Ellery laughed. “What time did you tell Priam and the others?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“We’ve just got time for a congratulatory drink.”
They were in Priam’s house on the stroke of eight. Delia Priam was there, and her father, and Crowe Macgowan, and a silent and drained-looking Laurel. Roger Priam had evidently extended himself for the occasion; he had on a green velvet lounging jacket and a shirt with starched cuffs, and his beard and hair had been brushed. It was as if he suspected something out of the ordinary and was determined to meet it full-dress, in the baronial manner. Alfred Wallace hovered in the background, self-effacing and ineffaceable, with his constant mocking, slightly irritating smile.
“This is going to take a little time,” said Lieutenant Keats, “but I don’t think anybody’s going to be bored... I’m just along for atmosphere. It’s Queen’s show.”
He stepped back to the terraceward wall, in a position to watch their faces.
“Show? What kind of show?” There was fight in the Priam tones, his old hairtrigger belligerence.
“Showdown would be more like it, Mr. Priam,” said Ellery.
Priam laughed. “When are you going to get it through your heads that you’re wasting your time, not to mention mine? I didn’t ask for your help, I don’t want your help, I won’t take your help ― and I ain’t giving any information.”
“We’re here, Mr. Priam, to give you information.”