Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. My goodness gracious. " The lack of a family album for some reason put a little ache in her heart. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. "Let me look at the paper. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness.
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