Keats came over and took another of Ellery’s cigarets. “What do you say we break this up? Go home, take a shower, and hit the hay.” Then he said, “What?”
“Two things in common, Keats!” Ellery swallowed. His mouth was parched and there was a tuneful fatigue in his head, but he knew he had it, he had it at last.
“You’ve got it?”
“I know what it means, Keats. I know.”
“What? What?”
But Ellery was not listening. He fumbled for a cigaret without looking.
Keats struck a match for him and then, absently, held it to his own cigaret; he went to the window again, inhaling, filling his lungs. The froth on the night had bubbled down, leaving a starchy mass, glimmering like soggy rice. Keats suddenly became aware of what he was doing. He looked startled, then desperate, then defiant. He smoked hungrily, waiting.
“Keats.”
Keats whirled. “Yes?”
Ellery was on his feet. “The man who owned the dog. What were his name and address again?”