It was a woman’s envelope bag of forest green alligator leather, with gold initials. The maker’s name was Leatherland, Inc., of Hollywood, California.
A sort of Eve to the Adam of the wallet someone had sent to Roger Priam. A mate to the fourth warning.
“I suppose I should have told you yesterday,” Laurel said to Ellery in the cottage on the hill, “that Mac and I were down to Farmers’ Market on the trail of the green wallet. But we didn’t find out anything, and anyway I knew you’d know about it.”
“I’ve had a full report from Keats.” Ellery looked at Laurel quizzically. “We had no trouble identifying Tree Boy from the salesgirl’s description, and it stood to reason you’d put him up to it.”
“Well, there’s something else you don’t know.”
“The lifeblood of this business is information, Laurel. Is it very serious? You look depressed.”
“Me?” Laurel laughed. “It’s probably a result of confusion. I’ve found out something about somebody in this case that could mean...”
“Could mean what?” Ellery asked gravely, when she paused.
“That we’ve found the right one!” Laurel’s eyes glittered. “But I can’t quite put it into place. It seems to mean so much, only... Ellery, last night ― really in the early hours of this morning ― I did something dishonest and ― and horrible. Since Roger was poisoned Alfred Wallace has been locking the doors at night. I stole a key from Mac and in the middle of the night I let myself in, sneaked upstairs―”
“And you went into Delia Priam’s bedroom and searched it.”