“Mr. Queen asked,” said the fat man mildly. Ellery was studying the flames as if they fascinated him.
“The real point,” snapped the lawyer, “is that you’ve watched me from the instant I set foot here, Reinach. Afraid to leave me alone for a moment. Why, you even had Keith meet me in your car on both my visits — to ‘escort’ me here! And I didn’t have five minutes alone with the old gentleman — you saw to that. And then he lapsed into the coma and was unable to speak again before he died. Why? Why all this surveillance? God knows I’m a forbearing man; but you’ve given me every ground for suspecting your motives.”
“Apparently,” chuckled Dr. Reinach, “you don’t agree with Caesar.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“ ‘Would,’ ” quoted the fat man, “ ‘he were fatter.’ Well, good people, the end of the world may come, but that’s no reason why we shouldn’t have breakfast. Milly!” he bellowed.
Thorne awoke sluggishly, like a drowsing old hound dimly aware of danger. His bedroom was cold; a pale morning light was struggling in through the window. He groped under his pillow.
“Stop where you are!” he said harshly.
“So you have a revolver, too?” murmured Ellery. He was dressed and looked as if he had slept badly. “It’s only I, Thorne, stealing in for a conference. It’s not so hard to steal in here, by the way.”
“What do you mean?” grumbled Thorne, sitting up and putting his old-fashioned revolver away.
“I see your lock has gone the way of mine, Alice’s, the Black House, and Sylvester Mayhew’s elusive gold.”