“And just who is Mr. Collier?”
“Delia Priam’s father. He lives with the Priams.”
“Her father.” You couldn’t keep her out of anything. “But if this Peeping Tom is Delia Priam’s father’s grandson, then he must be―”
“Didn’t Delia tell you,” asked Laurel with a soupçon of malice, “that she has a twenty-three year old son? His name is Crowe Macgowan. Delia’s child by her first husband. Roger’s stepson. But let’s not waste any time on him―”
“How does he disappear into thin air? He pulled that miracle right here.”
“Oh, that.” Laurel looked straight up. So Ellery looked straight up, too. But all he could see was a leafy ceiling where the great oak branched ten yards over his head.
“Mac!” said Laurel sharply. “Show your face.”
To Ellery’s amazement, a large young male face appeared in the middle of the green mass thirty feet from the ground. On the face there was a formidable scowl.
“Laurel, who is this guy?”
“You come down here.”