It heralded you, promised you. Captain Roding strode into the parlour. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. The hansom sped through the crowded streets. 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. "His shin may need rubbing. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain.
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