“Delia? What d’ye want?” They heard the trundling of his chair and some glassy sounds. “Damn this rug! I’ve told Alfred a dozen times to tack it down―” The door opened and he stared up at them. The shelf before him supported a decanter of whisky, a siphon, and a half empty glass. His eyes were bloodshot. “What’s this?” he snarled at Ellery. “I thought I told you two to clear out of my house and stay out.” His fierce eyes lighted on the box in Ellery’s hand. They contracted, and he looked up and around. His glance passed over his wife and stepson as if they had not been there. It remained on Laurel’s face for a moment with a hatred so concentrated that Crowe Macgowan made an unconscious growling sound. Laurel’s lips tightened.
He put out one of his furry paws. “Give me the box.”
“No, Mr. Priam.”
“That tag’s got my name on it. Give it to me!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Priam.”
He raised the purplish ensign of his rage, his eyes flaming. “You can’t keep another man’s property!”
“I have no intention of keeping it, Mr. Priam. I merely want to see what’s inside. Won’t you please back into the room so that we can come in and do this like civilized people?”
Ellery kept looking at him impassively. Priam glared back, but his hands went to the wheels of his chair. Grudgingly, they pushed backwards.
Keats shut the door very neatly. Then he put his back against it. He remained there, watching Priam.
Ellery began to untie the box.