Priam stared. Of all of them, he was the only one who seemed under no strain except the strain of his own untempered arrogance. But there was curiosity in his small eyes.
“Is that so?”
“Mr. Priam, we know the whole story.”
“What whole story?”
“We know your real name. We know Leander Hill’s real name. We know where you and Hill came from before you went into business in Los Angeles in 1927, and what your activities were before you both settled in California. We know all that, Mr. Priam, and a great deal more. For instance, we know the name of the person whose life was mixed up with yours and Hill’s before 1927 ― the one who’s trying to kill you today.”
The bearded man held on to the arms of his wheelchair. But he gave no other sign; his face was iron. Keats, watching from the sidelines, saw Delia Priam sit forward, as at an interesting play; saw the flicker of uneasiness in old Collier’s eyes; the absorption of Macgowan; the unchanging smile on Wallace’s lips. And he saw the color of life creep back in Laurel Hill’s cheeks.
“I can even tell you,” continued Ellery, “exactly what was in the box you received the morning Leander Hill got the gift of the dead dog.”
Priam exclaimed, “That’s bull! I burned that box and what was in it the same day I got it. Right in that fireplace there! Is the rest of your yarn going to be as big a bluff as this?”
“I’m not bluffing, Mr. Priam.”
“You know what was in that box?”