She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. Stanley considered. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. Ennison was deeply interested. 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. Even now I do not understand. That’s where you go wrong. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart.
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