But send me word. He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “It is very doubtful,” he said. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd. She woke up choking and belching water. 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. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity. O'Higgins. That's the job.
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