The signal of distress was evidently understood. " "I fancied I heard voices," rejoined Sir Rowland. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. 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. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. "Fire! That was what drew me to you in the beginning. Dare you?” “Do you mean NOW?” “At the end of the session.
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