"Let him alone," said Trenchard authoritatively, "I have another question to propose. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. ” “Please go then, Mr. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. 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. Stanley changed his key.
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