There was a strained, eager expression on his face. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland. 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 male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me.
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