She made an effort. “It’s all too silly, darling. It’s getting to be too much for me. A wallet! And such a handsome one, too. Probably a gift from someone who thinks it’s Roger’s birthday. Let me go, Crowe. I’ve got to see Mrs. Guittierez about dinner.”
“Oh. Sure.” Mac was relieved.
And Laurel...
“The only thing that would throw me,” Keats was drawling, “I mean if I was in Mr. Priam’s shoes―”
Laurel had been merely puzzled by the wallet.
“―is what the devil I’d be expected to do with it. Like a battleship getting a lawnmower.”
Laurel had been merely puzzled by the wallet, but when she had glimpsed Delia’s face her own had reflected shock. The shock of recognition. Again. But this was not recognition of the object per se. This was recognition of Delia’s recognition. A chain reaction.
“When you stop and think of it, everything we know about these presents so far shows one thing in common―”
“In common?” said Ellery. “What would that be, Keats?”
“Arsenic, dead frogs, a wallet for a man who never leaves his house.