“Mr. Priam?”
Priam never stirred. Only his lips moved, and the beard around them. But nothing came out.
Ellery whipped the lid off.
Roger Priam threw himself back, almost upsetting the chair. Then, conscious of their shock, he fumbled for the glass of whisky. He tilted his head, drinking, not taking his glance from the box.
All that had been exposed was a layer of white tissue.
“From the way you jumped, Mr. Priam,” said Ellery conversationally, “anyone would think you expected a hungry rattler to pop out at you, or something equally live and disagreeable. What is it you’re afraid of?”
Priam set the glass down with a bang. His knuckles were livid. “I ain’t afraid,” he spluttered. “Of anything!” His chest spread. “Stop needling me, you! Or I swear―”
He brought his arm up blindly. It struck the decanter and the decanter toppled from the shelf, smashing on the floor.
Ellery was holding the object high, stripped of its tissue wrapping. He held it by its edges, between his palms.
His own eyes were amazed, and Keats’s.