“I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. He was a man tout à fait capable, this Gerald. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. I followed you in. I did not lay any traps for her. They heard voices inside but stood for a full thirty seconds looking at each other. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. 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. “As she asked!” “It is already too late. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said.
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