Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. 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. ’ ‘She is no longer a mystery,’ Gerald said. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. She was shifting, moving back.
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