As Joey shook the bony hand, Ewing was apologizing for the delay.
"I was in my dark-room," he said—the voice strangely resonant to come from so frail a chest—"and I had to get the developer off my hands."
Joey nodded and stepped inside. The atmosphere of the house was a curious mixture of chemical and decay. There was a layer of dust on the bric-a-brac, and as Joey followed the stooped figure from the entry-hall into the living-room, he saw Ewing as a kind of insubstantial ghost, moving through the deserted rooms so carefully that the dust was not disturbed.
Ewing gestured to a chair which looked prim and uncomfortable in its yellowed antimacassars. "Sit down, please, Mr. Barrett." He switched on an ornate table lamp. "It's most kind of you to be interested in my work."
Joey gave him the automatic smile. The room was a combination studio and parlor. A bulky, antique camera lorded it over the conventional furnishings. Its unblinking eye regarded Joey coldly.
There was a fireplace, with massive brass andirons cast to resemble griffon-heads; purple draperies at the window were faded by sun and time; the heavy furniture was defiantly shabby; even the antique photograph album with its plush cover and gold-plated clasp and lock was right for the room. This was Jason Ewing's world and Joey felt himself to be an alien.
Ewing hovered nervously, white fingers clenching and unclenching, reaching out, now and then, to touch the album on the dusty table-top. "I know you are a busy man, Mr. Barrett," he said, "so I'll come at once to the point."
Joey relaxed as much as he could in the old chair. "I should tell you first, Mr. Ewing, that I'm not a writer. I'm a photographer. My editor thought maybe you and me would talk the same language."
Ewing bobbed his head up and down. "Excellent. Excellent." He pulled up a small chair. "Believe me, Mr. Barrett, I hesitated a very long while before I decided to make my discovery public."