“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. 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. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. "I know you'll not deceive me. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. ” “I’ll wait, then. Capes. . ‘Woof!’ uttered Trodger, gazing at the lady in some awe.
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