When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from me. Gosse would have killed me, and perhaps in the fight I might kill him. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. A broken laugh followed the action. 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.
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