“I wouldn’t repeat it,” said the patrolman excitedly. “I wouldn’t lower myself. They think I’m drunk. What do they think I am? Sunday morning! I’ve seen a lot of crosseyed things in this town, but―”
“Here, get hold of yourself, Officer. Has Lieutenant Keats been notified, do you know?”
“They caught him at home. He’s on his way here now.”
Ellery bounded up the steps. As he ran into the hall he saw Delia. She was dressed for town, in black and modest dress, hat, and gloves, and she was leaning against a wall bloodlessly. Alfred Wallace, disheveled and unnerved, was holding one of her gloved hands in both of his, whispering to her. The tableau dissolved in an instant; Delia spied Ellery, said something quickly to Wallace, withdrawing her hand, and she ran forward. Wallace turned, rather startled. He followed her with a hasty shuffle, almost as if he were afraid of being left alone.
“Ellery.”
“Is Mr. Priam all right?”
“He’s had a bad shock.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Wallace mumbled. The handsome man passed a trembling handkerchief over his cheeks. “The doctor’s on his way over. We can’t seem to snap Mr. Priam out of it.”
“What’s this about ‘fogs,’ Delia?” Ellery hurried up the hall, Delia clinging to his arm. Wallace remained where he was, still wiping his face.
“Fogs? I didn’t say fogs. I said―”