“If yesterday was a dream,” smiled Ellery, “then we may expect that tomorrow will bring a vision; for that’s what holy Sanskrit says, and we may as well believe in parables as in miracles.” He sat down, rubbing his hands briskly. “How about a fire, Keith? it’s arctic in here.”
“Sorry,” said Keith with surprising amiability, and he went away.
“We could use a vision,” shivered Thorne. “My brain is— sick. It just isn’t possible. It’s horrible.” His hand slapped his side and something jangled in his pocket.
“Keys,” said Ellery, “and no house. It is staggering.”
Keith came back under a mountain of firewood. He grimaced at the litter in the fireplace, dropped the wood, and began sweeping together the fragments of glass, the remains of the brandy decanter he had smashed against the brick wall the night before. Alice glanced from his broad back to the chromo of her mother on the mantel. As for Mrs. Reinach, she was as silent as a scared bird; she stood in a corner like a weazened little gnome, her wrapper drawn about her, her stringy sparrow-colored hair hanging down her back, and her glassy eyes fixed on the face of her husband.
“Milly,” said the fat man.
“Yes, Herbert, I’m going,” said Mrs. Reinach instantly, and she crept up the stairs and out of sight.
“Well, Mr. Queen, what’s the answer? Or is this riddle too esoteric for your taste?”
“No riddle is esoteric,” muttered Ellery, “unless it’s the riddle of God; and that’s no riddle — it’s a vast blackness. Doctor, is there any way of reaching assistance?”
“Not unless you can fly.”