“Have you been in the cellar all this time, Mr. Collier?” asked Lieutenant Keats.
“Since after supper.”
“Didn’t you hear anything? Somebody jimmied that window.”
“That’s what my grandson told me. No, I didn’t hear anything, and if I had I’d probably have locked the cellar door and waited till it was all over! Daughter, you look all in. Don’t let this get you down.”
“I’ll survive, Father.”
“You come on up to bed. Good night, gentlemen.” The old man went away.
“Crowe.” Delia’s face set. “Mr. Queen and Lieutenant Keats are going to be working in the library for a while. I think perhaps you’d better stay... too.”
“Sure, sure,” said Mac. He stooped and kissed her. She went out without a glance at either of the older men. Macgowan shut the door after her. “What’s the matter?” he asked Ellery in a plaintive tone. “Don’t you two get along any more? What’s happened?”
“If you must keep an eye on us, Mac,” snapped Ellery, “do it from that chair in the corner, where you’ll be out of the way. Keats, let’s get going.”
The “Priam collection” was a bibliographic monstrosity, but Ellery was in a scientific, not an esthetic, mood and his methodology had nothing to do with art or even morals; he simply had the Hollywood detective read off the titles on Priam’s shelves and he checked them against the gold-crusted catalogue.