She took out of the chest a white cardboard box about five inches by nine and an inch deep, bound with ordinary white string, and handed it to Keats.
“Have you opened this, Mrs. Priam?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what’s in it?”
“No.”
“You found it exactly where and how, again?”
“In our mailbox near the road. I’d gone down to pick some flowers for the dinner table and I noticed it was open. I looked in and saw this. I took it upstairs, locked it in my chest, and phoned.” The box was of cheap quality. It bore no imprint. To the string was attached a plain Manila shipping tag. The name “Roger Priam” was lettered on the tag in black crayon, in carefully characterless capitals.
“Dime store stock,” said Keats, tapping the box with a fingernail. He examined the tag. “And so is this.”
“Delia.” At the sound of his voice she turned, but when she saw his expression she looked away. “You saw the box your husband received the morning Hill got the dead dog. Was it like this? In quality, kind of string, tag?”
“Yes. The box was bigger, that’s all.” There was a torn edge to the furry voice.