"My friends, Mr. When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. " "True, true," replied the knight, with an agonized look; "there is no alternative. “I wrote it for you. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. 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’m a soldier, you see.
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