She shook her head. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures. 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. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Why should God give particular attention to such a prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trap somewhere. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. “What was that?” she asked sharply. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled.
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