She felt sickeningly empty. 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. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. Just then—I was nervous. Charley Pevenill was our host. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still.
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