“I went forth an eager beaver. I return a wreck.” “From only two interviews?” “A party is one thing—you can escape behind a patio plant. But alone, trapped inside four walls …” Ellery, still in pyjamas, crouched over his typewriter and scratched the foundations of a magnificent beard. He typed four more words and stopped. “The interviews bore no fruit?” “Two gardensful, one decked in spring green, the other in autumnal purple. But with price tags on the goodies.” “Marriage might be your salvation.” The idler shuddered, “If masochism is one of your vices, old buddy, we’ll discuss it. But later, when I get my strength back.” “You’re sure neither put the journal in your car?” “Madge Short thinks Sherlock is some kind of new hair-do. And Katherine Lambert—Kat’s not a bad kitten from the neck down. She paints, you know. Redid a loft in the Village. Very intense. The coiled-spring type. You sit there waiting to get the broken end in your eye.” “They may have put you on,”
