“Don’t you think, Miss Mayhew,” said the lawyer quickly, “that we had better see you through the Customs? It’s growing late and we have a long trip before us. Long Island, you know.”
“Island?” Her candid eyes widened. “That sounds so exciting!”
“Well, it’s not what you might think—”
“Forgive me. I’m acting the perfect gawk.” She smiled. “I’m entirely in your hands, Mr. Thorne. Your letter was more than kind.” As they made their way toward the Customs, Ellery dropped a little behind and devoted himself to watching Dr. Reinach. But that vast lunar countenance was as inscrutable as a gargoyle.
Dr. Reinach drove. It was not Thome’s car; Thorne had a regal new Lincoln limousine and this was a battered if serviceable old Buick sedan.
The girl’s luggage was strapped to the back and sides; Ellery was puzzled by the scantness of it — three small suitcases and a tiny steam-er-trunk. Did these four pitiful containers hold all of her worldly possessions?
Sitting beside the fat man, Ellery strained his ears. He paid little attention to the road Reinach was taking.
The two behind were silent for a long time. Then Thorne cleared his throat with an oddly ominous finality. Ellery saw what was coming; he had often heard that throat-clearing sound emanate from the mouths of judges pronouncing sentence of doom.
“We have something sad to tell you, Miss Mayhew. You may as well learn it now.”
“Sad?” murmured the girl after a moment. “Sad? Oh, it’s not—”