If he dies she is safe. 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 sense of impending disaster was upon him. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head.
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