"I say, Joe," said Ellery Queen, "that a wheel ain't a wheel if it doesn't turn." "I'm afraid that sounds a bit pragmatic," I said. "You can define it as you want," he took off his pince-nez, and as he used to do when he was contemplating, he spared no effort to wipe the pair of clean lenses, "I don't deny that the thing itself is an object, it's just that Well, it means nothing to me until the wheels are there. In the same way, I've been trying to fathom criminality in motion. I'm not like that Father Brown, who goes by instinct; a good priest—bless his Be kind—he just had to glance at a spoke and...you get what I mean, JJ?"

"I don't understand." I said truthfully. "Just one example and you'll see. Look at that classic case, the grotesque but charismatic Buck Horn. Of course, some things happen before the crime, and I'm always after the fact." Find those clues. But my thinking is that even if I have - kind of mysteriously - surreptitiously investigated the little details that are quietly going on, those things probably mean little to me. Because, there is still a lack of criminal motives. Also That said, the wheels haven't turned yet." "I'm still confused," I said, "though I have a vague sense of what you're talking about."

He frowned his straight eyebrows, then smiled, stretched his long limbs, and stretched his waist in front of the fireplace.He lit a cigarette and blew it towards the ceiling. "You'll have to allow me to indulge my bad habit of mystification, and it's not too late to explain. There is such a case, the Horn case, which is what we call it." The wheel of the house--the Prismatic Wheel: in each spoke was set a cup, and in each cup was a dab of paint. The color in this cup was black--a representation of Buck Horn himself. The one next to it is gold—that's Kit Horn, huh! Kit Horn." He let out a sigh, "then the stone gray is old Wilder Bill, Crazy Bill Grant ;Healthy reddish-brown would be--his son Curley. That poisonous lavender-purple belonged to Marla Gay...what did they call her?--'Hollywood Orchid', My God! And Julian Hunt, her husband, is that green - 'dragon green' with our spectroscope. And Tony Mars - white? Then there's the profession Boxer Tommy Black - big red guy, fiery red. One-armed Woody - 'Snake Yellow' suits him. Everything else, and so on." He grinned into the air, "It's so colorful! Now look at these little color blocks: each color has a certain element, has a quality, can be weighed, can be measured; each color block is unique, They're the only ones out there. They're quiet in their own corner. What do they mean to me, you say? Nothing, exactly."

"And then," I urged, "the wheels start to spin, so what?" "That's where it's going to be. A little burst; an undercurrent in the universe—anything that provides kinetic energy—a primordial urge to act. And so the wheels turn. Quick, very Quick. But see what happens next." He draws lazily on his cigarette.So comfortable, I thought. "It's incredible! Isn't every piece of color has its own specific composition, quality, and measurable scale, and is each so unique, as unique as the stars in the universe? Suddenly, they merged with each other! So, Their original faces disappear, and they form a dazzling whole. What you can see is no longer the existence of individuality, but the flowing and uniform pattern, showing you the completeness of Horn's case. story."

"According to this..." I tentatively asked, holding my painful head, "Do you think each of them is related to this murder case?" "What I mean," his soft face suddenly hardened, "is just that many secondary tones have faded and disappeared... I often imagine," he said leisurely, "that it would be Father Brown or How will the case be settled, Holmes? What do you say, JJ?"