“Get out!” Priam’s voice was a bellow.
“Not while Delia’s here. If not for that I’d be in a uniform right now. God knows why she stays, but as long as she does, I do too. I don’t owe you a thing, Roger. I pay my way in this dump. And I have a right to know what’s going on... It’s all right, Mother.” Delia was dabbing at his bleeding ear with her handkerchief; her face was pinched and old-looking. “Just remember what I said, Roger. Don’t do that again.”
Wallace got down on his hands and knees and began to clean up the mess.
Priam’s cheekbones were a violent purple. He had gathered himself in, bunched and knotted. His glare at young Macgowan was palpable.
“Mr. Priam,” said Ellery pleasantly, “have you ever seen these stock certificates before?”
Ellery laid the box on the tray of the wheelchair. Priam looked at the mass of certificates for a long time without touching them ― almost, Ellery would have said, without seeing them. But gradually awareness crept over his face and as it advanced it touched the purple like a chemical, leaving pallor behind.
Now he seized a stock certificate, another, another. His great hands began to scramble through the box, scattering its contents. Suddenly his hands fell and he looked at his wife.
“I remember these.” And Priam added, with the most curious emphasis, “Don’t you, Delia?”
The barb penetrated her armor. “I?”
“Look at ‘em, Delia.” His bass was vibrant with malice. “If you haven’t seen them lately, here’s your chance.”