impossible"' (211; original emphasis).

Still, as we know, the letter remains missing.

 Thus stumped, the Prefect now approaches Dupin, who is not so interested in the

search. Instead, he asks for a detailed description of the stolen object itself. He is

intrigued not only by the letter's internal content but especially by its external

appearance. According to Dupin, the Prefect does not focus enough on the particulars of

this purloined letter. It is not that the Prefect has conducted a less than thorough search.

But his method is flawed because "he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to

conceal a letter, not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg, but, at least, in some

out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a

man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg" (216; original emphasis).21 In

other words, Dupin argues that the Prefect employs the same method for every case,

assuming (incorrectly, of course) that every criminal would try to hide a stolen object by

burying it in the deepest recess. However, as Dupin soon discovers, Minister D- has

hidden the letter in plain sight.

 Dupin detects the purloined letter in the most unlikely place. Rather than scouring

Minister D-'s apartment for hidden clues, the detective inverts the Prefect's

expectations and looks for the letter in plain sight. And he finds it there: inserted

carelessly into a card-rack made of pasteboard. At first glance, the letter appears soiled,