But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. . 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. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. Them young prigs is all alike. “Sheila and Mark McCloskey?” Michelle asked.
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