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She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. ’ ‘You mean Valade? Certainly not. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. It probably still wouldn’t help. 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. I did not reckon upon—him. . A new thought checked her steps and she froze.
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