“Her?” said Crowe Macgowan blankly.
“Well, her, or him, or whoever it is.” Laurel turned old rose.
Crowe stared at her.
“Let’s get technical,” said Keats. “Go ahead and open it, Macgowan. Then we won’t have to lie awake nights with a guilty conscience.”
“Very humorous,” mumbled Delia’s son. He snapped the string and ripped of! the wrapping in silence.
The box was without an imprint, white, and of poor quality. It bulged with its contents.
Mac removed the lid.
The box was crammed with printed documents in a great variety of sizes, shapes, and colored inks. Many were engraved on banknote paper.
“What the devil.” Keats picked one out at random. “This is a stock certificate.”
“So is this,” said Ellery. “And this...” After a moment they stared at each other. “They all seem to be stock certificates.”