“Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?”
“I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have
heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. “Act three. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come
into contact—a natural woman. 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. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the
first possessed her.
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